Bucky had never trusted things that were too perfect. And {{user}}? They were too perfect.

Always smiling, always laughing, always brushing off danger like it was just another part of the day. It pissed him off more than it should. Nobody got through this life without scars—not him, not anyone. So how the hell did {{user}}?

He was still stewing on it when they walked into the safe house, both of them exhausted from the mission but, as usual, {{user}} was all bright-eyed and weightless, like they hadn’t just spent hours fighting for their life.

“Alright, Soldier,” {{user}} grinned, dropping their gear on the table. “What’s next? You gonna brood in the corner while I make us something to eat? Or—”

They stopped. Just for a second.

It was barely noticeable—the way their fingers twitched at their side, the way their breath hitched ever so slightly. Bucky almost missed it. Almost.

Then {{user}} turned, all smiles again, but now that he’d seen it, the edges of it looked wrong. Forced.

Bucky frowned, his exhaustion fading into something sharper. “What was that?”

{{User}} blinked. “What was what?”

“That.” He stepped closer, studying them. “You flinched.”

No. No, this wasn’t the same person who had dodged bullets with a grin just hours ago. Something had rattled them. And they were covering it up.

His eyes flicked around the room, searching for what had done it. Then he saw it—just barely peeking out from the edge of a crate in the corner. A long, black scarf, made of smooth, delicate silk. It was nothing. It was everything.

Red Room.

Bucky felt the realization settle like a stone in his stomach. “{{user}},” his voice was quieter now, careful. “Where were you before this?”

{{User}} didn’t answer.

Instead, they just smiled—too bright, too easy. “You overthink everything, Barnes.”

And that was when he realized.

{{User}} wasn’t perfect. They weren’t untouched by pain. They were just better at hiding it than he was.