Hi Kennedy, thank you for doing such a knockout job w/ my requests!! I have another one, if it tickles your fancy:
Thinkin’ you and Bucky being sent back in time for some mission, and stumbling upon him in the middle of an assassination as the WS. I feel like it could go one of two ways:
1. Bucky has to talk us down from attempting to help WS!Bucky escape Hydra (maybe bc he’s fearful of WS!Bucky hurting us like he did Steve in ‘14?)
or
2. They all end up in bed together bc we’re that determined that WS!Bucky has one positive memory tied to being touched; selfishly, our Bucky agrees, even if they both know Hydra will wipe the Soldier’s memories soon
A combination of the two scenarios could be pretty interesting, ngl, but I’ll be happy w/ whatever you cook up
oh my god. i had so much fun with this. this was such a complex idea as well. you're so big brain for thinking of that!
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The moment the portal collapses behind you, the air feels too thin. Moscow, 1984. Snow catches on your lashes, glittering like static. Beside you, Bucky is all tension and breath. His hand flexes once—metal whirring softly—before curling into a fist.
You see him before Bucky does.
A figure across the street, framed by the orange glow of sodium lights. Leather, harness, the glint of a muzzle flash still smoking. He’s so precise it’s almost mechanical, like someone built him out of vengeance and winter. The Winter Soldier.
Your mouth goes dry. Your Bucky freezes like he’s seeing a ghost in the mirror.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “That’s—he’s me.”
The Winter Soldier reloads, pivots, and stalks toward the alley. Mission complete. Target down. You know this look—you’ve seen old Hydra footage. You’ve watched this Bucky tear down entire fortresses without blinking. But none of that prepares you for seeing the haunted body in motion.
You take one step forward. Bucky grabs your arm.
“Don’t,” he says, voice tight. “He doesn’t know you. He’s not me. Not yet.”
“But we could—” You can’t help it. “We could help him. Pull him out.”
Bucky’s jaw ticks. “You think I haven’t thought about that every goddamn day since I remembered who I was? If we touch this timeline, they’ll kill him sooner. Or worse, they’ll find you.” He looks at the figure moving through the snow, his face twisted in pain. “You don’t want to be on the other end of his orders, doll. He’ll snap your neck before you can say his name.”
The mission’s comm crackles dead. You’re stranded—temporal coordinates scrambled, extraction hours away. Hydra’s ghosts walking these streets.
And him.
You don’t listen. (You never really do, not when it comes to saving people.) You follow the Winter Soldier when he disappears into the warehouse.
Inside, the air smells like iron and oil. He’s cleaning his gun at a metal table, movements surgical. You freeze when his head tilts, when his eyes—icy, vacant—lock on yours.
He moves faster than gravity. One second you’re breathing; the next your back’s against a wall, metal fingers around your throat. His expression doesn’t change. You could be a target. A witness. He doesn’t even seem curious.
“Asset,” a voice snaps from a hidden comm unit—Hydra handler, sharp and cold. “Return to base.”
He hesitates. That’s the only crack you see.
“Stop!” Bucky’s voice echoes through the warehouse. He emerges from the shadows, gun lowered, palms up. “Hey—easy. Easy, pal.”
The Soldier’s head jerks between you and Bucky. His grip on your throat falters, confusion flickering over his otherwise blank face. Same eyes. Same scars. One alive, one emptied.
“Let her go,” Bucky says softly. “She’s not a threat.”
“Who are you,” the Soldier rasps, the voice like static dragged across metal.
“I’m you,” Bucky answers. “From a time when they don’t own you anymore.”
It’s too much. You can see the conflict, the electric twitch beneath his jaw. Then the hand drops. You stumble forward, coughing. He watches you like he’s cataloguing a reaction he doesn’t recognize.
You should be terrified. You aren’t. You’re wrecked by the ache of it—this man who never got a kind touch that wasn’t followed by pain. The thought wedges deep, dangerous.
“He’s scared of himself,” you whisper to Bucky when the Soldier steps back into the dark.
Bucky’s eyes shutter. “Yeah. He should be.”
But you shake your head. “No, he’s scared because he doesn’t understand gentle anymore.”
He stares at you like you’ve said something blasphemous. “You don’t fix that by touching him.”
“Maybe you do.”
He should stop you. He doesn’t.
When you cross the room again, the Winter Soldier doesn’t reach for his weapon. He stands still, watching the way your hand hovers near his metal arm. The plating gleams faintly in the low light.
“Can I?” you ask quietly.
He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t move away either. You lay your palm against the seam of cold steel. He shivers—actually shivers—as if the contact overloads his circuitry.
