Chapter Text
It had been six months.
Six months since they last spoke.
Six months since he’d heard Sam’s voice, steady, warm, grounding in a way Bucky never fully understood until it was gone.
Six months since everything cracked right down the center and left them standing on opposite sides of something neither of them knew how to cross.
Time passed, but not cleanly. It didn’t move forward the way people said it did. For Bucky, it dragged, slow and suffocating, like crawling through mud with a weight tied around his ribs. Days blurred together until he couldn’t tell one from the next. He functioned, he moved, he existed, but none of it felt connected to anything real.
He felt numb in a way that went deeper than emotion-numb in his bones, numb in his breath. Like he’d been holding it for months without realizing it, lungs tight and rigid. A constant pressure sat heavy on his sternum, a quiet ache that never fully went away. Every morning he woke up with that same hollow feeling, like he was running on fumes, on a body that was going through the motions but had nothing left fueling it.
It had all happened too fast for Bucky to truly process how Sam drifted out of his life.
Just a few months ago, he’d been in Delacroix...breathing easier than he had in years. He still remembered the sound of Sarah’s laugh echoing through the house, the kids tugging at his metal arm with sticky hands and unfiltered curiosity. He remembered teasing Sam just to see him roll his eyes, flirting with Sarah just to piss him off, the way Sam would shove him lightly when no one was looking, hiding a smile behind irritation.
He’d slept there, eaten there, fixed things around the house. The whole place smelled like home-cooked meals and ocean air. It felt...domestic. Warm in a way Bucky didn’t know he could feel anymore. A slice of peace carved into the chaos of everything he carried. Maybe it wasn’t perfect, maybe it wasn’t forever, but for the first time in decades, he’d believed—truly believed that he could belong somewhere.
That he could belong with someone.
And now…
Nothing.
Just silence where Sam used to be.
Silence in place of warmth.
Silence where laughter used to echo.
Silence where comfort once settled in his chest.
ever since he was on that news with Valentina after saving the whole New York from void along with some random people he seemed to form a bond with while fighting alongside. everything had changed. Valentina had jumped at the chance to spin it, introducing them as the “new Avengers,” soaking up the attention and dumping the weight of that label on Bucky and the others.
Before he could even understand what had happened, Sam had shown up-angry and demanding an explanation.
What explanation? Bucky had thought. he didn’t even know what and how things turned out this way himself.
But when he saw Sam’s face.....when he saw that look, the words died in his throat
Sam hadn’t tried to hide the hurt. His eyes screamed betrayal, and it pierced through Bucky like a knife. A deep, aching pang settled in his chest. He never wanted to be the reason to make Sam look like that.
But he was.
He had caused that pain.
To Sam... the same Sam who was all smiles and sunshine, even when the world was upside down, The same Sam who helped pull Bucky out of his nightmares, never judging him, never pushing him too far.
The same Sam Bucky loved. deeply, silently, helplessly...Even if he could never admit it. Not even to himself.
He’d only wanted to do something good. He wanted to change. To do the right thing, for once. And look how that turned out. He wasn’t meant to save people. Not when he couldn’t even be someone worth staying for.
They all left eventually.
And maybe that was the only thing that ever-made sense to Bucky. The leaving. The quiet closing of doors, Literally or metaphorical.. People staying—that was what never added up. Why would they? Who in their right mind would want to stay close to the fist of Hydra, the weapon, the ghost that used to answer to “the Winter Soldier”?
They told him he wasn’t that person anymore. They called him free. They said the words with soft smiles, hopeful eyes, as if hope alone could scrub centuries of blood out of his bones. But no one knew him the way he did. No one saw what he saw when the lights were off and the world went quiet.
He still felt it. The weight. The rot. The stains that no amount of amends or apologies could erase. He still saw the blood on his hands—imagined or not, it never washed off. In every cracked-glass reflection, every accidental glimpse in a mirror, he didn’t see a man trying to rebuild. He saw a monster staring back at him. Hollow-eyed. Ugly. Unworthy. A vile creature waiting beneath the surface of his borrowed calm.
