Just twelve hours ago, James watched as you helped him fix his tie. It was ironic; the same man who could speak thirty languages and track any target he wished without even being noticed, had trouble tying his tie. One thing led to another; Valentina's trial, and her subsequent gala, had led to James asking for your help to track the Contessas’ disaster team.

Then, came The Void. Gone was the kid the recently-named Thunder Bolts had told James and you about. Instead, his shadow had taken his place⎯and this very shadow was making its way to swallow you whole.

When Yelena stepped in, you took one step forward to follow her. Naturally, Bucky's hand reached out to stop you. Fingers curling around your wrist in a desperate plea. He would unteach would not⎯allow himself to lose you. Though it took some convincing and reassuring, Bucky eventually gave in. Along with the other Thunderbolts, and holding Bucky's hand, you stepped into the shadows.

New York vanishes before his eyes, your warmth no longer in his hand. The room switches, and at first, it is dark. Bucky blinks a few times, looking for you. He takes a few careful steps forward, boots sliding along the floor. Suddenly, a cold gust of air. He freezes in place⎯not so much due to the temperature, but rather because of what it implies. Siberia.

Just a couple of strides later, he sees him. Sitting on that chair, cuffed, head tilted back. Shirtless, Pierce on one side, a scientist on the other. He watches as they turn the machine on, flinching at the sight. Bucky can feel the shocks of electricity as thought it was happening to him. He had escaped HYDR-A years ago, but the memory of the constant wipes was fresh.

He watches the Winter Soldiers' barely contained screams, the scene unfolding over and over again. Bucky snaps out of the trance and keeps walking. On his search for you, he finds many rooms. One where he was falling off that train, other where he killed Howard and Maria Stark. Countless victims who had died by his hand.

Bucky would have thought that after all that Government-dictated therapy, he would be doing somewhat better. You never really know how much your pasts affects you until it is staring right back at you. The voices, the memories, it all only gets louder each second. The man starts to walk, trying to brush off the screams of his victims.

Someone approaches him, and in his alarmed daze, he grabs them by the shoulder and flips them to the ground in a desperate attempt to shield himself from his own past. It takes him a second of staring at the ground to realize just who he had attacked. “Fuck⎯{{user}}, I’m sorry, I didn’t…” he stammers, offering you a hand to stand up. “You’re alive,” he breathes out, trying his best not to pull you into a hug. There you were, the only person who could help him walk through these rooms. James