A Time to Believe | Bucky Barnes
✪ Summary: Over a year after falling in love with Bucky Barnes and almost dying at his hands, Civil War threatens to break the Avengers apart. And now, she needs to track down the man who broke her heart and save him once again.
✪Pariring: CACW! into TFATWS!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
✪ Warnings: trauma, violence, found family, ex’s to lovers, time jumps, mentions of death, heavy on the angst, lots of traumitized bucky, PTSD, warfare, angst, verbal sparring
✪ A/N: oh boy, was this a doozy to write. a couple of notes - I made some slight changes to the battle sequence in this chapter, so details are slightly different from the movie, but we don't need to read a scene everyone already knows. that would be far too anticlimatic. so, forgive me that this is not 100% canon.
also, i had to rewrite this part of the story because i had this going in a different direction - a much sadder one. i might post that as a deleted scene of sorts some day, because the chapter I wrote after that was super fun to delve into. essentially, bucky was going to force steve and sam to have the f!reader leave before the fight for her safety, creating another rift between them. but that would throw away the arc of their relationship, as you'll see in this chapter.
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She could see the war still raging in him. The waves that came in quick succession: fear, guilt, need, longing. And beneath all of it, the remnants of everything they had once shared. Maybe it was still too raw, too complicated for him to name. But for her, it was undeniable.
She loved him. She had known the moment they touched again.
Without another word, he surged forward again, kissing her like she was the only thing anchoring him to the present.
The kiss deepened. It became urgent, reverent. And in one stunning, clarity-filled moment, she understood why people went to war for love, why poets lost their minds over it. Bucky felt like all of that. Like everything she had ever wanted and needed, wrapped in one imperfect, beautiful man who kissed her like she was the air he’d been choking without.
His mouth moved over hers with bruising intensity, but the sounds he made—fragile, broken things—sent something aching and hot through her chest. Moans and half-whispers coated in years of longing spilled from him, so raw it almost hurt to hear.
He pulled her closer with his metal hand, fingertips curling against the small of her back, while the other cradled her jaw, callused fingers brushing her cheek as if he couldn’t believe she was real.
She didn’t remember how they ended up in one of the empty rooms—maybe he had pushed the door open, maybe they had stumbled through it blindly—but then they were on the floor. She lay back against the cold ground, his body above hers, lips claiming hers again and again like he was starving for her.
She pulled his bottom lip between her teeth, sucking gently until a groan tore out of him, low and guttural, and a jolt of heat coiled between her legs in response.
“Wanted you… so badly, sweetheart,” he breathed against her mouth, his hands slipping beneath her shirt to explore the curve of her waist, reverent and shaky. “Always have. Since the day you patched me up. You were so beautiful—so goddamn kind—”
She cut him off by yanking him down to her again, her hands sliding up under his shirt, skimming across the hard ridges of his abdomen and the scars that mapped his back. He trembled under her touch, shuddered like he might fall apart entirely if she kept going.
He pressed his forehead to hers, panting, his breath ragged like he was coming undone. She could barely see him in the dim light, but she didn’t need to. She knew the look in his eyes. Dark, hungry, worshipful. The same look he’d had that last night together, when the world felt soft and quiet for just a moment.
She broke away, breathless, her palms still pressed against his stomach. His head dropped into the crook of her neck, his breathing hot and desperate against her skin.
“What if Steve and Sam hear?” she managed, her voice uneven.
He lifted his head slowly, looking at her like she’d said something absurd.
“Then they can go somewhere else,” he said, and kissed her again fervently.
He kissed her again. Slower now, like he was trying to memorize the shape of her mouth, the way her hands felt against his skin. But when he pulled back just enough to breathe, his eyes dropped, caught on the metal chain around her neck, just barely visible beneath the collar of her shirt.
The pads of his fingers reached up and gently tugged the chain free, the familiar clink of dog tags echoing in the quiet room. He held the tags in his hand, letting them settle into his palm. His own makeshift replacements, the ones he’d made for her when the real ones were long gone.
“You still wear them,” he said softly, almost to himself. His thumb ran over the engraving.
She swallowed. “Of course I do.”
Something cracked behind his eyes. “After all that time… you still wore them.”
She pulled his forehead down to her own, gripping the hair at the back of his neck. Her lips traced him like a whisper. “Never stopped.”
He exhaled like the words knocked the wind out of him. His hands gripped her hips, lips brushing her skin.
“I’m so sorry I left,” he murmured. “I thought it was the only way to keep you safe.”
“Don’t think that I’m still not completely angry at you,” she breathed, tilting her head to give him better access to her neck.
“I know,” he murmured with a smile against her skin. “I’ll make it up to you.”
She let him press another kiss to her collarbone before nudging his face back gently. “Talk to me,” she said quietly. “Don’t just disappear into me. I want to know what happened. All that time… you didn’t reach out once.”
He hesitated, hands still on her, but eyes flickering away like the truth was too heavy to carry.
“I didn’t know how to,” he said. “Every time I thought about it—about you—I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I’d see your face and then remember the way you looked the night I… hurt you. It haunted me.”
“You still should’ve tried.”
“I know.” His voice cracked. “I know. I thought I was doing the right thing…walking away, giving you space to move on. You deserve better than a man still trying to rebuild himself from rubble. I’m not… whole, sweetheart. I don’t think I ever will be.”
She softened, her hand lifting gently to his cheek. “But I didn’t want space. I wanted you. And you’re not broken, Buck. You’re still you. You just need to make peace with yourself and start moving forward.”
At that, Bucky drew back slightly. His face tightened, brows furrowing like the words physically hurt.
“It’s beyond that,” he said, voice low. “Anyone with the right book can say a few words and turn me back into him. You’ve seen it. You want to live with a man like that? With someone who doesn’t even have control over himself? And don’t lie and say you do. We both know the real answer.”
She didn’t respond right away. She just reached for his hand, weaving her fingers through his, grounding him as best she could. Because what could she say to that? He wasn’t wrong—not from where he was standing.
But he underestimated her. He always had.
What he saw as truth—his volatility, his danger—was fear wrapped in shame. The kind that came from years of being used, abused, and told he was nothing more than a weapon. That fear still spoke for him sometimes. And she knew, painfully so, that there was no argument that could undo what had been burned into his bones.
This wasn’t about her needing to reassure him. This was about him needing to believe it for himself. And until that happened, until he could truly see who he was now, there could be no convincing him.
But still, her voice was steady when she spoke. “I’m not afraid of who you were, Buck. I never was. But you need to decide if you’re ready to stop running from who you are.”
His jaw tensed, but he didn’t let go of her hand.
“I was afraid,” he admitted. “Still am. Not just of hurting you again. But of what you made me feel. Being with you made me remember who I was… and that made everything else hurt more. When I was alone, I could just be a ghost. I didn’t have to face the man I’d become.”
She shook her head. “You’re the Bucky that Steve knew, the Bucky that I know. You’ve always been.”
A long pause passed between them. He studied her face like he didn’t believe she was real, like she might vanish again if he blinked. But she could see that he didn’t believe her. That he appreciated her words, but could not resonate. The hesitancy was tangible in his eyes.
“I missed you,” he said finally, like it was being ripped from his chest. “More than anything. Every damn day.”
Something cracked open inside her.
Her breath hitched, and she stepped closer before she could stop herself. “Then why didn’t you come back?” Her voice was thick, threaded with hurt, but quiet. “Why didn’t you reach out? Even once?”
Bucky looked down, his expression shattering. “Because I didn’t think I deserved you anymore,” he whispered. “You don’t know how many times I almost did. Wrote messages, made plans. But then I’d remember everything I’d done. What I am. And I’d remember you smiling, or sleeping next to me, or laughing at something stupid I said... and I’d wonder how the hell someone like me ever got that lucky.”
She swallowed, the heat behind her eyes threatening to spill over.
“You left me with nothing,” she said, voice trembling. “You didn’t even give me the choice to decide if I still wanted you, if I still cared. You just disappeared, like we didn’t mean anything.”
“I know,” he rasped. “God, I know. And I hate myself for it. Always will..”
She exhaled hard, running a hand over his face. He leaned into her palm without a thought. “I waited, Bucky. I waited so long for you to come back. And I hated you for making me do it, for making me second-guess every day whether what we had was real. Because for me, it was. You were everything.”