Sleep didn’t come without a fight. It dragged him under only to throw him into the nightmares—replays of memories he wished he didn’t own, horrors he’d carried out with perfect precision. He’d jolt awake in the dark, heart slamming against ribs like it wanted out, breath chopping short as he tried to remember where he was, when he was, who he was supposed to be. Those were the moments the mask slipped. When his hands shook and his chest locked up and he had to remind himself, over and over, that the war was over, that the chair wasn’t waiting for him, that he was allowed to breathe.
But it never felt true.
Everyone could see it anyway—the ghost of James Buchanan Barnes, badly stitched together and wearing a face that didn’t fit right anymore. A fucked-up, poorly masked imitation of the man he used to be. A shadow pretending to be whole.
It was late. Moonlight slanted across the bare floorboards of his bedroom in Avengers Tower. Bucky sat with his back against the closed door, knees drawn up, staring out at the city lights. even though he's been here before everything. When Steve was here alive and whole, Bucky dared to believe life could be peaceful. Now, perched alone in this silent room, all he felt was the hollow echo of his own heartbeat.
He sat with his back to the door, eyes fixed on the dark windows. Strips of moonlight slipped through the torn curtains, tracing pale lines across his face. He’d never bothered to draw them open—sleep had long since abandoned him.
he was playing with his lighter. The one he always kept to himself. Scratched into the lighter’s surface were a jumble of letters and numerals—his thumb knew them by heart. He popped it open, then shut it, over and over,
The flame never appeared. He didn’t even try to spark it. The act wasn’t about fire. It was about movement. About distraction. About having something to do with his hands while everything inside him splintered quietly.
His eyes had long since fallen out of focus, a hazy, far-off glaze settling over them. He wasn’t in the room anymore. He was drifting, slipping into half-formed memories and unwanted fragments—voices that weren’t here, faces that weren’t now, mistakes he couldn’t unmake. The present blurred into something weightless and distant.
“You planning to burn this whole place down, Barnes?”
The voice cut through the fog like a blade.
Bucky blinked. Hard. His surroundings snapped back into place piece by piece, the world becoming solid again. He exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead as if grounding himself.
“Yelena,” he muttered. His voice sounded rough, rusty, like he hadn’t spoken in hours.
She had that uncanny assassin grace, the kind that made her footsteps invisible until she chose to be heard. Normally, he could sense her coming, super soldier reflexes catching the shift in the air, the faint scuff of fabric. But this time? Nothing. She might as well have materialized out of the shadows.
Maybe he really did need sleep. Real sleep. His dark circles probably had their own dark circles at this point.
Yelena stepped into the thin strip of moonlight cutting across the room, folding her arms with deliberate calm. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes—sharp, knowing, almost annoyingly perceptive took him in with unsettling precision.
She didn’t comment on the lighter. She didn’t have to,The weight of her stare did it for her.
Bucky broke eye contact first, flicking the lighter open again, letting the familiar click settle into his bones.
“What is it, Yelena?” he asked, tone soft but edged with fatigue. Harmless, but firm in the way a weary soldier could be.
“Have you talked to him yet?” she asked, her gaze never wavering.
Of course.
Of course.
Bucky’s thoughts curled in on themselves with a bitter sigh. He almost rolled his eyes but held back, settling instead for a tense inhale that rattled a little too sharply in his chest.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, dropping the lighter into his palm and finally letting his exhaustion leak into his voice. “I did. It… didn’t go well.”
His words hung in the air, heavy and unguarded—more honest than he usually allowed himself to be.
And for the first time since she arrived, Yelena’s hard expression softened, Just a fraction.
“That’s what you said last time,” Yelena replied, her words cutting cleanly through the quiet. “Months ago. I’m asking if you’ve talked to him after that. At all.”
She wasn’t scolding him—not exactly. There was sympathy under her voice, soft and careful, and Bucky hated it. Hated how it settled under his skin like a splinter he couldn’t dig out.
“No.”
The word came out flat. Final. A quiet confession of failure.
