A Soul in Fracture
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Summary: The hospital was only the first battle. Back at the Tower, survival doesn't feel like victory, and Bucky can't protect you from it.
A/N: Here is part two for A Body In Ruin!!! I had fun writing this. If you want drabbles for these two, please let me know!
CW: Amputation recovery, prosthetic fitting, disability themes, post-surgical trauma, grief/anger/misplaced blame, PTSD undertones, emotional breakdown, angst with fragile hurt/comfort, depiction of physical strain, body image/identity loss
The Tower should have felt like safety.
It should have been a return, a sigh of relief, a soft place to fall. But as soon as the quinjet landed and the ramp lowered, the world felt too large, too sharp, too impossible.
Bucky didn’t ask if you wanted help. He just scooped you into his arms, blanket and all, cradling you against his chest like something he’d die to protect. Your voice rasped, cracked from too many days of tubes and oxygen masks:
“Put me down. I can—”
The word manage dissolved before it was finished. You didn’t have the strength to hold it, let alone your own body. Your head tipped against his shoulder, and he felt the tremor in your breath as clearly as if it were his own.
He didn’t answer. He just carried you, jaw clenched tight, eyes fixed forward.
The Tower lobby was all glass and polished stone, same as always, but it looked different now. The ceilings too high, the doors too heavy, the elevator panel glowing too far away. You felt every inch of it in your chest: the building had not changed, but you had.
Bucky’s boots echoed against the marble. Each step sounded final. He adjusted you in his arms when your head slipped sideways, whispering, “Almost there, doll. I’ve got you.” His voice was steady, but his throat burned.
When he finally laid you down on the leather couch, lowering you with infinite care, the cushions swallowed you whole. Your hands curled in the blanket, pulling it up as if it might shield you from the way he was looking at you. Too gentle. Too worried.
“Home sweet home,” you whispered. The words were paper-thin, bitter at the edges.
He knelt beside you, smoothing a strand of hair away from your face. His thumb brushed your temple, and the softness in his eyes hurt worse than the fire in your wounds. You turned your head away before he could see the tears gathering.
The Tower hummed with life outside the silence between you. Elevators whirred, a voice echoed faintly from the kitchen down the hall, traffic sighed beyond the glass. All of it felt foreign.
You tried, an hour later, to prove something. To prove you still had claim to your body.
You shifted forward, bracing your palms against the couch, dragging yourself upright. For a second, you felt like yourself again — until you swung your left leg down and forgot there was no right to follow.
The sudden imbalance pitched your body sideways. Your vision spun. Your stomach lurched with the movement.
Bucky was there instantly, as though he hadn’t taken his eyes off you for even a second. His hands clamped around your arms, firm but careful, steadying you before you could crash to the floor.
“Don’t—” His voice cracked, a flash of panic breaking through. “Don’t push it, doll. Not yet. Please.”
The plea in his tone cut deeper than the stitches lacing your abdomen.
You wanted to scream. To shove him away. To tell him you didn’t need saving, not again, not from this. But your body betrayed you, sagging into the cushions with tears burning behind your eyes.
He adjusted the blanket again, tucking it over you like a shield. You turned your face into it, hiding.
That night, he sat in the chair pulled up beside the couch. His head dipped forward, his body finally yielding to exhaustion, his hands still twitching like they were searching for you even in sleep.
You watched his chest rise and fall in the shadows. You saw the lines carved into his face even at rest. He looked older than you’d ever let yourself admit.
When you were sure he was asleep, you pressed your face into the fabric of the blanket and sobbed. Soft at first, then harder, until your throat ached. You tried to be quiet, but the grief was loud inside you, louder than your own pulse.
Because the Tower wasn’t home anymore.
The hallways were too wide. The kitchen counters were too tall. The rooms were too far. It wasn’t built for you now. It wasn’t built for someone who had to relearn how to stand.
And as the tears wet the blanket, as the machines of the Tower hummed indifferently around you, one truth sat in your chest like a blade:
You were a trespasser in your own life.
It happened three days after you came back to the Tower.
They didn’t ask if you were ready. They just said there was a meeting. They just wheeled you in.
The chair was standard hospital-issue — metal frame, squeaky wheels, armrests that dug into your sides no matter how you shifted. Bucky pushed you down the polished hallway, one hand on the handle, his other hovering at your shoulder like he wanted to steady you even when the chair didn’t need it. You hated the sound of the wheels over Stark’s glossy tile. It made you feel like cargo, not a person.
The conference room was all glass and steel, reflecting you back from every angle. You barely recognized yourself: pale skin, hollow cheeks, blanket draped across your lap where your right leg ended abruptly under the fabric.
Fury was waiting at the head of the table. Natasha leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Sam stood stiff, hands shoved into his pockets. Steve hovered near the door, jaw tight, shoulders squared like he was bracing for a blow.
Bucky wheeled you to the table, locking the brakes before taking the seat at your side. His hand lingered near yours on the armrest, his knee brushing yours under the blanket, but he didn’t touch you. Not until you let him.