He reached out this time, his metal fingers brushing her elbow, tentative, gentle. “It was real for me too. It still is. You helped me more than you know, doll.”
She looked away, trying to catch her breath, her voice smaller when she said, “I was so lonely without you.”
“I know,” he said again, and when she looked back at him, his eyes were glassy. “I was too. I… I’d lie awake every night, thinking about how your hair smelled, how we’d stay up just talkin’ at night.. I’d picture you cooking, humming under your breath, or the way you smiled at me first thing in the morning. Every quiet moment, you were there. Never could forget about you, even if I tried.”
She let out a small, broken laugh. “You could’ve just called.”
He smiled sadly. “I was afraid you’d tell me not to come back.”
She took a deep breath, chest rising, then stepped into him again, laying her palm flat against his heart. It was racing.
“I’m still angry,” she said honestly. “And hurt. Furious really.”
His hand covered hers. Held it there. “I’ll take whatever part of you you’re willing to give me.”
They stayed like that for a moment, forehead to forehead, breathing each other in.
“I don’t know how to move forward,” she admitted. “But I’m tired of standing still.”
He sighed deeply, pulling her into his chest and cradling her there, her face pressed against him. She breathed him in deeply, the feel of him a calming balm after all this time apart. “I don’t know either,” he murmured, stroking a hand through her hair. “But we’ll get out of this. And then we’ll figure it out.”
They spent the night tangled together on what could generously be called a bed—nothing more than threadbare blankets spread across unforgiving concrete, two pillows so flat they might have been afterthoughts. Yet with her cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall of Bucky's chest, his arm wrapped around her like a shield against the world, it became the safest harbor she had ever known.
When consciousness crept in, reality felt gossamer-thin. She held herself motionless, scarcely daring to breathe, certain that even the flutter of an eyelash might shatter this impossible dream. But her senses anchored her to the moment: the rasp of morning stubble against her temple, the complex scent of him, salt and sleep and that underlying note of sandalwood that had haunted her memory for months. Her face was nestled in the hollow where his neck met his shoulder, his lips unconsciously pressed to her hair, and the warmth radiating from his skin seemed to seep into her very bones.
Her throat constricted. How many nights had she woken from dreams exactly like this, her arms clutching empty air, the phantom weight of him dissolving with cruel sunrise? But this—his heartbeat thrumming beneath her palm, the solid reality of muscle and flesh curved protectively around her—this transcended every desperate wish she'd whispered into the dark.
She pressed her fingernails into the tender skin of her inner wrist, hard enough to leave crescent marks. Just to be certain.
"Testing the laws of physics, are we?"
His voice rumbled through his chest, sleep-rough and intimate, his mouth still moving against the crown of her head. She hadn't even realized he was awake.
"Making sure you're real," she murmured into the hollow of his throat, her words barely audible. "That I haven't finally lost my mind."
A sound escaped him—part laughter, part sigh—as his arms tightened until she wondered if she might simply dissolve into him. "Still feel like I’m a figment of your imagination?"
She burrowed deeper, memorizing the texture of his skin, the rhythm of his breathing. "In my dreams, you were always silent. Though, to be fair, you weren't exactly chatty before either."
His chest vibrated with suppressed laughter. "Still sharp as a blade, sweetheart. Some things never change."
"Someone has to keep you entertained." The grin spread across her face unbidden, and he responded with a gentle squeeze that startled a laugh from her lips.
She lifted herself slightly, chin resting on his chest, close enough that her exhales ghosted across his collarbone. From this angle, she could see the ghost of a smile softening the harsh angles of his face, though his eyes, those storm-blue eyes, remained fixed on her with an intensity that made her feel like the only solid thing in his world.
"What happens now?" Her voice dropped to barely more than breath. "We can't keep running."
The tenderness in his expression hardened, reality creeping back in like frost. But his fingers continued their gentle path through her hair, each touch a silent plea to stay in this moment just a little longer.
"Steve has a plan." His voice carried quiet conviction. "Sharon Carter's meeting us today—she'll return their gear. And he's called in reinforcements." His jaw clenched, tension bleeding into his voice despite his efforts. "But Zemo... the bastard who activated me... he's after something bigger. The other Winter Soldiers that HYDRA made. They've been frozen in Siberia for decades. If he wakes them..." He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
Ice settled in her stomach. "Are you certain you can handle this? The words still—"
"Work on me. I know." The admission scraped his throat raw. His fingers stilled against her skin. "God, I know. Every second I'm terrified of what I might become again. But I can't abandon Steve. And if stopping this means preventing more people from becoming what I was..." His eyes found hers again, naked fear replacing the steel. "But I need you safe. I can't function knowing you're in danger. If something happened to you—"
"I'm not leaving you." The words came out fierce, final. Her palm cupped his cheek, thumb tracing the line of stubble along his jaw. "Not again. Never again. Besides," her voice gentled, "Tony and T'Challa won't stop hunting us whether we run or fight. The Accords didn't disappear overnight. We're already targets."
His eyes squeezed shut as if her words were physical blows. "Every heartbeat, I'm terrified of losing you. The thought alone—" His voice cracked, vulnerability bleeding through every crack in his armor. "But you're right. It's not my choice to make. It's yours. And I have to live with whatever you decide."
Her smile was soft but immovable as steel. "Then we decide together. Because I'm not going anywhere."
Something shattered in his expression. Decades of loss, of believing he didn't deserve good things, of expecting everyone he loved to slip through his fingers. His hand cradled the back of her skull, fingers threading through her hair like she might vanish if he loosened his grip.
"I don't deserve this," he breathed, the words almost too quiet to hear. "I don't deserve you."
"You deserve everything." Her thumb brushed across his cheekbone, collecting the moisture that had gathered there. "And you're never losing me again. I won't let you."
The dam burst. He kissed her with months of suppressed longing, lips soft and hesitant at first, asking permission. But when she melted into him with a sigh that seemed to come from her soul, the kiss deepened into something desperate and reverent.
His arm tightened around her waist, molding her against him as her fingers tangled in his hair, anchoring them both to this moment. His mouth moved against hers with quiet urgency. Each brush of lips was a prayer, a promise, a plea for time to stand still.
When they finally broke apart, breathing unsteady, foreheads still pressed together, he let out a soft laugh tinged with disbelief. "Christ, I missed this. Missed you."
She smiled against his lips, voice hushed but unshakeable. "Then don't you dare disappear on me again."
The door's creak shattered their bubble like gunfire.
"Well, well. Should I come back with some Barry White to set the mood?"
They sprang apart, heads whipping toward the doorway where Sam stood with arms crossed, one eyebrow arched in obvious amusement.
"Maybe next time knock?" Heat flooded her cheeks as she pulled back slightly, though Bucky's hand remained possessively at her waist, his glare promising bodily harm.
Sam's grin widened, utterly unbothered by the death stare. "Trust me, I heard enough to know knocking wouldn't have helped." He pushed off the doorframe, clapping his hands together. "But playtime's over, lovebirds. Sharon's moving, Steve's wearing a hole in the floor, and we've got a frozen nightmare factory to crash before lunch. So..." He gestured toward the door. "Move it."
As he turned away, they caught his muttered addendum: "Seriously though, get a room. You kiss like teenagers who just discovered each other."
The regrouping happened swiftly. Dawn painted the abandoned streets in shades of gray and gold as they made their way to the rendezvous point. Steve had retrieved their equipment from Sharon, and now Wanda and Clint waited with an enthusiastic stranger with strange tech that could make him grow as large as a skyscraper and as small as a bug — Scott Lang. Apparently, Sam had fought him one-on-one previously and, judging by his expression, lost to.
Wanda's arms were crossed, her expression drawn but resolute. Scott practically vibrated with excitement, while Clint was already checking his bowstring with professional efficiency.
"About time you joined the party," Clint drawled as Sam approached.
"Some of us had more important things to handle," Sam replied with a pointed look back at them. She fought the urge to throw something at his head.
They had barely finished making introductions and explaining the mission's stakes when harsh German echoed through the concrete expanse of the parking garage. The announcement bounced off oil-stained walls, each syllable sharp with authority.
Bucky's expression shifted like storm clouds gathering. His jaw tightened, muscles coiling beneath his jacket as he translated without being asked. "They're evacuating the airport."