“Bucky-” she started, only to cut herself off with a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “He’s suing us, by the way. So you need to talk to him and do something about that.” Her tone didn’t shift. Steady, neutral. Controlled. But he could hear the buried irritation.
Bucky dragged his flesh hand over his face, the movement harsh, tired, bordering on self-punishing. Then he snapped his gaze toward her—sharp, icy, wounded all at once.
“You think I’d be sitting here,” he bit out, voice low and cold, “if he gave any reaction to the several attempts I made to contact him?”
The anger wasn’t loud, It was tight, strangled, barely leashed.
His jaw locked. His breath hitched.
He hated how exposed he sounded.
How helpless.
But Yelena…didn’t flinch.
She didn’t look guilty or apologetic.
She looked—amused.
Bucky’s brow shot up, his whole expression asking a silent, irritated, What the hell is so funny?
Yelena cleared her throat as if covering a laugh, stepping further into the moonlight until the silver glow sharpened her features.
“Well,” she said lightly, “be grateful.”
He stared, deadpan. “For what? My emotional torture?”
“For this,” she answered, voice dropping low enough that he instinctively leaned forward. “We’ve got an arranged meeting with Sam and his whole team—courtesy of Valentina’s latest collaboration pitch.”
Silence fell between them.
Bucky’s chest tightened.
What?
His eyes shot wide, pupils dilating in the dim glow. A dry laugh caught in his throat, then died. The silence dragged on so long it pressed against his ears. Finally, he croaked, “You’re…serious?”
She folded her arms and smirked, clearly enjoying his shock. “Yeah, old man-dead serious.” With a casual flick of her wrist, she turned on her heel and faded back into the shadows, leaving him alone with the weight of her words.
He stared at the spot where she’d stood, mind spinning. After everything, the years of fighting side by side, the silent support, then the abrupt wall of radio silence...why would Sam agree to this now? Why invite the man he’d exiled from his life back into the ring?
Was this some test? A trap? His stomach churned at the thought of sitting across from Sam again, having to explain himself all over. Bucky’s shoulders slumped. He had tried so many times before to bridge the gap; each attempt had been met with silence or anger. He’d convinced himself it was over, that Sam’s forgiveness was forever out of reach, and in that resignation, he’d let himself unravel.
But now, the meeting was set.
Sam’s contempt for the rest of the team was obvious. he’d made that crystal clear the last time they crossed paths. And his aversion to being near Bucky tingled at the edge of every word, every glance. If Sam couldn’t stand the others, and actively avoided him too, then this arranged meeting had to mean something far more deliberate and that notion made Bucky’s stomach twist into knots.
Bucky pushed himself upright on trembling legs and staggered to the bathroom. He flipped on the light and forced himself to meet his own gaze in the mirror.
pause
Fuck.
He looked like him again.
The realization hit him with a force that nearly knocked the air out of his lungs. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t imagined. It was there—undeniable—in the cold glass staring back at him. Those eyes… God, those eyes. Empty. Hollow. Lifeless in a way that made his stomach twist. They didn’t reflect the room, didn’t catch the light. They stared straight through the mirror, past himself, past the present, fixed on some distant place only he could see—and he hated that he recognized it.
Because he’d seen that gaze before.
Lived in it.
Been trapped behind it.
And the warmth he’d clawed back—slowly, painfully—with Sam? Gone. Not dimmed. Not buried. Gone. The harsh overhead light carved his face into sharp angles, dragging shadows beneath his cheekbones until he looked like a ghost wearing human skin.
For a second, he didn’t see the man trying to rebuild. He saw the fugitive he’d been—skipping countries, changing names, hiding in filthy hostels with blood under his nails and nightmares choking him awake. The man always running, not from enemies, but from himself. From the monster Hydra made. The monster he’d been forced to be.
He remembered all of it, all at once:
The killer.
The hunted.
The weapon people whispered about in fear.
The broken thing some wanted to save, others wanted locked away forever.
And staring at this reflection—this twisted echo of everything he despised—he wondered if he’d ever escaped any of it at all. Or if he’d only been pretending.
Because he looked every inch the Winter Soldier again.