Fury didn’t waste time. He never did.
“You’re out of the field.”
The words cut through you faster than any blade.
Your throat closed, breath caught. For a second you thought you’d misheard. That maybe he’d said off the field—temporary, conditional. But then he kept talking.
“You’ll still be part of this team. Strategy. Training. Anything you want to take on. But after what happened…” His gaze flicked down at the chair, just for a second, then back up. “With your injuries, it’s not viable. Not safe.”
Your pulse thundered in your ears. “Safe,” you rasped, voice sharp and bitter. “You mean me. I’m not safe anymore.”
No one moved. Natasha’s face was still as glass. Sam’s eyes dropped to the floor. Steve turned his head, as if staring at the wall might make him disappear.
Bucky’s hand clenched against the armrest, the metal fingers creaking as they dug grooves into the wood. “She’s still—”
“Barnes.” Fury’s voice snapped sharp, final. “We all saw it. Twice. Flatline. You think we can risk that happening in the field again?”
You felt the weight of every eye in the room — some pitying, some avoiding, none of them yours.
Your hands curled into the blanket pooled in your lap. “So that’s it? After everything I’ve given you—every fight, every scar—I’m just done? I’m disposable?”
“No one said disposable.” Fury’s tone softened a fraction, but it didn’t matter. “You’re alive. That’s what matters now. But fieldwork isn’t on the table. Not anymore.”
The silence afterward was a wound all its own.
Your lip trembled, your chest heaving against the bandages. “Then what am I supposed to be now?”
No one answered. Not Natasha, who blinked once and looked away. Not Sam, who swallowed hard and kept his gaze fixed on the floor. Not Steve, who pressed his mouth into a line so tight it looked like pain.
Only Bucky.
He leaned forward, finally daring to close his hand over yours where it gripped the blanket. His thumb stroked your knuckles once, his voice breaking on every word.
“You’re everything, doll. You’re still you.”
The words hurt worse than Fury’s.
Because you didn’t feel like you anymore.
You pulled your hand free, staring at the shine of the table, your reflection fractured and foreign.
And the weight of it landed like another bullet:
The Tower had just amputated the rest of you.
That was just the beginning.
Every room in the Tower betrayed you in some small way.
The bathroom mirror sat too high above the sink. You wheeled up close, only to see half your reflection staring back — your chin, your mouth, the bandage peeking from under your shirt. You tilted your chair back, craned your neck, tried to see more. The wheels squeaked and the bandages pulled tight over your abdomen, and you gave up before your body betrayed you again.
The shower was worse. The tile lip at the base might as well have been a mountain. You stared at it from the doorway, steam curling faintly from within, towel in your lap. You could almost feel the water, imagine the heat easing into your sore muscles. But the lip was there, a two-inch reminder that the Tower was built for people who could step.
When Bucky came looking for you, he found you in the doorway, fists clenched against the wheels of your chair, staring into the stall like it had won.
He crouched down, voice gentle, too gentle. “Let me help. I’ll carry you in—”
The words made your skin crawl. “No.”
“Doll—”
“I said no!”
He flinched, hands up, surrender written in his eyes. You wheeled yourself back, too fast, your chest aching with every jerk of the chair. You ended up in your room, slamming the door and pressing your face into your palms until the tears leaked hot between your fingers.
Later, you tried to open the window in your room. Just to breathe. Just to feel the air. The latch was easy enough, but when you pushed upward, the glass barely budged. Your arm shook with the effort, your body straining against the chair. It stayed shut.
You sat there, hand pressed against the cold pane, chest rising and falling too fast. The city moved below, alive and endless, and you couldn’t even open the damn window.
Bucky appeared again, silent in the doorway. His shadow stretched across the floor until it reached your wheels.
“I’ve got it,” you muttered through clenched teeth.
He stepped back without a word.
You pushed harder. Harder. Your arms shook, stitches screaming. The glass didn’t move.
Finally, with a sound somewhere between a sob and a growl, you sagged forward, forehead pressed to the window. The tears came hot and fast, and you hated them, hated yourself for letting them spill.
Behind you, Bucky’s voice came quiet, broken. “Let me, doll. Please.”
And you hated him too — for being kind. For being there. For seeing you like this.
The days stacked up, small defeats on top of each other until they pressed into your ribs like stones. The mug. The mirror. The shower. The window.
None of them big enough to break you on their own. But together, they left cracks all through you, hairline fractures waiting for the right pressure to shatter.
And Bucky felt it too. He saw every moment. Heard every sharp breath. Watched every time you swallowed your pride instead of screaming.
He knew.
He just didn’t know when the dam would finally burst.
The clinic smelled like bleach and plastic — cold, hollow, too clean. The kind of clean that made you itch.
The walls mocked you with glossy posters: smiling people running on the beach, fathers lifting kids with metal knees, women jogging down trails with carbon-fiber blades that gleamed in the sun. Perfect. Strong. Whole, in a way you weren’t.