Steve's eyes found hers, then Sam's, a silent conversation passing between them in the space of a heartbeat. Her stomach dropped to her boots. Steve had warned them this moment would come, had prepared them for the inevitable collision, but knowing and experiencing were vastly different beasts. The weight of what they were about to do, what they were about to become, settled on her shoulders like lead.
"Stark," Steve said, the single word carrying the weight of command and resignation. "Suit up, everyone."
The team scattered like leaves in a sudden wind, each member claiming shadows and corners with the practiced efficiency of people who'd lived on the margins too long. She slipped into a narrow restroom, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead as she turned the lock with trembling fingers.
Civilian clothes fell away like shed skin. The tactical gear transformed her. Black combat pants that moved like liquid shadow, a fitted long-sleeve that breathed with her body, the vest settling against her ribs with familiar weight. Each piece of equipment found its home: knives kissing her thighs through leather sheaths, another blade riding her hip like a deadly secret, pistols sliding into holsters with whispered clicks that spoke of violence to come.
The cracked mirror above the grimy sink reflected a stranger back at her. She was all sharp edges and deadly purpose once again, someone her past self might have crossed the street to avoid. But she felt ready. Ready for war.
The stall door whispered open behind her.
She spun, adrenaline spiking, only to find Bucky sliding into the cramped space with predatory grace. He'd already transformed into something that made her breath catch—black tactical gear that seemed painted onto his frame, armor plates positioned with mathematical precision across vital points. Every line of him screamed weapon, from the way he moved to the cold gleam of his metal arm in the harsh light. This was the Winter Soldier's uniform, and wearing it, he looked every inch the ghost story HYDRA had crafted.
His vibranium arm braced against the wall beside her head, effectively caging her in. The metal caught the light like liquid mercury.
Her pulse hammered against her throat, but she managed a smile that felt only slightly strained. "Well," she said, letting her gaze travel deliberately from his boots to his storm-dark eyes, "if HYDRA ever needed a recruitment poster, they certainly knew how to pick their models. You're dangerously attractive in tactical gear, Barnes. It's been far too long since I've seen you suited up like this."
Something flickered behind his eyes. Surprise, maybe, or appreciation for her ability to find humor in the darkness. His mouth curved into that slow, devastating smirk that had probably stopped hearts across three decades. "Dangerously attractive?" The words rumbled low in his chest. "Should I be concerned you're only keeping me around for the uniform?"
"Wouldn't be the worst reason to keep someone around," she shot back, unrepentant, even as he stepped closer and the air between them seemed to thicken.
He leaned in then, bracketing her with both arms, and suddenly the cramped stall felt impossibly smaller. His body heat wrapped around her like a second skin, and she could smell leather and metal and something uniquely him underneath it all. When he spoke again, all traces of humor had fled.
"Jokes aside..." His voice dropped to something raw and intimate, the kind of tone that belonged to confessions in the dark. "I won't try to stop you from fighting, I know better than that, and I respect you too much. But when this goes to hell—and sweetheart, it will go to hell—you stay with me. Don't leave my sight, not for a second. Promise me."
The naked fear threaded through his words hit her like a physical blow. This wasn't the Winter Soldier talking, or even the confident man who'd kissed her senseless earlier. This was James Buchanan Barnes, terrified of losing someone else he cared about, someone else he'd failed to protect.
She lifted her hand to cup his jaw, thumb tracing the rough stubble there, anchoring them both. "I promise, James. But you have to meet me halfway…you have to trust that I can handle myself out there. I'm not some rookie who's going to get herself killed." Her voice gentled. "I'm not losing you either. Not again."
Something in his composure cracked at the sound of his name on her lips. The name that belonged to the man, not the weapon. Then his mouth crashed against hers with desperate hunger, nothing like the gentle exploration from earlier. This kiss tasted of fear and need and months of forced separation, of words they hadn't said and time they weren't sure they'd have.
He pressed her back against the stall wall, his metal hand spanning her ribs, fingers spread wide like he was trying to memorize the shape of her through tactical fabric. She fisted her hands in his vest, pulling him closer, needing to eliminate every inch of space between them. The kiss was all consuming fire, the kind that burned away pretense and left only truth in its wake.
When they finally broke apart, both gasping, he dropped his forehead to hers. Their breath mingled in the narrow space between them, and she could see herself reflected in his eyes flushed and wild-haired, thoroughly kissed.
"Stay with me," he whispered again, and it sounded less like a request than a prayer to whatever gods might be listening in airport bathrooms.
She brushed her lips against his once more, softer but no less certain, sealing the promise between them. "Always."
The words she really wanted to say crowded against her teeth—I love you, I love you, I've loved you since West Virginia, maybe since you collapsed on my balcony—but this wasn't the moment for declarations. After the mission, when the dust settled and they were somewhere safe, when they could finally be together without the world conspiring to tear them apart—then she would tell him everything. Then she would give him all the words she'd been hoarding like treasures.
"Time to move, people!" Sam's voice echoed down the hallway, cutting through the intimate bubble they'd created. "Show's about to start!"
They broke apart reluctantly, the spell fracturing but not quite breaking. Bucky's thumb traced her cheek one last time, a gesture so tender it made her chest ache, before he pushed open the stall door.
Together, they rejoined the team, falling into formation as they moved toward the tarmac. Steve would go out first to face Tony and his assembled team, creating the distraction they needed while she, Sam, and Bucky remained inside to locate their escape route. Clint and Wanda held the high ground on the parking deck, ghost-quiet and waiting for their moment to strike.
The air practically vibrated with tension, like the moment before lightning splits the sky. Everyone could feel it, that electric anticipation that came before everything went sideways. One wrong word, one sudden movement, and the powder keg they'd all been sitting on would finally explode.
The real question wasn't if the situation would detonate. It was how many pieces they'd all be in when the smoke cleared.
And then, inevitably, it did.
The battle erupted in explosive chaos. Energy blasts carving through concrete, the shriek of metal against metal, battle cries echoing across the tarmac like thunder. She instinctively flanked Bucky and Sam as their unit splintered off from the main fight, only to face an unexpected adversary who came crashing through the terminal's glass ceiling in a shower of sparkling debris.
The newcomer couldn't have been more than sixteen, wrapped in red and blue spandex that clung to his wiry frame. His voice cracked with adolescent enthusiasm as he swung down on impossible webs, movements defying every law of physics she knew.
"Hey everyone! Big fan of your work—uh, sorry about this in advance!"
Spider-Man. She'd seen the grainy YouTube footage, read the scattered news reports Tony had been obsessing over. But she'd imagined someone older, more seasoned. Not this kid who sounded like he should be worried about algebra homework.
Before she could process the absurdity, silvery webbing shot out like liquid lightning. Bucky, mid-stride toward cover, was yanked clean off his feet with brutal efficiency. The web wrapped around his metal arm and anchored to the concrete with the strength of industrial cable, pinning him in place.
"Whoa, hold up!" The kid crouched low, practically vibrating with excitement as he examined the vibranium gleam. "Is that arm actually real? Like, full metal? Oh man, Mr. Stark's intel was way off, this is so much cooler than—"
"Kid, shut up!" Sam roared, launching skyward with mechanical precision. His wings cut through the air in a silver blur, only to be intercepted by another web-line that caught him mid-flight and slammed him into a baggage cart with bone-jarring force. The metal crumpled around him like paper.
"Sam!" She was moving before conscious thought kicked in, combat knife clearing its sheath in one fluid motion. The blade sliced through the web-line just as it began to harden, freeing Sam before he could be completely immobilized.
"Much obliged!" Sam gasped, shaking off debris as his wings recalibrated.
Spider-Man landed in front of her with feline grace, head cocked with unsettling curiosity. "Wait, you're not in Mr. Stark's files. Who are you supposed to—"
She cut off his question with a vicious roundhouse kick that connected solidly with his ribs. The impact sent him skidding backward across the concrete, his surprised yelp almost comical.
"Someone you should've researched better, kid," she shot back snarkily, already moving as he rolled back to his feet with disturbing resilience.
"Mental note: scary knife lady hits really hard," he wheezed, but was already bouncing on his toes, ready for more.
Bucky tore free of the remaining webbing with a metallic screech, chunks of concrete still clinging to the restraints. He was beside her in three quick strides, vibranium fingers flexing as circulation returned.
"You hurt?" His eyes swept her for injuries, even as he kept Spider-Man in his peripheral vision.
She spun a knife between her fingers before sliding it home. "Better than you, apparently. Getting sloppy, Barnes, caught by a kid."
