Chapter Text
He could see them all—every face, every shattered expression locked in that final moment before the end. They were seared into his mind like brands, their eyes wide with fear, mouths forming trembling words that always came too late. Please. Don’t. Mercy. The sound of it crawled through his skull, a constant chorus of the damned.
And each time he pulled the trigger, it was like the world held its breath. The weapon in his hand felt like an extension of himself—cold, unfeeling, precise. The recoil didn’t surprise him anymore; it was a familiar rhythm, a muscle memory burned deep. Spent casings danced across blood-slick floors, clinking like coins on stone. Reload. Fire. Repeat. Over and over. It never stopped.
Then the hands came, grabbing his shoulders, wrenching him back. Hands colder than the grave. Hands that weren’t supposed to be there. Dead hands. Ghost hands.
He thrashed.
“Get off of me!” His voice ripped through the dark like a gunshot—raw, broken, and full of terror. He jolted upright, gasping like he’d just burst through the surface of icy water, lungs gulping air that didn’t feel real. His eyes were wide, feral, pupils blown, and his metal arm snapped out in a wild arc, fast and unthinking—just muscle memory and fear.
“Whoa! Buck—hey, easy!” Sam flinched back, heart lurching as he narrowly ducked the swing. He threw up both hands, voice cracking with surprise but edged with concern. “It’s me! It’s just me, alright? You're okay. You're safe, Bucky, I swear.”
Sam's tone softened immediately, trembling at the edges as he kept his distance, like trying not to spook a wounded animal. He didn’t dare move too fast, didn’t even breathe too loud. The gleam of the vibranium arm lingered in the low light, still half-raised, twitching with leftover adrenaline.
Bucky didn’t respond. Not really. He was gone, eyes darting around the room like he didn’t know where he was, like he was still there. Still him. The Winter Soldier. A ghost in his own skin.
He dragged his hands down his face, a soothing gesture as he tried to break the spiral. Sweat dripped from his jaw, soaked the collar of his shirt. “Where are they? I heard them. They were right there- they were screaming... God, I heard them-”
“Bucky,” Sam said, stepping forward just an inch, voice low and steady.
“Don’t—” Bucky flinched away from him, shoulders pressed to the wall like it might keep him upright. “Don’t come closer. I’ll—I’ll hurt you. I don’t want to, please, I don’t want to—” His voice cracked, high and hoarse. His hands clawed at his hair, pulling hard, like he could rip the memory out of his skull if he tried hard enough.
“You’re not gonna hurt me,” Sam whispered. “You’re not there anymore. Just look at me, Buck. Look at me.”
But Bucky couldn’t—not yet. His elbows rested on his knees as he curled inward, hands over his ears, rocking like he could outrun the echoes chasing him. He was muttering something now, broken fragments—names, maybe. Orders. Apologies.
Sam stayed nearby. Low and quiet. A steady shape in the chaos.
“I’ve got you, Buck,” he said again, gentler this time. “You’re not alone. Not tonight.”
Sam stood frozen for a moment, heart pounding in his throat. He hated this. Hated how helpless it made him feel. But more than anything, he hated seeing Bucky like this—fractured, haunted, caught in the middle of a never-ending war.
He eased himself down to the edge of the bed, careful not to crowd him, but close enough to be there.
They had done this before. Too many times. Steve had always said they’d be good for each other. Maybe not whole, but better when they weren’t alone.
“Buck,” Sam murmured, voice low and careful. “Let’s go for a walk, yeah? Just us. Get some air in your lungs. It might help.”
He waited, watching the tremble in Bucky’s fingers, the way his head dipped lower like he wanted to disappear.
“You don’t have to talk,” Sam added, quieter this time. “I’ll just be there.” Sam knew Bucky wasn't much of a talker, more of a "starer," as he called it.
Bucky took a few deep, shaky breaths before slowly nodding and looking up at him through his bangs. His stomach dipped in guilt, knowing he had just woken the other up once again.
Bucky looked up, eyes rimmed red and glassy. Not from tears, those never came easily, but from the weight of everything behind them. He looked like something feral had been caged too long and forgotten, like a dog that flinched every time a hand moved too fast. Sam’s stomach twisted at the sight.
“It’s early,” Sam said, voice soft, hesitant. He tried to force a little lightness into it, like it might help lift the crushing air between them. “And I know you like the smell of the dew. Come with me, yeah? I’ll buy you breakfast if you say yes.”
There was a beat. Then a ghost of a breath, maybe a snort, barely there. A crack in the stone.
“…Yeah,” Bucky rasped, barely audible. “Okay. But I pick the place.”
Sam managed a crooked smile, even though his chest felt like it was caving in. “We’ll see,” he murmured, reaching down to pull Bucky up by the hand—his grip gentle, like Bucky might break under anything more.
They left the apartment without another word. The sky was still bleeding pale shades of purple and blue. Sam wore loose sweats and a shirt, but Bucky was in a long-sleeve, something to cover his arm, and pants that sagged just slightly, stretched thin by time. He walked like someone waiting to be judged, shoulders curled inward, gaze glued to the sidewalk like it held all the answers he couldn’t find in himself.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Bucky muttered after a while. His voice cracked down the middle, rough and full of regret. He didn’t look up. He couldn’t.