His hair hung long and unruly around his face, heavy with neglect. A rough stubble smudged his jaw, making him look older, harsher. A fresh bruise sprawled across his cheekbone, the kind he hadn’t bothered covering up. Beneath sunken lids, dark hollows carved into his skin—deep, unforgiving trenches shaped by sleepless nights and memories that refused to die.
No.
He didn’t just look like him.
He was him.
How could he ever believe otherwise? How could he ever pretend he’d outrun that identity when it clung to him like a second skin?
Bile burned its way up his throat before he even realized he was gagging. It hit him like a violent wave, raw, acidic, punishing-forcing a rasping gasp from his lungs. His grip slipped on the sink’s edge as his body caved inward, collapsing against the basin with a thud that echoed far too loudly in the cramped room.
His stomach convulsed, heaving in cruel, shuddering spasms. Each dry retch sent shockwaves down his spine, rattling bone against bone. His chest seized, lungs stuttering as they fought desperately for breath that refused to come. Hot tears burned fiercely behind his squeezed-shut lids, but still...none fell. His body ached for the release, for the relief of crying, but the tears stayed trapped, unwilling to grant him even that mercy.
He choked on nothing, on empty air, on memories, on ghosts.
Every retch felt like punishment.
Every breath like a crime.
He wanted to fold in on himself, to curl on the cold tile floor and let the sobs tear him apart until nothing was left but exhaustion. He wanted to scream, claw at the walls, beg for the nightmare to end. But he didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. He forced it all down, down into the hollow pit in his ribs where years of grief had already buried themselves like unmarked graves.
Because he had no right.
He had no fucking right to break—Not over blood he’d spilled with his own hands. The faces he saw behind his eyelids weren’t imagined. They were real. Innocent. Terrified. People whose last breaths had been stolen by him, even when he wasn’t in control of his own body. He had delivered the final blow. That fact didn’t disappear just because he wished it did.
He wasn’t the victim.
He was the executioner.
How could he mourn the dead when he was the reason, they were dead at all? How could he let tears fall when they were a luxury he wasn’t entitled to? He could choke on guilt, drown in it, suffocate beneath the weight of it, but he didn’t deserve the relief of crying.
And forgiveness?
From the people he’d destroyed?
From a god he no longer believed in?
No. There was no absolution waiting for him..
His breaths came in ragged bursts, each inhale sharp enough to sting. He braced one trembling hand against the counter and forced his eyes open. The reflection staring back was warped, blurred by the moisture lining his lashes, but still unmistakably him.
He wasn’t ready.
Not for this meeting.
Not for the chance to face Sam again.
The thought of Sam’s eyes...steady, warm, cutting through his armor like they had every right to be there sent a vicious twist through his gut. Bucky had spent months preparing himself for disgust, for accusation, for the moment Sam would finally see him for what he really was.
But Sam had never looked at him that way.
Sam had always looked at him with something unbearably soft, understanding, hope, even forgiveness he had no business receiving. Sam saw depth where Bucky saw damage. Saw worth where Bucky saw nothing but remnants and ruin.
And that terrified him more than hatred ever could.
Because how could he face that kindness now? How could he stand in front of Sam when every part of him felt splintered and unworthy? He imagined those brown eyes scanning him, catching every flinch, every tremor, reading the guilt etched into his bones. Sam always saw too much. Too clearly. Too gently.
And Bucky didn’t know if he could survive that softness.
Not right now.
Maybe not ever.
He squeezed his eyes shut again, hard enough to hurt, forcing the world into darkness. He tried to focus on anything—anything—but Sam’s face. He imagined the empty room around him, the low hum of the tower’s life support systems vibrating faintly through the metal walls, the distant pulse of city lights flickering miles below. Neutral things. Safe things.
But the truth hovered just beneath the surface:
He wanted reconciliation.
He wanted Sam.
He wanted forgiveness more than he wanted air.
And he wasn’t ready.
Not when all he could see reflected back was a man made of wounds and metal and memories that threatened to consume him whole.
here's a little sketch of the mirror scene ;)