"Not funny," he muttered, but she caught the microscopic twitch at the corner of his mouth before his expression hardened back to pure focus.
They moved like dancers who'd rehearsed for years. Bucky's devastating strength, Sam's aerial superiority, and her lethal precision filling every gap in their formation. Spider-Man was fast, unpredictable, his precognitive reflexes making him nearly impossible to pin down. But every time those webs found their mark, trapping one of them, the others were already cutting them free.
The kid came at them again, this time using a loading crane as a springboard to build momentum. His web-shooters rapid-fired, laying down suppressing patterns that would have overwhelmed a less coordinated team.
"Incoming high!" Sam called out, diving low to avoid the spray.
Bucky ripped a steel support beam from nearby scaffolding like it was made of balsa wood. His timing was perfect. The makeshift bat caught Spider-Man at the apex of his swing, sending him tumbling through the air in an ungainly sprawl.
"Nice swing, slugger," she quipped, already moving to intercept web-lines targeting Bucky's legs. Her blade severed them before they could tighten.
"Just improvising," Bucky grunted, but his attention wasn't on the compliment. His eyes tracked every movement Spider-Man made, calculating threat vectors, positioning himself between the kid and her with military precision.
Spider-Man recovered with inhuman speed, landing in a crouch that immediately exploded into motion. This time he came at her directly, perhaps recognizing her as the most vulnerable target.
"Sorry, knife lady! Orders are orders!"
Webbing shot toward her center mass, but Bucky was already moving. His metal arm swept across her body like a shield, catching the web-line and yanking hard enough to throw Spider-Man off balance. In the same motion, he pivoted, putting his armored bulk between her and their attacker.
"Stay behind me," he ordered, voice tight with protective fury.
"Like hell," she shot back, but stayed close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough to move with him as a unit.
Spider-Man adjusted his tactics quickly, using his wall-crawling abilities to scuttle up a nearby fuel truck with gecko-like agility that made her skin crawl. From the elevated position, he laid down a web-pattern that forced them to scatter. Or tried to.
Bucky grabbed her around the waist and dove right, rolling them both behind concrete barriers as webbing crisscrossed the space they'd occupied like a deadly net. His body covered hers completely, metal arm taking the brunt of the impact with the ground while his flesh arm cradled her head, protecting her from the rough concrete.
"You okay?" he asked urgently, blue eyes scanning her face for signs of injury with the intensity of someone who'd seen too many people he cared about get hurt.
"I'm fine, but you can't keep—"
"Yes, I can." His voice brooked absolutely no argument, carrying undertones of barely controlled desperation. "And I will. End of discussion."
Sam's wings roared overhead, drawing Spider-Man's attention skyward with mechanical precision. "Could use some help down here! Kid's got better reflexes than a cat on espresso!"
They emerged from cover together, but Bucky kept himself positioned as a human shield, his body language screaming protective tension. When Spider-Man dropped from above like a hunting spider, attempting to web her to the ground, Bucky's metal fist caught him mid-descent with enough force to crater the concrete where he landed, the impact echoing like thunder.
The kid groaned but was already trying to get up, his enhanced physiology letting him shake off damage that would have hospitalized a normal person. "Okay, that one really hurt... definitely felt that in my spleen. Do I still have a spleen?"
"Stay down," Bucky growled, advancing with the predatory focus of a man who'd been trained to end threats permanently. But Spider-Man's enhanced reflexes kicked in, sending him scuttling backward like an actual spider avoiding a boot.
"Can't do that, Winter Soldier guy! Mr. Stark said you're dangerous, but he didn't mention you were protective-dangerous! That's like a whole different category of scary!"
More webbing flew, this time targeting her from multiple angles in a coordinated assault. Bucky moved like liquid violence, his metal arm deflecting two lines while he grabbed her and spun, using his body as a shield against the third. The web splattered harmlessly against his tactical vest, hissing slightly as it tried to adhere.
"Getting real tired of this," she muttered, but her heart hammered with more than adrenaline. The fierce protectiveness in Bucky's every movement, the way he anticipated threats to her before she even saw them coming, the absolute determination in his eyes that nothing would touch her—it was overwhelming in the best possible way, and also terrifying in its intensity.
Spider-Man seemed to sense the dynamic and tried to use it against them, feinting toward her to draw Bucky out of position. But the Winter Soldier had been fighting asymmetric warfare longer than the kid had been alive. Instead of taking the obvious bait, he swept her legs, dropping her into a controlled fall while his metal arm caught Spider-Man's web-line and used it like a whip to slam him into a concrete pillar with bone-jarring force.
"Show off," she breathed, accepting his hand up with a grin that was equal parts appreciation and exasperation.
"Only for you, sweetheart," he replied, but his eyes never left Spider-Man's crumpled form, tracking movement like a sniper acquiring targets.
The kid wasn't finished yet. He leveraged his inhuman flexibility to spring back into action, but now he was favoring his left side, movements less fluid than before. Still dangerous, still faster than anyone had a right to be, but definitely feeling the accumulated damage.
"Okay, new strategy," Spider-Man muttered to himself, and suddenly his web-shooters were firing in rapid succession, not at them but at the structural supports around them. Metal groaned ominously and concrete cracked like breaking bones as debris began raining down in chunks that could easily kill.
Bucky's reaction was instant and instinctive. He tackled her to the ground, his body forming a protective cage over hers as chunks of concrete bounced off his shoulders and back like hail. His metal arm extended above her head like a canopy, deflecting the worst of the falling debris with metallic clangs that rang in her ears.
Through the chaos and dust, she heard Sam's wings engaging with their distinctive whine, the sound of his thrusters as he went after Spider-Man directly. But all she could focus on was the solid weight of Bucky above her, the way his breathing hitched each time debris struck him, the absolute certainty that he'd rather be buried alive than let anything happen to her.
When the dust settled and the last chunks of concrete stopped falling, he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his face streaked with dust and grim determination.
"You're not leaving my side for the rest of this fight," he said, and it wasn't a request or a suggestion. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the kind of finality that meant arguing would be pointless.
For once, she didn't argue. The look in his eyes—fierce, desperate, utterly uncompromising—told her that he was operating on pure protective instinct now, and trying to reason with him would be like trying to negotiate with a hurricane.
They rose together, moving as a single coordinated unit toward where Sam had finally managed to web Spider-Man's feet to the ground, the kid struggling against bonds that even his enhanced strength couldn't break immediately. The polymer had hardened into something resembling steel cable.
"Nice work, Wilson," Bucky called, but his metal hand remained planted firmly on her back, ready to shield her at the first sign of trouble.
"Just returning the favor," Sam replied, breathing hard and nursing what looked like a bruised shoulder. "Kid's tougher than he looks. And more annoying."
Spider-Man looked up at them, his web-pattern eyes somehow managing to convey sheepish embarrassment through the mask. "So... this is awkward. Little help? These webs are really stuck, and I think I might have pulled something important when scary knife lady's boyfriend threw me into that pillar."
"Boyfriend?" She raised an eyebrow, glancing at Bucky with amusement.
Bucky's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he didn't correct the assumption. Instead, he crouched down to Spider-Man's level, his voice dropping to something that would have made grown men reconsider their life choices and possibly their career paths.
"Kid, you came after her. That was your first mistake." His voice was soft, conversational, which somehow made it infinitely more threatening. "Your last mistake would be doing it again. Are we clear?"
Spider-Man's head bobbed frantically, his entire body language shifting to something far more respectful. "Crystal clear, sir. Definitely noted for future reference. Won't happen again. Ever. Like, seriously, message received loud and clear."
"Good." Bucky straightened, his hand finding the small of her back again as sirens wailed in the distance, the sound echoing off concrete walls like a countdown. "Because next time, we wouldn't be having a conversation."
They sprinted across the tarmac as a group, her heart still racing from the adrenaline of combat. She glanced over at Bucky beside her, unable to hide the grin tugging at her lips despite everything. "Boyfriend, huh? They have that term back in the forties?"
Bucky didn't look at her, but she caught the smile transforming his profile, chasing away the last shadows of Winter Soldier coldness. "You really like that designation, don't you?"
"Well, I didn't see you correcting the kid, did I?" She bumped his shoulder playfully, their tactical gear making a soft rustling sound.
"Why would I need to?" He spared her a glance, a full grin spreading across his face now, and his eyes were brighter than she'd seen them in... maybe ever. "Sounds about right to me, sweetheart."
