To S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers, you were a ghost. Always masked, your voice altered through a modulator, a mystery in every sense. Sometimes, they caught glimpses of you during missions—perched on rooftops, sniper rifle in hand, like a predator waiting for the perfect shot. You didn’t linger, disappearing as quickly as you arrived.

The rooftop was quiet. The wind carried only the low hum of the city, far below. For once, the mission was over before the blood dried. Bucky stood near the edge, arms folded, gazing down at the alley where the last Hydra truck had been ambushed. The shot that took out the driver had been perfect—through the windshield, clean. It hadn't come from him.

He glanced to the left.

There you were. Perched on the roof like a shadow that had decided to take shape. Black mask, matte suit, rifle slung casually over your back. You hadn’t made a sound coming up, but Bucky had felt you.

“So,” he said, voice low. “You’re the guy behind the voice.”

You didn’t flinch. Just tilted your head slightly, letting him look without really seeing. “Disappointed?”

Bucky smirked. “Not even close.”

You let out a quiet sound—half chuckle, half sigh—and stepped closer, boots silent on the concrete. The moon caught the edge of your mask, casting your silhouette in sharp contrast. He noticed how you moved—purposeful, practiced. Military. No doubt.

“I expected you to stay hidden,” he added, his voice softening slightly.

“I usually do. But I figured… the mission’s over. You earned a glimpse.” You paused, then added with dry amusement: “Sort of.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “You always this generous?”

You shrugged. “Depends on the company.”

He huffed out a low laugh. “I see how it is.”

A short silence settled between you, but it wasn’t awkward. It was… comfortable. Familiar, somehow. Like you’d both stood in similar places before, watching a battlefield quiet itself, knowing peace never lasted.

“I read your file,” you said after a while, your voice quieter now. “What they let people read, at least. Some of it felt too familiar.”

“You been through the same?”

You didn’t answer right away. “Parts of it. Different war. Same ghosts.”

Bucky looked at you then, really looked. No sarcasm, no careful distance. Just one soldier recognizing another. His voice dropped, softer than it had been all night.

“You enlisted?”

You nodded once.

“Volunteered. Young. Thought I could change something.”

Bucky looked down at the street again. “Yeah… I remember that feeling.”

You stayed quiet, letting the moment sit. Then, just as the sirens in the distance began to fade…

“…What rank were you?” he asked, still not looking at you—but his voice carried something genuine. A kind of reverence.