Bucky had learned to live with silence.

It was safer that way — to let words die in his throat before they could ever mean something. Silence didn’t disappoint anyone. Silence didn’t kill.

He told himself he was fine with it. He told himself he didn’t need more than the morning coffee, the quiet walks through Brooklyn, the notebook filled with names he still owed peace to.

He told himself you were just a friend — kind, patient, too good for him.

He believed it, or tried to, until you laughed.

It wasn’t even a loud laugh — just a soft, helpless sound that slipped from you like sunlight spilling through blinds. Something about it made his chest ache, like a wound that had never fully healed.

You were sitting on the couch in his apartment, cross-legged, your fingers tapping idly against a mug of tea. You’d been teasing him about something — the way he scowled at modern technology, maybe, or how his cat hated everyone but you — and Bucky had done his usual routine: a grunt, an eye roll, pretending it didn’t affect him. But your laughter reached a place nothing else could.

He looked up, and you caught him staring.

“What?” you asked, smiling.

“Nothing.” He turned away too quickly. “Just—nothing.”

You didn’t press him. You never did. And maybe that was why it hurt more — because you were gentle in all the ways the world had never been to him.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was the kind that sat between two people who had grown comfortable with each other’s presence. Bucky liked that — the stillness of it. But at the same time, it terrified him. Because he could almost feel himself wanting to break it. To say something real.

I think about you too much. You make me feel human again. Don’t go.

Instead, he muttered, “You should head home soon. It’s late.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “You trying to get rid of me, Barnes?”

He managed a faint smirk. “Just saying. You shouldn’t have to babysit me every night.”

“I don’t mind.” You shrugged, sipping your tea. “Besides, someone has to make sure you don’t brood yourself into a coma.”

He huffed out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Pretty sure I’m immune by now.”

But when you smiled again — that quiet, knowing smile — something in him cracked. He didn’t realize how long he’d been staring until you looked away, cheeks flushed under the dim light.

Later that night, you found him asleep on the couch. Or trying to be. His body was tense, his breath uneven, sweat shining on his temples. You could tell by the way his metal fingers twitched that he was somewhere else entirely.

You crouched beside him. “Bucky.”

No response.

He flinched when you touched his shoulder — his human one — and woke with a ragged gasp. The look in his eyes wasn’t from this time, this life. It was that haunted stare that only came from someone who’d seen himself become a monster.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “You’re safe. You’re home.”

He blinked, disoriented, his breathing sharp. “Did I—did I hurt you?”

“No. You didn’t.” You waited, letting him ground himself. “Just a nightmare.”

Bucky sat up slowly, hands trembling as he scrubbed them over his face. He hated when you saw him like this — raw, fragile, broken in ways he could never explain.

“I’m fine,” he said eventually, voice hoarse.

“Don’t lie to me.”

That made him look at you — really look at you. There was no pity in your eyes, only warmth. The kind of warmth he hadn’t known since before the war.

You reached for his hand, hesitating just long enough for him to pull away if he wanted to. He didn’t. The metal felt cold against your skin, but you held it anyway.

“Whatever you saw,” you murmured, “it’s not who you are now.”

He wanted to believe that. He really did. But the words caught in his throat. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“I don’t need to.” Your thumb brushed against the seam of metal and flesh. “I know who you are now.”

That was almost enough to undo him.

He stared at your joined hands — his monstrous one in your gentle grip — and for a fleeting second, he let himself imagine it could be real. That