If her heart hadn't already been racing from the fight, she was certain the thundering in her chest would have been audible to everyone within a fifty-foot radius. She couldn't even attempt to suppress the lovesick grin that spread across her face, warmth flooding her cheeks at the flush creeping up Bucky's neck. It was ridiculously mushy and yet... it felt perfect. Like a missing piece clicking into place.
Sam groaned beside them, his wings adjusting with mechanical whirs. "Seriously, you two think now is the time to be having this conversation? You're both sickening. And I mean that in the most supportive way possible."
But their moment of lightness couldn't last. The distant rumble of engines grew louder, and when she looked up, her stomach dropped.
Iron Man's repulsors lit up the sky like falling stars.
"Going somewhere, Cap?" Tony's voice boomed across the tarmac through his suit's external speakers, the electronic distortion making him sound more machine than man.
The armored figure descended like an avenging angel, landing with enough force to spider-web cracks across the concrete between Steve's team and the Quinjet. Behind him, the rest of his assembled team spread out in a tactical formation that spoke of countless hours of coordination and planning.
Rhodey hovered overhead in his War Machine armor, targeting systems painting red dots that danced across their chests. Vision floated with his cape rippling in the jet wash, his expression serene but ready, like a god preparing to pass judgment. T'Challa moved like liquid shadow given form, vibranium claws extending with soft metallic whispers as he took position with predatory grace.
She stood slightly apart from Tony's group, red hair catching the harsh airport lights like fire, her expression carefully neutral but her posture speaking volumes. When their eyes met across the battlefield that had once been neutral ground, something passed between them. Something that felt like an acknowledgment of old friendship tested by impossible choices, of loyalty strained to its breaking point.
Natasha's gaze flickered to Bucky beside her, taking in their proximity with the trained eye of a spy, noting the protective way his hand hovered near her back, the way they moved together like a single unit. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, approval mixed with something that might have been relief. She gave the subtlest of nods.
Hell erupted in slow motion.
Sam launched skyward toward Rhodey with mechanical precision while Clint's arrows flew in perfect arcs toward Tony, their fletching whistling through the air. Wanda's scarlet energy blazed to life, painting the concrete in shades of red that looked too much like blood, and suddenly the tarmac became a war zone of impossible proportions where physics bent to accommodate superhuman conflict.
She found herself moving instinctively toward T'Challa as the Wakandan king zeroed in on Bucky with single-minded focus that spoke of personal vengeance. The Black Panther moved like death incarnate, vibranium claws extended, every line of his body radiating lethal intent and barely contained grief.
"He's mine," T'Challa snarled, the words carrying the weight of a son's promise to his dead father as he lunged at Bucky with feline grace.
"Like hell," she shot back, intercepting his path with a flying tackle that sent them both rolling across the concrete in a tangle of limbs and fury.
T'Challa recovered with inhuman speed, claws slashing where her head had been a split second before, carving gouges in the concrete that sent sparks flying. She rolled away, combat knife clearing its sheath as she gained her feet, the familiar weight of it grounding her in the chaos.
"You defend a murderer," T'Challa said, his accented voice thick with barely contained rage and the kind of pain that came from watching your world crumble in real time.
"I defend someone I love," she replied, circling him with predatory caution, her blade held in a reverse grip that spoke of intimate familiarity with violence.
Bucky appeared at her shoulder like a guardian shadow, his metal arm gleaming as he deflected T'Challa's next strike. The impact rang like a bell tower tolling midnight, vibranium against vibranium, sparks flying from the contact in showers of gold and silver.
"Two against one?" T'Challa's cowled head tilted, and she could hear the disapproval in his voice even through the mask's modulation. "You believe this makes you honorable?"
"Honor doesn't enter into it," Bucky growled, launching into a brutal combination that T'Challa flowed around like water over stone. "I'm not letting anything happen to her. End of discussion."
The Wakandan's fighting style was unlike anything she'd encountered in her years of training—part martial arts precision, part predatory instinct, enhanced by the heart-shaped herb's gifts until he moved with fluid grace that made him nearly impossible to pin down. But his focus remained laser-sharp on Bucky, tunnel vision born of grief and the need for justice.
She flanked left while Bucky pressed forward, trying to divide T'Challa's attention between multiple threats. Her knife work was precise, seeking gaps in his suit with the kind of systematic approach that spoke of studying blueprints and architectural weaknesses, but the vibranium weave turned aside her strikes like they were mere scratches against diamond.
T'Challa spun with inhuman speed, claws raking across Bucky's tactical vest, tearing through reinforced fabric like it was tissue paper. Bucky stumbled back, dark fabric parting to reveal the pale skin beneath, and T'Challa pressed his advantage with the ruthless efficiency of a born warrior, going for what would have been a killing blow.
She threw herself between them without conscious thought, both knives crossed to catch his descending claws. The impact drove her to one knee, T'Challa's enhanced strength overwhelming her smaller frame, but she held the block long enough for Bucky to recover, her arms shaking with the strain.
"Stay back!" Bucky grabbed her shoulder, pulling her clear as T'Challa's retaliatory strike carved gouges in the concrete where she'd been kneeling, sending chips of debris flying like shrapnel.
"Not happening!" She rolled under T'Challa's guard, coming up inside his reach where his claws couldn't effectively target her without risking damage to himself. Her knee drove up toward his solar plexus with all the force she could muster, but the suit's padding absorbed most of the impact like she was striking armor plating.
T'Challa backhanded her with casual brutality that spoke of enhanced strength held barely in check, sending her skidding across the tarmac in a sprawl of limbs. Stars exploded across her vision like fireworks, and the taste of copper flooded her mouth, metallic and warm.
Bucky's roar of rage was inhuman, a sound torn from somewhere primal and violent. He launched himself at T'Challa with berserker fury that transformed him back into the weapon HYDRA had forged, metal fist connecting with the Wakandan's jaw hard enough to stagger someone wearing a vibranium-weave suit. They grappled in a blur of black tactical gear and gleaming metal, each seeking a decisive hold that would end the fight.
She shook off the dizziness, spitting blood as she regained her feet on unsteady legs. Through blurred vision, she saw T'Challa had managed to get behind Bucky, vibranium claws pressed to his throat in a chokehold, victory within his grasp.
Her knife flew true, striking T'Challa's shoulder joint where the suit's articulation created a narrow gap in the armor. He snarled in pain, releasing Bucky to deal with the blade, but it was the opening they needed.
Bucky swept T'Challa's legs while she crashed into him from the side, sending all three of them tumbling in a tangle of limbs and weapons that ended with them sprawled across the concrete. They separated slowly, each breathing hard, circling like wary predators reassessing their opponents.
"This changes nothing," T'Challa panted, pulling her knife free and dropping it with a metallic clatter. "Justice will be done."
"Justice?" Bucky's voice cracked with bitter laughter that held no humor. "You want to kill me for something I did while I wasn't even myself. While I was a prisoner in my own mind. Where's the justice in that?"
T'Challa's claws retracted slightly, the first sign of hesitation he'd shown since the fight began.
The acrid smoke from collapsed scaffolding still clung to the air, stinging her throat and making her eyes water as she and Bucky broke into a desperate sprint. Sam's voice crackled in her earpiece—cut off abruptly, replaced by static as his communication was disabled. She risked a glance back, her heart sinking as she saw him being forced to the ground by overwhelming numbers.
"Sam!" she shouted, every instinct screaming at her to go back for him, but Bucky's metal hand closed firmly around her wrist with irresistible strength.
"There's no time," he rasped, his eyes dark with the kind of urgency that came from understanding tactical situations on a visceral level. "Steve's already moving for the jet—we have to go now or we lose our only chance."
Her jaw clenched, helpless anger burning in her chest like acid, but she nodded through the pain of leaving friends behind. The three of them—her, Bucky, and Steve—cut across the tarmac toward the hangar where the Quinjet waited like salvation made of metal and hope. Every step thundered with the echo of pursuit and the weight of everything they were leaving behind.
Then a familiar silhouette stepped out ahead of them, blocking their path with practiced ease. Natasha.
They skidded to a stop, her chest heaving with exertion and adrenaline. Natasha raised one hand, the tasers on her wrist crackling with electricity as her sharp gaze flicked between Bucky, Steve, and her with the assessing look of someone calculating odds and outcomes.
