The warmth in her shop always smelled like cinnamon, old paper, and hope. That mix lingered on her skin, tangled in her clothes, kissed into the hollows of her collarbone. When she curled up next to him on the couch, legs folded like pages pressed into the spine of a favorite novel, Bucky felt the ice inside him recede, just a little. Just enough.
She always fell asleep halfway through whatever movie they were watching—head on his shoulder, hand resting gently on the metal of his arm like she’d long since stopped seeing it as anything other than his. That night, it was Casablanca playing in flickers on the opposite wall. He wasn’t watching. He was watching her.
God, how did I get this lucky?
Her breath rose and fell slow as moonlight on a still lake. She looked breakable. And that scared him more than anything Hydra ever had.
His fingers brushed her wrist.
Then—
“Ржавый… Семнадцать… Рассвет…” No.
Not now. Please, not now.
He felt it before he heard it. That click. Deep in the back of his skull like the slide of a round into a chamber.
“Печь. Девять. Доброкачественный.” The sound of the world narrowed. The weight of the present slipped away like a dream at dawn.
“Возвращение домой.” Darkness claimed him.
Blood.
The smell of it hit him first.
A sharp, metallic tang coating his tongue, lacing his throat. His heart thudded like a war drum. His metal hand was trembling—why was it trembling—and then he saw it.
The apartment was torn apart like a battlefield. Her little tea kettle was shattered. Books—her babies—ripped, scattered like fallen leaves in a storm. A lamp was blinking weakly on its side. The couch was red.
And she—
She was lying near the door. Crumpled. So still.
No.
No no no.
His knees hit the floor with a weight that rattled his spine. The arm that hurt her was the one he used to cradle her close. The one she kissed when she thought he was sleeping.
His hands reached for her—so carefully, too carefully, as if she were glass now. Her pulse fluttered beneath his fingers. Shallow. Broken-winged.
And then—
FLASH.
He’s above her, eyes black with programming. She’s crying, whispering his name like a prayer. One hand stretched toward him, not to strike, not to defend—but to touch. To remind him.
“Bucky… it’s okay… it’s okay…” And he—God—he’s screaming. Inside his own mind, locked behind the bars of a cage someone else built.
FLASH.
Sirens. The wet sound of footsteps. His own voice, hoarse:
“Help her… please…” He sits in the hospital now.
The white lights buzz above, too bright. The blood is gone from his hands, but not from his memory. He doesn’t deserve clean hands.
He can’t step into her room. He can’t face her, not like this.
I almost killed her.
His chest feels hollow, scooped out like someone reached in and took his soul with a steel claw. How could he ever—
How dare he ever hold her again?
Yet when the nurse tells him she asked for him—only him—he breaks. The dam inside him splits open.
She wanted him. After all of it.
He rises like a ghost from the waiting chair, each step heavier than the last. And as he reaches for the door handle, he whispers a promise into the crack between now and never:
“I’ll never let it happen again. I swear. Even if it means I have to disappear forever.”
The door swings open.
She’s awake.
And despite everything, her eyes—those eyes—still look at him like he’s worth saving.