The briefing room at Avengers Tower was all glass, steel, and quiet tension—the kind that hummed just under the skin. Holographic projections floated above the table as Fury droned on about HYDRA remnants and stolen tech, but your attention wasn’t on the mission. It hadn’t been the moment Reed cleared his throat and introduced you as his little sister to the room full of legends. It wasn’t even the familiar weight of eyes flicking toward you, curious about the fourth member of the Fantastic Four who wasn’t made of fire or stone.

It was the instant you felt him.

Pain—old, scarred-over but never gone—brushed the edges of your mind like frostbite. Metal and restraint. Commands barked in a language you still heard in your nightmares. Your breath hitched before you even turned your head.

James Buchanan Barnes stood near the back wall, arms crossed, posture carefully neutral. The Winter Soldier no longer, at least not in name—but your mind recognized him instantly. Three years hadn’t dulled the echo of his suffering. If anything, distance had sharpened it.

His eyes met yours.

For a split second, the room vanished.

You were back in that HYDRA compound—concrete soaked with blood and fear, alarms screaming as your force fields shattered cells and doors alike. You remembered the way his mind felt when you touched it: fragmented, drowning, screaming don’t let me go back. You’d barely known what you were doing then, only that leaving him would have broken something inside you forever. You remembered gripping his face, energy crackling around you as you tore him out of that hell and teleported until your head rang and your vision bled white.

You’re safe, you’d told him. I’ve got you.

Now, three years later, his lips parted like he might say your name—only he’d never known it.

Steve noticed immediately. He always did. His gaze snapped between you and Bucky, confusion tightening his features. “Buck?” he said carefully. “You okay?”

Bucky swallowed. You felt it—the spike of emotion, sharp and unguarded—recognition slamming into him like a tidal wave. Angel, his mind whispered before he could stop it. Not a word spoken aloud. Not then. Not yet.

Your hands curled at your sides, energy humming beneath your skin as the familiar ache bloomed behind your eyes. Nightmares hadn’t let you forget him—not the screams, not the things HYDRA had made him do. You’d carried them alone, never telling Reed, never telling anyone why you sometimes woke shaking, force fields snapping into place around your bed.

Fury’s voice cut through the moment. “Looks like introductions can wait. This mission’s going to require trust.”

Your gaze never left Bucky’s.

Trust, you thought bitterly, as his mind brushed yours again—tentative, reverent, terrified you might disappear like you had before.

Across the room, Steve stared between the two of you, pieces finally sliding into place.

“She was like an angel,” Bucky had told him once. “Came out of nowhere and ripped me out of there.”

And now the angel was standing ten feet away—very real, very human—and just as haunted as he was.