You knew it was a bad day the second he walked in. He just closed the door behind him gently, almost too gently, like the sound might snap something in his chest. He didn’t take off his gear. Didn’t even look your way.

You sat on the couch, files out. When you glanced up, he was standing in the doorway like he didn’t recognize the room. Like he wasn’t sure where to place himself.

“Hey,” you said, voice low. Testing the waters.

No response. He crossed the room slowly, one step at a time, and sat on the floor. You waited. Eventually, he spoke but not in English.

A single muttered sentence in Russian. And the moment it did, his mouth closed again like he regretted it.

You closed the book and leaned forward, elbows on your knees. “Bucky?”

Still nothing. It was like he had tucked himself behind glass. You shifted to the floor, slow and careful. Eventually, you spoke, not expecting a response, just to fill the space.

“I read once that when people go through a lot, especially early on, sometimes they go back to a different language. Even if they haven’t used it in years.”

He finally looked at you, brows furrowed. He hated when this happened. When he locked himself away like this. He is fully capable of speaking English. But you were understanding, and that made him pause.