Title: Come Back Author: RuckyStarnes Words: 1,871 Characters: Bucky Barnes, Natasha Romanoff, Morgana Le Fay Pairing: WinterWidow Tags & Warnings: Hydra Brainwashing, Nightmare Loop, Cardiac Arrest Withholding Medical Treatment, Dark Magic Mind Control & Manipulation, Near-Death Experience, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Dash of Hope, Hallucination, Nightmare Sequence Rating: Mature Prompt: Day Twelve - Cardiac Arrest Written for @whumptober Summary: Natasha has to choose: anchor him with her hands, or gamble everything on cutting the sorceress down before it’s too late. Type: Oneshot A/N:
The cathedral stank of what only could be described as death; black marble gleamed beneath the fractured ribs of the ceiling, streaked gold in places where candlelight caught the veins of age. Natasha’s boots echoed as she moved, her fingers flexing their grip on her gun. She’d fought in churches before, but this one just felt wrong. She knew a trap when she saw one—what she didn’t know was that Bucky was already snared.
He was frozen three paces ahead of her, his flexing black metal arm glinted in the candlelight, and his breathing was that of someone that had a knife driven beneath their ribs.
“Bucky?” she whispered.
She’d seen seizures, flashbacks, panic. But this—this was different. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide.
The air rippled and that’s when she saw her: Morgana Le Fay, half-shadow, half-gold, standing at the altar like a priestess of ruin. The crown of her hood glowed faintly, every line of her face smug with cruel amusement.
“Your soldier is a fragile thing,” Morgana purred, voice carrying like silk over stone. “So many fractures in his mind. Hydra left me such exquisite doors to open.”
Natasha raised her weapon in one smooth motion, but Bucky made a sound that stopped her cold. A strangled, animal-link cry—ripped from his throat as he staggered forward, clutching his chest.
His knees hit the marble.
She was at his side in seconds, her gun discarded, hands bracing his shoulders. His flesh hand scrabbled against the floor, searching for something that wasn’t there, while his body shook.
“Stay with me, Barnes,” she hissed, pressing her palm flat to his sternum. His heart thundered beneath it, too fast, erratic. Then it skipped—once, twice.
Natasha’s stomach dropped.
He’s going into cardiac arrest.
She swallowed the panic like poison. “Bucky. Look at me.”
But his eyes weren’t seeing her. They were locked on some nightmare only he could see, pupils darting as if tracking ghosts. Sweat slicked his temples. His lips moved with soundless words that scraped from memory.
Soldat. Asset. Comply.
Morgana’s voice slithered around them. “Do you hear them, little spider? The voices of his masters? He’ll never escape them. Hydra carved their commandments into his heart. I only had to whisper, and it broke.”
Natasha ignored her. She dug her nails into Bucky’s shoulder hard enough to leave marks. “You’re not there,” she snapped. “You’re here. With me.”
His back arched violently, a choked gasp leaving him as his pulse stuttered against her hand.
Natasha lowered her forehead to his temple, her braid brushing his jaw, her breath steady though her veins screamed with adrenaline. “You’ve lived through worse,” she whispered fiercely, as if her will alone could keep his heart beating. “You are not theirs anymore. You are mine. You hear me? Mine.”
For a heartbeat, his tremors slowed—then Morgana lifted her hand, golden-black threads curling like smoke from her fingers, and his body convulsed again.
She pressed her fist against his chest, as though she could fight death with force. “Don’t you dare, Barnes,” she growled. “Don’t you leave me in this goddamn place.”
And still, his breath stuttered, his heart skipped. In his eyes, Pierce’s reflection stared back, Hydra’s specter alive and smiling.
Every step he took bounced back from the black marble walls. His metal hand flexed, the weight of the place pressing into him. Natasha was just behind him, protecting his six like she always had.
One step after the other until he took one that turned his world upside down. His lungs constricted as a familiar ice, cold feeling began to sink into his chest, making him sink to his knees.
And then—
The Chair.
Straps snapped tight around his wrists, the metal cutting deep into his right. He sucked in a breath but no oxygen filled his lungs as the hum of electricity charged the room. A faceless handler leaned over him, Russian syllables slicing like knives.
Pain flooded his veins, hot-white, until his vision shook—
Pierce’s Office.
—polished wood beneath his boots. A glass of bourbon in Pierce’s hand, swirling lazy circles like time itself didn’t matter.
“You’re a weapon, Soldat,” Pierce stated, “and weapons obey.”
The window loomed, and in it…Natasha. Bound. Kneeling. A rifle heavy in his hands, scope trained on her heart. He screamed—
The Mission.
—snow in his mouth, gunfire cracking in his ears. The rifle recoiled against his shoulder.
The target turned, shield flashing red, white, blue. That face, his eyes. Wide. Broken. The sound of the bullet hitting flesh. Steve crumpling into the snow. Bucky’s heart lurched.
He dropped the rifle—
Natasha’s Death.
—and found her again. Rope bit into her arms, her braid falling across her shoulder. Her half-smile was calm.
He reached for her, flesh hand trembling. But his fingers turned to steel, reshaped into a blade.
“No—”
The blade swept. Her throat opened spilling a red river. Blood spattered hot across his chest.
Pierce’s voice echoed: “You killed her. You always will.”
He choked on the copper taste, staggered back—
The Chair.
Cold again. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. The cycle restarted, static screaming in his skull.
The Snow.
Steve falling. Again.
The Office.
Pierce raising his glass. Again.
Natasha bleeding.