"Nat—" she began, taking a careful step forward despite the weapons trained on them.
"You really want to do this?" Natasha's voice was calm, almost weary, like someone who'd seen this scenario play out too many times before. Her eyes softened for just a flicker, a ghost of their old friendship, as they landed on her. "You're on the wrong side of this. You know what comes next if you keep running."
She swallowed hard, her pulse hammering against her throat. "Maybe we are. But you know what happens if we don't try. Steve's right about this. About the other soldiers, about what Zemo's really planning, about Bucky. And deep down, you know it too."
For the briefest moment, something shifted in Natasha's expression. Conflict warred with duty, recognition battling against orders, maybe even a sliver of agreement with their cause breaking through her professional mask.
The thundering footsteps behind them snapped them all back to immediate reality. T'Challa closed the distance with inhuman speed, his claws catching the harsh lights as murder gleamed in his stride, grief transformed into lethal purpose.
"Go," Natasha muttered under her breath, so quietly she almost missed it.
"What?" Steve asked, stunned disbelief coloring his voice.
Natasha flicked a glance over her shoulder, then thrust both batons back without warning, a crackling surge of electricity shooting into T'Challa as he lunged for Bucky's throat. He stumbled, his body locking up as voltage coursed through the suit's systems, buying them precious seconds.
"That's all you're getting," Natasha warned, her eyes hard as granite now, all traces of softness gone. "Run. And don't make me regret this."
Steve didn't hesitate. He grabbed Bucky by the shoulder, jerking him forward with military efficiency. She locked eyes with Natasha one last time, a wealth of gratitude and understanding passing between them in a look, before sprinting after the others toward their only hope of escape.
They hit the Quinjet's ramp at full speed, alarms wailing as the engines whirred to life with increasing urgency. Steve rushed to the controls, his fingers flying over systems as he worked to override security lockouts. Bucky pulled her inside, slamming the hatch behind them just as security forces began swarming the hangar like angry wasps.
The jet shuddered, then roared with mechanical thunder, wheels leaving the ground in a moment that felt like flying and falling simultaneously.
She collapsed into the nearest seat, adrenaline finally catching up to her in a wave that left her shaking. Her hands trembled as she pulled her weapons free, the familiar ritual of securing gear helping to ground her in the aftermath of violence.
Bucky dropped beside her heavily, breathing hard, his own hands not entirely steady. His hand—warm flesh, not cold metal—slid over hers with infinite gentleness. He pulled her against his chest, his arm banding around her shoulders protectively, as though he could still shield her from everything waiting in the uncertain future beyond this moment.
She let herself sink into him completely, her forehead pressed to the crook of his neck where she could feel his pulse hammering. His scent, sweat and leather and tactical fabric and something that was purely, uniquely him, anchored her to the present moment. For the first time since the fighting had begun, she felt like she could actually breathe.
"I've got you," he murmured, his voice rough with exhaustion and emotion. "I'm not letting go. Never again."
Her throat tightened with unshed tears, everything she'd been holding back during the fight threatening to spill over, but she only nodded against his shoulder, gripping his tactical vest like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to sanity.
The Quinjet sliced through pewter clouds like a blade through silk, its engines thrumming a steady lullaby that seemed to echo in her bones. Through the small porthole windows, the world below had become nothing but an endless expanse of gray. Fitting, somehow, for the limbo they found themselves suspended in.
Steve's hands remained rock-steady on the controls, but she could see the tension coiled in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked like he was grinding down words he couldn't say. Every one of them carried the weight of what they'd left behind, what they'd been forced to abandon. The ghosts of their choices sat heavy in the recycled air.
She had tucked herself against Bucky's side, her forehead finding the hollow of his collarbone like it belonged there. His heartbeat thrummed against her temple, too fast, betraying the calm facade he wore like armor. The silence between them pulsed with unspoken truths, electric and dangerous, pulling at the frayed edges of everything they'd been pretending not to feel.
"Damn it." The words scraped out of her throat, raw with guilt that wouldn't ease. Her fingers twisted in the fabric of Bucky's shirt, anchoring herself to something solid. "We left Sam behind. He's probably in cuffs by now…or worse. Ross is not exactly known for his restraint when he's angry." She exhaled sharply, the sound cutting through the cabin's white noise. "And we just...we just flew away like cowards."
From the cockpit, Steve's voice carried that familiar edge of unwavering conviction, the tone that had led men through hell and back again. "Sam knew the risks. Every single one of us went in with our eyes wide open." A pause, softer now but no less certain. "He's tougher than most of us combined. He'll find a way through this. And we’ll get him back."
She wanted to believe him—needed to believe him—but the knot in her stomach remained stubbornly tight. Sam Wilson had become family somewhere along the way, and family wasn't supposed to be collateral damage.
Beside her, Bucky shifted restlessly. His metal hand flexed against his thigh, fingers catching the dim cabin light like liquid mercury, each movement betraying the turmoil he kept locked behind careful walls. When he spoke, his voice came out barely above a whisper, hoarse with self-loathing.
"I don't think..." He swallowed hard, the sound audible in the quiet space. "I don't think I'm worth all this destruction. All this pain."
Her head snapped up so fast her neck protested, but Steve's voice beat her response by half a heartbeat. His tone had gentled, carrying decades of friendship and forgiveness that Bucky had never learned to accept.
"Buck." Just the one word, but it held everything. Understanding, absolution, unshakeable loyalty. "You're not the weapon HYDRA forged. You never were."
A bitter laugh escaped Bucky's throat, the sound like breaking glass. "Doesn't change what these hands have done. Doesn't erase the blood." His metal fingers curled into a fist. "The families I destroyed, the lives I—"
"Stop." Her voice cut through his self-destruction like a blade. She reached up, cupping his jaw with both hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. His eyes were the color of winter storms, beautiful and broken and too full of ghosts that shouldn't have been his to carry. The sight of them made something crack open in her chest.
"That's not fair to yourself," she whispered fiercely, pouring every ounce of conviction she possessed into the words. "You weren't in control. You were a prisoner in your own mind, a victim just as much as anyone else." Her thumbs traced the sharp line of his cheekbones, feeling the slight tremor that ran through him. "The blame belongs to HYDRA — to the monsters who stole you, who broke you down and rebuilt you into something you were never meant to be. It doesn't belong to you, James. It never did."
He stared at her like she was speaking a foreign language, searching her face for any hint of doubt or deception. His jaw worked beneath her palms, but for once, his protestations seemed to die in his throat.
Then, so quietly she almost missed it: "What you said back there. On the tarmac, when T'Challa had me pinned." His voice cracked like ice under pressure. "You said...you told me you loved me."
The words hit her like a physical blow. Heat flooded her face, her stomach dropping somewhere around her boots. The confession had torn itself from her chest without permission during the fight, three words that changed everything. She hadn’t even realized it had slipped out.
"I—" She faltered, suddenly hyperaware of Steve's presence in the cockpit, of the way Bucky's entire body had gone still beneath her touch. "I wasn't exactly planning on having that particular revelation in the middle of a superhero showdown," she managed with a weak laugh that fooled no one. "But yes. I said it. And I meant it." She drew in a shaky breath, meeting his eyes without flinching. "I love you, Bucky. I love your terrible jokes and your protective streak and the way you make coffee like it's a military operation. I love how gentle you are despite everything they tried to make you into."
Something fundamental shifted in his expression, like watching ice melt in real time. The sharp edges of his pain softened, replaced by something that made her chest tight with hope. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, boyish and utterly disbelieving.
"I love you too." The admission came out rough as gravel, but certain as sunrise. "Christ, I think I've been in love with you since that night on your balcony. Haven't been able to get you out of my head since…the way you looked at me like I was still human, still worth saving." His flesh hand came up to cover hers, fingers threading together. "You've been haunting me in the best possible way."
The words crashed over her like a tidal wave, stealing her breath and short-circuiting her brain. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she was sure he could feel it. Without conscious thought, she surged up and kissed him, soft at first, lips barely brushing — a question more than a statement. But then he kissed her back with quiet desperation, and the kiss deepened, became something urgent and necessary, speaking all the words they'd been too afraid to voice.
His vibranium arm wrapped around her waist like a steel band, holding her against him while his flesh hand cradled her face with devastating tenderness. She could taste the salt of unshed tears—his or hers, she couldn't tell—and something that was purely him, warm and familiar and right.