You sat stiff on the exam table, blanket gone, your stump exposed. Pink. Raw. Sutures pulling like threads that didn’t belong to you.
The prosthetist was gentle, almost unbearably so. His voice never rose above polite, his hands steady but clinical as the tape slid around your thigh, numbers scribbled on a clipboard. Residual limb shrinkage. Socket tolerance. Words that made you sound like a specimen.
Bucky stood in the corner, silent, a storm barely contained. His arms were folded, jaw rigid, metal hand clenched. His eyes tracked every touch like he wanted to tear the man’s hands off, but he said nothing. He stayed. For you.
The plaster was cold as it wrapped around you, hardening like stone, sealing you into the shape of your loss. You clenched your jaw until it hurt.
Then came the test socket. Plastic straps, too tight, biting into swollen skin. “Just to see how you tolerate weight,” the tech said.
You braced on the parallel bars, arms trembling, stomach screaming as you pushed yourself upright. The socket bit, your balance faltered. Bucky’s hand hovered at your back, steady but not holding. I’ve got you, his silence said.
You hated how foreign your body felt. Wrong. Not yours.
When it was over, when the tech finally excused himself with soft words about trial fittings in a few weeks, the silence left in the room was suffocating.
You stared at the floor. Your throat burned. Bucky stepped closer, crouching, his hand reaching toward yours.
“Doll—”
And then the dam broke.
“Don’t.” Your voice shook, sharp. “Don’t look at me like that.”
His brows furrowed. “Like what?”
“Like I’m broken.” Your voice rose, bitter and hot. “Like I’m not even me anymore. You’re supposed to protect me, Bucky. You’re supposed to save me. And now I’m—” The words tore out of you, jagged. “Now I’m like this!”
The tears spilled, violent and humiliating, streaking your face. “I don’t even know how to live like this. I don’t know how to be. I don’t know who I am anymore!”
And the cruelest thought cut through your rage, twisting the knife: He knows. He knows what this is.
Bucky. With his metal arm, his rebuilt body, his quiet stares at his own reflection when he thought no one was watching. He’d lost pieces of himself too. He’d been forged back together with steel, made to relearn how to move, how to breathe.
You knew it wasn’t fair. You knew screaming at him for not saving you was stupid. He of all people understood.
But grief wasn’t fair. And your anger had nowhere else to go.
Bucky’s eyes filled with tears. He dropped to his knees, metal hand pressed to the floor, his other trembling as it caught yours. His voice rasped, raw:
“I begged them not to. If I could’ve given them mine instead—both of mine, all of me—I would’ve. In a second. I’ll take the blame, doll. Hate me. I’ll carry it. Just—don’t give up. Don’t leave me here without you.”
Your sobs broke free, your shoulders shaking, hands clawing against your face until he pulled them down and pressed his forehead to your knuckles.
You didn’t forgive him. Not yet.
But you let him hold you.
And for him, that was enough to keep breathing.
Weeks later, the clinic floor looked different. Not safe, not welcoming, but less like a battlefield.
The new prosthetic gleamed, a combination of metal and carbon fiber, unfamiliar and heavy. The socket hugged your thigh, snug but not biting this time. You stood between the parallel bars, knuckles white where they gripped, sweat prickling your spine.
"Easy," the tech said softly. "Shift your weight. Trust it."
Trust it. The words sound cruel, but you tried. Your right side trembled, muscles protesting, balance teetering, and then for one brief second: you were upright. Both feet on the ground.
You exhaled, a shaky laugh breaking out of you. "Look at that. Half metal now." You glanced at Bucky where he hovered just a step away. "Guess that makes me like you."
The words were meant as a fragment of a joke, but his face fell, shadows cutting across his features. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening, and the silence that followed was heavier than steel.
Your smile slipped. "Bucky-"
His gaze darted away, shame etched deep. You reached across the small space between you, fingers brushing his, voice breaking with honesty.
"Hey. I didn't mean it like that. I don't... I don't blame you. I was angry, and I took it out on you. But I love you." Your throat closed, but you forced the words through. "I love you, and I don't blame you."
His head turned back, eyes wet, mouth trembling like he didn't know how to hear your words.
"I thought I lost you," he whispered. "Twice. And then I thought maybe I'd lose you anyway, even if you were still here."
You tightened your grip on his hand, letting the prosthetic bear your weight, shaky but holding. "You won't. I'm here. I'm still me."
The tech murmured something about good progress, but it blurred into the background. The only real thing was Bucky's hand if yours, the tears streaking his face, the way he leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours.
"You're everything, doll," he breathed. "Metal or not."
And for the first time since the quinjet, since the blood and the hospital and the grief, you believed it.
Later, in the hall, Fury's voice carried low, half-hidden by the hum of fluorescent lights. "If she takes to training...." A pause, unreadable. "We'll see."
It didn't feel like an end. It didn't feel like a beginning either.
It felt like standing on new legs, trembling but unbroken, and not knowing where the next step would land.