Her blood wouldn’t wash off. It slicked across his hands, his chest, his mouth.
Each scene tore into the next, seamless, endless. He couldn’t tell when one ended or if it ended at all. His heart hammered too fast, then too slow, pain knifing through his ribs.
Wake up. Wake up.
But there was no waking. Only the loop. Only the ghosts. Only Pierce’s voice whispering with every breath he couldn’t catch:
“Mission report. December 16, 1991.”
And Bucky’s heart seized as if trying to obey.
Bucky’s body jerked hard against the marble, back bowing until she thought his spine might snap. Natasha clamped her hand over his chest, feeling the frantic stutter of his heartbeat beneath her palm.
“Bucky, look at me.” What she thought was a commanding tone was a warble of emotion. Natasha tightened her grip on his shoulder, shaking him once, hard. “You’re not there.”
But Morgana’s laughter rippled through the cathedral, a low, silken sound. With a flick of her hand, golden-black smoke coiled around Bucky’s face. His eyes snapped wider, panicked, and Natasha saw the shift hit him like a blade to the gut.
Whatever he saw—it wasn’t her.
“James,” she tried again, lowering her voice, threading steel with softness. “It’s Natasha. I’m right here.”
His body bucked, a hand shot out, metal fingers clamping around her wrist. His strength jolted through her bones, as if she’d been snared by Hydra’s ghost herself. His lips curled, and for a terrible second, she saw pure hatred in his eyes.
Morgana’s voice slithered behind her. “To him, you’re the handler now. The doctor with the needles. The one who straps him down and whispers the words that break him.”
Natasha didn’t turn, she couldn’t afford to. Bucky’s grip tightened, her pulse caught in the vice of his fingers.
“Listen to me,” she snapped, twisting just enough to free her hand without letting go of him. “You’re stronger than this. You’ve broken chains before. Break this one.”
Another convulsion wracked his chest. His heartbeat stuttered beneath her palm, then skipped, faltered.
Natasha’s throat burned. She pressed harder against his sternum, grounding him in every way she knew how—pressure, contact, presence. Her other hand cupped his jaw, forcing his head toward her.
“Damn it, James. Stay. Don’t make me drag you back.”
Morgana’s magic thickened, smoke curling, whispering Hydra syllables in the corners of the room. Pierce’s voice, soft and cold: “Mission report.”
And Natasha realized—if she didn’t act now, he wouldn’t survive another cycle. She had two choices: fight Morgana and risk Bucky’s heart giving out. For the first time in years, Natasha Romanoff felt torn in half, begging.
Pierce’s voice bled from his lips instead: “You’ll never be free. You’ll always come back to us.”
His body bucked violently, and then… stillness: no breath, no heartbeat.
Natasha’s gut clenched. She pressed down harder, willing life into him, but her gaze flicked to Morgana — the sorceress still standing at the altar, arms raised like a conductor directing every fractured nightmare. Gold-black smoke poured from her fingers, threads burrowed deep into Bucky’s chest.
“You can’t save him,” Morgana sang, her voice curling sweet as poison. “His heart belongs to them. All I did was open the door.”
Natasha’s training warred against instinct. She wanted to stay, to keep her hands on Bucky’s chest, her voice in his ear, but anchors didn’t matter if the tide kept dragging him under.
“Then I’ll cut the strings,” she murmured to herself, her hands slowly sliding off Bucky, one gripped the gun at his thigh. She took a breath before turning towards Morgana’s voice, and fired. The bullet tore through the smoke, Morgana shifting aside with a smirk. The magic threads writhed tighter around Bucky, his body twitching once on the marble floor. Natasha emptied the rest of the clip, each shot a promise. She didn’t need to hit Morgana, she just needed to break her concentration.
The sorceress faltered, shadows flickering. For a split second the threads loosened.
“Come back, James,” Natasha hissed, slamming her fist against his sternum, the impact brutal and desperate. “Don’t you let them win. Not this time.”
His chest remained stubbornly still.
She holstered the empty pistol and drew the knife in her book, her eyes locked on Morgana. She had one chance: end the spell before his heart stopped for good.
Natasha made the gamble.
Morgana caught the blade between two fingers, shadows writhing around her hand, smirking
“Too late,” she purred. “His heart already remembers who it belongs to.”
Behind Natasha, Bucky’s body arched once more, then sagged limp against the marble.
“James!” She twisted, dropping to her knees beside him. Her hands were shaking now as she pressed them down on his chest, pumping his blood before forcing breath past lips that had gone pale. “You’re not theirs. You’re not.”
Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper now. “It’s not real. Come back to me.”
Somewhere inside the smoke, Bucky’s mind twisted. Natasha’s voice reached him—but when his eyes flickered open, it wasn’t her face leaning over him. It was Pierce’s.
“You’ll never be free. You’ll always come back to us.”
The words speared through him like a command, tearing at the fragile beat trying to restart in his chest.
Natasha’s breath caught, rage and grief coiling into one raw sound. She pressed harder, ignoring the ache in her arms. “No. You’re not done. You fought your way out of every cage they ever built for you—do it again, damn it. Do it again for me.”
She could feel the smoke tightening, Morgana’s spell dragging him deeper. Natasha bared her teeth, every line of her face sharp with fury. If she couldn’t drag Bucky out by her hands, she’d rip Morgana apart until there was nothing left to hold him.
She pulled another knife out from Bucky’s holster, arcing toward the source of the spell, her heart hammering the only mantra that mattered:
Not like this. Not him. Not today.