Her fingers fisted in his shirt, trying to eliminate every inch of space between them, losing herself in the impossible sweetness of finally, finally, having him like this. Real and solid and choosing her despite every reason he had to run.
When they finally broke apart, gasping, their foreheads came together like magnets finding true north. His breath ghosted across her lips as an unsaid prayer.
From the cockpit, Steve's voice cut through their bubble of intimacy, bone-dry with barely contained amusement. "Just so you know, I'm still up here. Still flying this death trap. And I've heard every single word of this touching declaration."
She groaned, heat flooding her face as she buried it against Bucky's chest. His heartbeat thundered beneath her ear, solid and reassuring. "God, Steve, do you have to—"
"Some things never change," Bucky murmured, his chuckle rumbling low in his chest as he pressed a lingering kiss to her temple. The sound wrapped around her like a blanket, warm and steady and home.
Steve caught their reflection in the windshield and shook his head, his smile taking any sting out of his words. "I'm happy for you both, truly. But maybe we could table the epic love confessions until after we stop Zemo from tearing the world apart? Just a thought."
She lifted her head just enough to glare toward the cockpit, though her heart wasn't really in it. "Absolutely no promises, Rogers."
Bucky's lips found her hairline, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear, intimate as a prayer: "I'm not letting you go again, sweetheart. Not ever. They'll have to kill me first."
She curled closer into his warmth, closing her eyes against the steady thrum of the Quinjet's engines, and let herself believe it. Let herself believe in forever, in second chances, in love that survived brainwashing and battles and the end of the world.
Outside, the clouds began to part, revealing glimpses of blue sky ahead.
The facility groaned like a dying beast as the heavy doors scraped open with the protest of rusted metal. Inside, the air hit them like a physical wall. It was somehow colder than the Siberian winds outside, thick and stagnant with the metallic tang of old machinery and industrial oil that coated the back of her throat. Their footsteps rang hollow against steel corridors that stretched into darkness, each echo bouncing off walls that had witnessed unspeakable horrors. Overhead, fluorescent lights flickered like dying fireflies, casting sickly shadows that danced with every tremor of failing electricity.
Her pulse hammered against her ribs with every step they took deeper into the bowels of the place. This wasn't just a building — it was a mausoleum of pain, a shrine to everything HYDRA had perfected in the art of breaking human beings. The walls seemed to press closer with each corridor they traversed, heavy with the weight of screams that had long since faded but somehow still lingered in the recycled air.
Bucky moved ahead of them like a man walking toward his own execution, his expression locked down into that impenetrable soldier's mask she'd learned to hate. Every line of his body screamed tension. His shoulders were rigid, movements too controlled, like he was fighting against muscle memory that wanted to drag him back to this place. Steve stayed close behind, shield raised and ready, his eyes sharp as broken glass as they swept every corner, every shadow that could hide an enemy.
And then a sound cut through the oppressive silence. Heavy footsteps, metallic and deliberate, echoing down the corridor like a death knell.
Steve dropped into a defensive crouch instantly, shield snapping up to cover them both. Bucky's reaction was pure instinct. He shoved her behind him with his flesh hand while the metal one brought his weapon up in a fluid motion, finger already on the trigger. She drew her own gun, muscle memory taking over even as her heart hammered against her sternum.
Tony Stark stepped into the chamber like he owned it, the Iron Man armor gleaming dully in the flickering lights. The arc reactor's blue glow cut through the shadows like a lighthouse beam, and when his faceplate retracted with a soft hiss, it revealed eyes that were exhausted, haunted, and carrying something darker than she'd ever seen in them before.
"You seem a little defensive," he quipped, but there was no real humor in it. Just weeks of weariness wrapped in his usual snark as he stepped closer, repulsors powered down but ready.
Steve's surprise was visible as he slowly lowered his shield, the metal scraping softly against his arm. She felt Bucky's entire body coil tighter beside her, his breathing shallow and controlled. Steve glanced back at them, catching her eye with a look that held equal parts relief and confusion, before turning to face Tony fully.
"It's been a long day," Steve said simply, but the understatement carried the weight of everything they'd been through.
"At ease, soldier. I'm not after you." Tony's gesture toward Bucky was almost casual, but she caught the way his eyes lingered, assessing, calculating. Then his gaze found hers over Bucky's protective stance, and one eyebrow quirked upward with something that might have been approval. "I see you got your girlfriend back. I really was always rooting for you crazy kids."
She didn't lower her weapon, couldn't quite trust this turn of events yet, but managed a sardonic smirk that felt more natural than it should have. "We could always use another member of our fan club. But Tony..." Her voice sharpened, cutting through the false levity. "Why are you here? And please tell me you're not about to try fighting us, because I'm really not in the mood to do this again."
Tony looked around the facility with what appeared to be lazy interest, but she'd known him long enough to recognize the razor-sharp focus hidden beneath the casual facade. When he spoke, his voice carried an edge of grudging admission.
"Turns out your completely insane story might not be so crazy after all." He shrugged, but the movement was tight with tension. "Ross has no idea I'm here, and I'd really prefer to keep it that way. Otherwise, I'll have to arrest myself, and that's just awkward for everyone involved."
"Sounds like a lot of paperwork," Steve replied, his tone dry but carrying the first hint of warmth she'd heard from him in hours. He lowered his shield completely, a gesture of trust that didn't go unnoticed. "It's good to see you, Tony."
Tony's smirk was sharp as a blade, but there was something almost fond underneath it. "You too, Cap. And you too, Sarah Connor." His eyes found hers again, and despite everything, she felt her lips twitch upward. "We missed you back at the Tower. Place isn't the same without someone calling me an idiot on a regular basis."
She finally lowered her gun, shooting him a grin that felt rusty from disuse. But Bucky remained statue-still beside her, weapon trained on Tony with unwavering precision, every muscle in his body screaming threat assessment. The silence stretched until Tony's patience apparently ran out.
"Hey, Manchurian Candidate," he called out, voice dripping with sardonic exasperation. "You're killing me here. There's a truce happening. You can stand down now."
Steve caught Bucky's eye and gave him a subtle nod, while she pressed her palm flat against the small of Bucky's back as a silent anchor. A wordless promise that she was there, that he wasn't alone in this nightmare. The tension in his spine was like touching live wire, but after a moment that felt like eternity, he exhaled slowly and lowered his weapon.
With his faceplate snapping shut again with mechanical precision, Tony strode forward, leading them deeper into the facility's heart. The massive chamber they entered was a cathedral of industrial horror. Steel walls stretching up into darkness, the air so cold their breath came out in visible puffs, every sound echoing like whispers in a tomb.
"I'm reading heat signatures," Tony announced, his voice mechanically filtered through the suit's speakers as he scanned the area with systematic thoroughness.
"How many?" Steve's question was sharp, shield already moving back into position.
Banks of lights flickered to life with electrical hums that seemed obscenely loud in the silence, illuminating what could only be described as a nightmare made manifest. Rows of capsules stretched out before them, each one filled with hazy yellow mist that hissed downward like poisonous rain. Through the condensation on the glass, she could make out figures—soldiers, suspended in what looked like cryogenic sleep.
Her breath caught in her throat, ice forming in her veins. For one terrifying heartbeat, she thought they were about to face an army of Winter Soldiers. But as they moved closer, her stomach lurched with sickening realization. Each figure bore a neat, precise bullet hole in the center of their forehead. Execution-style kills that spoke of cold efficiency.
"If it's any comfort," a voice drifted down from hidden speakers, cultured and conversational, "they died in their sleep."
Bucky went rigid beside her, his face cycling through horror, recognition, and rage so quickly it was like watching someone shatter in real time. She moved closer instinctively, her fingers finding his forearm, trying to ground him to the present, to her, to anything that wasn't the nightmare unfolding around them.
"What the hell?" The words scraped out of Bucky's throat like broken glass.
"I'm grateful to them, though," the voice continued with the kind of calm that only came from complete certainty of purpose. Above them, in a control booth that looked like it had been carved from the facility's bones, a slight figure appeared—Zemo, she realized with a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. "They brought you here."
Steve's shield flew through the air with deadly precision, but it rang uselessly against reinforced glass before spinning back to his waiting hand. The sound echoed through the chamber like a gunshot.
"Please, Captain," Zemo said with the patience of a professor addressing slow students. "The Soviets built this chamber to withstand the launch blast of UR-100 rockets."