“That,” you whisper, “is real. You’re real.”
Something fractures. His breath quickens. And then, impossibly, he leans into it.
Bucky’s footsteps sound behind you. “What are you doing?” he murmurs, but it’s too late—he knows exactly what you’re doing. He can feel it, because he remembers that first time someone looked at him like he wasn’t a weapon.
The Soldier’s fingers twitch, uncertain. Your hand catches his wrist before he can pull away.
“It’s okay,” you tell him. “You can touch me.”
He obeys like it’s an order, his palm landing on your hip, tentative. Then firmer. The human hand—flesh, not metal—trembles.
Bucky exhales behind you, a sound equal parts jealousy and grief. He’s seeing his own ghost crumble.
You meet his gaze over the Soldier’s shoulder. “One good memory,” you murmur. “Just one. Please.”
There’s a long silence. Then Bucky nods once.
You don’t know how it starts—only that it’s desperate and quiet. The Soldier doesn’t know softness, so he mimics yours. Every move is measured, cautious, like he’s learning what it means to feel. Bucky stays close, guiding with low words, gentle pressure—“Slow down, pal. Breathe with her.”
When the Soldier’s lips brush your neck, it’s not hunger—it’s disbelief. When his hand fists in your shirt, it’s to anchor himself to the moment, terrified it will vanish like everything else. You guide him, murmuring his name—his real name—against his throat.
Bucky’s voice breaks somewhere in the dark. “They’ll take this from him. You know they will.”
“I know,” you whisper. “Then let’s make it something worth remembering.”
Between you both, the Soldier stills. For one suspended heartbeat, he’s not a ghost or a gun. He’s a man caught between lives—held steady by the two people who understand him best.
When he finally comes apart, it’s silent, like the exhale of a prayer.
Dawn smears grey across the windows. The Soldier sleeps, head pillowed against your thigh, unguarded for once. You smooth his hair back, fingers gentle.
Bucky crouches beside you, voice raw. “You gave him peace for a night,” he says. “You didn’t have to do that.”
You look at the sleeping version of him—the one who never got out. “I think I did.”
Bucky’s hand covers yours, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “You realize when he wakes up, they’ll wipe this. Every second.”
“Maybe not all of it,” you say softly. “Maybe he’ll dream of warmth once in a while and not know why.”
Bucky studies his own sleeping face for a long time. Then, almost reverently, he bends and presses a kiss to the Soldier’s temple. “Hang in there, pal,” he murmurs. “We made it. You’ll get there.”
The extraction beacon hums to life. Light floods the room.
You hold on to the warmth of both of them until the world folds, until the snow and silence dissolve.
When you land back in the present, Bucky’s hand is still wrapped around yours, trembling.
“Did it happen?” you ask.
He swallows. “Maybe. I had a dream once—years ago. Thought it was a memory I made up. Someone’s voice saying, you’re real.”
You smile through the ache. “Guess it wasn’t a dream after all.”
He kisses your forehead, the words rough against your skin. “Thank you for giving him that.”
You look past him, at the dawn creeping over the compound. “You gave him that too.”
He shakes his head. “We both did.”
And somewhere, far back in a time no one remembers, a soldier wakes up with a trace of warmth pressed into the cold place where Hydra once lived—something human that refuses to fade.
The Sky Hummed Back
Genshin Impact Fanfic by MythboundCal
The roots of the tree were warm.
Not in the way sunlight warms bark, but in the way a place remembers who’s sat there before.
Wanderer didn’t sit. Not at first.
He stood, arms crossed, like someone expecting judgment to fall from the canopy. But it didn’t.
Just wind. Just sun. Just Sumeru.
He sat eventually. Not out of peace. Just fatigue.
Time passed like water. Maybe an hour. Maybe a day.
Then Nahida arrived.
She didn’t ask to join him. She didn’t say anything at all.
She just sat beside him on the moss, legs tucked neatly, white and green robes folding like petals around her. The tree didn’t mind. Neither did he.
They didn’t speak.
She didn’t ask how he felt. He didn’t ask for forgiveness. The breeze did all the talking—rustling leaves, stirring strands of his hair that had grown longer than he liked.
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time in centuries, he didn’t feel the need to defend the silence.
He thought silence was emptiness—until hers answered.
He thought stillness was punishment—until she shared it with him.
They sat there until the sun tipped golden. Until the wind changed direction. Until the shadows softened.
She rose first.
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” she said gently, brushing soil from her knees. “But if you ever want to… I’ll be under this tree.”
Then she left. Just like that.
No sermon. No cleansing ritual. No confessional.
Only wind. Only quiet. Only the softest kind of welcome.
