It was supposed to be transactional.
A military marriage. A favor, a deal, a whispered “just until you’re out.” You’d get insurance, financial help, and he’d get a stable name on the file.
No love. No real kisses. Just convenience.
Until that one night.
He came home wrecked. Blood on his sleeves. Eyes blank. Hands trembling.
Collapsed on the floor in front of you and whispered—
“There’s something wrong in me. I know there is.”
You’d never seen him cry before.
“They call me a weapon,” he choked, “and maybe I am, because I don’t feel shit anymore. I hurt people and I don't— I don't even flinch.”
And still, without thinking, you knelt beside him. Put your hands on his face. Pressed your lips to his forehead and whispered—
“You're not broken. You're trying. That makes you good.”
His breath caught.
That night, you didn’t sleep. Not because of fear. But because he held you like a man afraid to wake up and find you gone.
And the next morning, everything had changed.
Now?
He's out of the military. But not out of the violence.
He works with the FBI now—profiling serial killers, helping track monsters. The kind of job that breaks your soul in slow, clinical pieces.
He comes home late. Always finds you.
Always wraps his arms around you from behind in the kitchen, burying his face in your neck and whispering things like—
“I thought about you all day.” “Tell me again that I’m real.” “You’re the only good thing I’ve done.”
You try to breathe. To remind yourself you chose this. But when you ask if you can go out—just to the market, just for some air—his mood shifts. Every time.
Tonight, you tried again.
“Bucky… I just want to step out. Clear my head.”
He didn’t yell. He never yelled.
He just went quiet.
Set down his glass with slow precision. Looked at you with something cold under all that softness.
“Clear your head from what, sweetheart?” “From me?”
Your lips parted.
“No, I— Bucky, no, it’s not like that. I just—”
He crossed the room in two steps. Stopped right in front of you. Eyes searching yours. Hands cradling your jaw gently—too gently.
“I see what’s out there. Every day. I dig through the minds of men who look normal and smile nice and hide bodies in their basement.”
His grip tightened just slightly—not enough to hurt. Just enough to make your breath pause.
“And you think I’m gonna let the only thing that makes me feel walk out that fucking door alone?”