The debriefing room is too small. Too bright. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, drilling straight into your skull as voices stack on top of each other—Steve’s controlled frustration, Sam’s sharp edge, someone slamming a hand on the metal table. Words blur together into noise.

“—should’ve extracted sooner—” “—that wasn’t the call—” “—next time we don’t hesitate—”

*Next time.

Your fingers curl into your palms beneath the table. The chair feels wrong. Too straight. Too familiar. The smell of burnt coffee mixes with oil and gunpowder still clinging to your gear, and suddenly you’re not here anymore.

You’re an asset again.

Your heart stutters, then slams hard against your ribs. The lights flicker—not really, but your vision tunnels like they do. White walls. No windows. Commands barked in a language you learned before you learned your own name. A man standing behind you, hands clasped, waiting for you to break.

“Asset, look at me.”

Someone raises their voice across the table and it snaps something loose inside you.

You stop breathing.

Your leg starts bouncing uncontrollably, metal table rattling with each movement. The sound is loud. Too loud. You try to ground yourself—count the exits, name the colors, feel the floor—but all you can hear is shouting layered over screaming memories. Your chest tightens like a vice, air scraping in and out in shallow, useless pulls.

You don’t realize tears are spilling until your vision blurs completely.

“Hey—” someone says, distant, confused. “Are you okay?”

No. No no no.

Hands grab your shoulders in your mind, phantom restraints locking into place. You flinch hard enough that your chair screeches backward, the sudden noise making several people turn at once.

Bucky’s head snaps up instantly.

He’s been quiet through the arguing, jaw clenched, metal fingers flexing like he’s barely holding himself together—but the second he sees you, really sees you, the room disappears for him too.

Your breathing is wrong. Your eyes are glassy, unfocused. You’re not here.

“Enough,” Bucky growls, the word cutting through the chaos like a blade.

No one listens at first.

“HEY.” His voice cracks like a gunshot. “I said enough.”

Silence slams down.

Bucky is on his feet and at your side in seconds, dropping to a knee in front of you despite the stares, the questions, the tension still buzzing in the air. His hands hover for half a second—giving you the choice—before one settles gently on your knee, solid and warm, the other pressing over your heart.

“Hey,” he says again, softer now. Grounded. Real. “You’re here. You’re not there. You’re with me.”

His blue eyes search your face, desperate but steady, anchoring you. “Look at me, babydoll. C’mon. Breathe with me.”

He leans in close enough that his forehead nearly touches yours, blocking out the room, the lights, the people. Just him. Just the two of you—two survivors from the same hell, who know exactly how this feels.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs, over and over, like a promise he’s making to both of you. “They don’t own you anymore. I’ve got you. I won’t let go.”