"I'm betting I could beat that," Tony shot back, repulsors charging with a whine that promised violence.
"Oh, I'm sure you could, Mr. Stark. Given time." Zemo's smile was visible even through the glass, cold and satisfied. "But then you'd never know why you came."
Steve's jaw tightened, every line of his body radiating barely contained fury. "You killed innocent people in Vienna just to bring us here?"
"I thought about nothing else for over a year," Zemo replied, his voice carrying the weight of obsession distilled into purpose. "I studied you. I followed you. But now that you're standing here, I just realized..." He paused, head tilting with the curiosity of a scientist examining specimens. "There's a bit of green in the blue of your eyes. How nice to find a flaw."
Her lip curled in disgust that tasted like bile. She leaned closer to Bucky, her voice dropping to a whisper that carried all the venom she felt. "He's enjoying this. Every single second of this."
Steve tried again, searching for some human connection, some crack in Zemo's armor. "You're Sokovian. Is that what this is about?"
"Sokovia was a failed state long before you blew it to hell," Zemo dismissed with a wave. "No. I'm here because I made a promise."
"You lost someone?" Steve's voice gentled, recognizing the language of grief.
Zemo's expression shifted, becoming something raw and terrible. "I lost everyone. And so will you."
The screen beside him flickered to life, and a date appeared that made Tony's entire body go rigid: December 16, 1991.
"I know that road," Tony said, his voice hollow with dread. "What is this?"
The video began to play, and with it, the systematic destruction of everything they'd been fighting for. A black car swerved through the night, tires screaming against asphalt before it slammed into a tree with a sickening impact. Her pulse hammered against her temples as a figure on a motorcycle rode into frame. Bucky, unchanged and ageless, dismounting with the fluid precision of a predator.
Steve's eyes found Tony's, and she could see the exact moment understanding hit him like a physical blow. Beside her, Bucky had gone so still he might have stopped breathing entirely.
On the ground beside the mangled car, Howard Stark lay broken and bloodied but still conscious, still human enough to plead.
"Help my wife," Howard's voice cracked with desperation. "Please. Help."
The Winter Soldier—because that's what he was in this moment, not Bucky, never Bucky—lifted Howard by his hair with mechanical efficiency, his face a blank mask devoid of anything recognizably human.
"Sergeant Barnes?" Howard's voice carried recognition, confusion, hope that was about to be brutally extinguished.
From the passenger seat, Maria's scream cut through the night: "Howard!"
Tony's glare burned into Bucky like a brand, and she felt Bucky's body lock up completely, every muscle rigid as if bracing against an inevitable blow. On screen, the Winter Soldier's metal fist connected with Howard's skull with a sound like breaking concrete. Howard's body went limp, then was shoved into the driver's seat like discarded trash.
Maria's screams filled the audio as the Winter Soldier circled the car with predatory purpose. When his metal fingers closed around her throat, the silence that followed was somehow worse than her cries had been. Clinical. Efficient. Utterly without mercy or hesitation.
Her own hand trembled as she reached for Bucky's, her chest constricting so tightly she couldn't breathe. She could feel him coming apart beside her, his breathing shallow and rapid, his skin clammy with cold sweat.
Tony's eyes squeezed shut for one agonized moment before forcing themselves open, and when they did, they held a grief so raw it was almost unbearable to witness. Then that grief crystallized into something harder, more dangerous.
The final image was the Winter Soldier raising his weapon toward the surveillance camera, and then the feed cut to black, leaving them all suspended in suffocating silence.
The tension in the chamber was so thick it was almost solid.
Steve watched Tony carefully, anxiety written across his face. He could see it, they all could. Rage and grief were coiling inside the man, shaking him apart. And then Tony snapped, lunging at Bucky with murder in his eyes.
“Tony!” Steve barked, shoving himself between them, holding Stark back.
“Tony, stop!” she shouted, rushing forward instinctively. She planted herself beside Steve, one arm outstretched in front of Bucky as though she could shield him with her own body. Bucky had gone rigid, staring at the floor, shame weighing him down like chains.
Tony turned sharply on Steve, tears glistening hot in his eyes, voice breaking.
Steve froze, lips parting but no answer immediately coming.
“Did you know?” Tony screamed, his voice tearing out of him like shrapnel.
Steve’s shoulders sank. His face was stricken, but his voice was steady, low.
“I didn’t know it was him.”
Her chest tightened. The words felt heavy, like they weren’t enough of the true story.
Tony’s gaze darkened, raw disbelief etched across every line of his face. “Don’t bullshit me, Rogers! Did you know?”
Steve’s jaw clenched. He hesitated for a fraction too long, and that was all Tony needed.
The word cracked the air like lightning.
Tony’s breath hitched, grief contorting into fury. “You son of a—” His voice broke before he could finish. He staggered back a step, his hands curling into fists. “You were supposed to be my friend.”
Her heart clenched at the sight of him, broken and furious all at once, but her eyes slid to Bucky—her Bucky—who stood stone still, not even defending himself, like he accepted every ounce of blame. She couldn’t bear it.
“Tony,” she said, stepping forward, her voice raw with urgency. “It wasn’t him. Not the man standing here. HYDRA made him into that monster—you saw it. You know what they did to him. Blame them, not him.”
Tony’s gaze cut to her, sharp as a blade. “He killed my mom.”
The words landed like a punch to her gut.
She swallowed hard, her voice trembling but firm. “And if you kill him now, then you’re no better than the people who made him do it. Please, Tony…” She reached for him, almost daring to touch his arm, but he jerked away before she could.
“Stay out of this,” Tony snapped, his voice raw. His repulsors hummed to life, glowing bright. His grief had tipped fully into rage, and she knew there was no stopping it now.
Behind her, she felt Bucky stir, finally lifting his eyes from the floor. They were shadowed, pained, but when they landed on her, something flickered there. Fear. Not for himself. For her.
He said her name quietly, voice hoarse with pain. “Stay behind me.”
But she didn’t move. She squared her shoulders, staying at his side.
And then Zemo's voice sliced through the chaos like a scalpel.
"Fascinating," he drawled from his perch above them, calm and measured, like a conductor savoring the symphony of destruction he'd orchestrated. "I expected Stark's reaction, of course. But you, my dear..."
Her head snapped toward him, bile rising in her throat at the way he spoke her name like it was something precious and poisonous all at once.
"You," Zemo continued with the satisfaction of a man revealing his masterpiece, "are the wild card I never could have anticipated. The woman to tame the beast." His eyes glinted with malicious delight. "Tell me... have you never wondered how Sergeant Barnes found his way onto your balcony that day? Why he looked at you as though he already knew you, when by all rights you were complete strangers?"
The world tilted sideways. Her stomach dropped into freefall, every instinct screaming danger, denial, desperate hope that this was just another mind game.
"Shut up," she spat, but the words came out weaker than she wanted, already contaminated by growing dread.
Zemo's smile was the expression of a man about to deliver a killing blow. His fingers moved over the controls with artistic precision.
The screen flickered back to life, and another date appeared in the corner like a tombstone: January 25, 1992.
Her breath stopped in her lungs. She knew that date. How could she ever forget it?
The footage was grainy, shot from a street camera positioned across from a house she knew better than her own heartbeat. Her childhood home, the yellow door with its peeling paint, the oak tree her father had hung a swing from when she was five. And there, stepping out into the cold morning air in his work clothes, was her father.
He looked exactly as she remembered. strong shoulders that had carried her on piggyback rides, kind eyes that crinkled when he laughed, hands that smelled of coffee and sawdust and safety. He was adjusting his coat against the cold, probably running late for work at the construction site, probably thinking about the grocery list her mother had given him or whether he'd remembered to kiss them both goodbye.
And then, from the edge of the frame, a figure emerged from the shadows. Silent. Efficient. Inhuman.
The Winter Soldier—Bucky, her mind whispered traitorously—moved with the fluid precision of a machine designed for one purpose. His face was blank, emotionless, his movements economical and practiced.
"No..." The word tore from her throat like a prayer, like a denial of reality itself. Because she knew what was coming.
On the screen, her father barely had time to register the approaching figure before the Winter Soldier drew his weapon in one smooth motion and fired. Once. Point-blank. Merciless.
Her father crumpled into the snow like a marionette with cut strings, his blood spreading in stark crimson against the white, and her world ended for the second time in her life.
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