Sam shrugged gently, trying to make it feel like no big deal. “Don’t worry about it. Happens both ways. You’ve pulled me outta my own mess more than once. Even Steve used to—”
“No.” Bucky’s voice was sharper now, more force than volume. It silenced Sam mid-sentence.
“It’s not okay, Sam. It’s never been okay.”
His tone was flat, lifeless, like all the warmth had been wrung out of him. Sam could feel the cold rising in the space between them again, and with it, that deep, familiar ache of helplessness.
“I just—” Bucky faltered, chest tightening with the words. “I don’t know how much more I’ve got left in me.”
Sam stopped walking. Turned to him. “Just what?”
When Bucky finally met his eyes, Sam felt the breath catch in his throat. He looked like a man already mourning himself. Something hollow had taken root in his expression—something raw and brutal, and so tired.
“I can’t keep doing this,” Bucky said, barely louder than a whisper. “The nightmares. The screaming. Waking up and expecting to see him there, like a shadow in the corner, waiting to hand me my next mission. Like I’m just… waiting for the switch to flip again.”
He looked away, jaw tight.
“Sometimes I hear him. Still. In my head. Like I’m not even real unless someone’s telling me who to hurt next. And it’s always someone. You. Steve. Strangers. I see your face, and I wonder what it’d look like if I—” He broke off, shaking his head like the thought itself was poison.
“It doesn’t stop, Sam. Even when I’m awake.”
Sam stepped in close, laying a hand gently on his shoulder, grounding him. “I know,” he said softly. “Maybe not everything. But I know what it’s like to carry something you can’t put down. Are you still going to therapy...?”
“Therapy,” Bucky said, eyes flicking to Sam’s and then away again like they burned. “I stopped. I couldn’t keep doing it. She looks at me like I’m a broken machine someone tried to glue back together with spit and prayer. Like she’s waiting for me to snap.”
His breath hitched.
“She makes me feel crazy, Sam. But I’m not.” The last word came out strangled, more plea than a statement. “I know what crazy is. I’ve seen it. Lived it. This… this is worse. This is knowing exactly what you did. Remembering every detail. And still not knowing how to live with it.”
Sam was quiet for a long beat, his hand still on Bucky’s shoulder. He wanted to fix it. Say the right thing. But there wasn’t one.
“Why do I still feel like I’m not me?” Bucky’s voice broke, ragged and small. “Why do I still wake up feeling like I’m going to find blood on my hands again? Why do I still feel like one morning I'll open my eyes and you’ll be dead in my hands?”
He was trembling now, every word drawn from the pit of something black and bottomless inside him. His breath hitched as he swallowed hard, like he could choke it all down if he just tried hard enough. But it was too late. The words were out. And they hung there, awful and heavy, like smoke curling off a battlefield.
Sam didn’t have an answer. What answer could exist for something like that?
So instead, he did the only thing that felt remotely right—he squeezed Bucky’s shoulder. Firm. Steady. Present.
"You won’t do that, Buck," he said—quiet, but certain.
Bucky opened his mouth to protest, the beginnings of some self-loathing spiral already forming, but Sam didn’t give him the chance.
“No. Don’t. I mean it,” Sam said, voice stronger now. “Because I know you. I know you. You are not the man Hydra made you be. You never were, even when they had you by the throat. You’re strong, Buck. You always have been. Steve saw it back when the rest of the world didn’t. I see it now. Sarah sees it, and she’s a hell of a judge of character.”
He took a breath and stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“You don’t have to prove anything to me. You don’t have to be fixed or healed or whole. You just have to be. One step at a time. That’s all it is. One breath. One panic attack. One nightmare. We take them as they come. Together.”
Bucky’s lips pressed into a tight line, and his eyes dropped again, glassy and far-off. Sam followed his gaze and gently nudged his shoulder.
“I didn’t go through what you did, Buck. I won’t pretend to understand the exact weight of it.. but I do know what it’s like to be haunted. To see faces when you close your eyes. Faces you hurt, or ones you couldn’t save. The ones that whisper ‘you should’ve done more’ when you’re already trying everything.”
He let that settle, let the truth of it linger. Then he continued, quieter now. Raw.
“It takes everything some days not to spiral. Not to fall down that hole of ‘why couldn’t I be better?’ I see you fall into it too. I see the way you look at your hands like they’ll never come clean. But that’s why I’m here. That’s what friends do.”
Sam gave a soft, mirthless laugh and shook his head, eyes glinting with something between grief and stubbornness.
“And I swear to God, Bucky, if I have to physically drag you out of that dark hole by your metal arm, I will. You can scream, you can fight me, but I’m not letting you go back there. You don’t get to disappear. Not on my watch.”
Bucky didn’t speak. Not at first. He just stood there, motionless, breathing shallow. But his jaw loosened a little. His shoulders dropped, barely, but enough for Sam to notice.
“…Why do you even care?” he finally whispered. “Why do you keep showing up for me?”
Sam blinked, and his face softened—not pitying, but resolute.
“Because you showed up for me. Because someone has to remind you that you’re still human. That you matter. And maybe because I’ve seen the way you look at everyone like you’re expecting them to run. Like you’re convinced you’re some ticking bomb. But I’m not running, Buck.”
He took another step forward.
“And I never will.”
For the first time, Bucky looked him in the eye and didn’t flinch. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. But his eyes welled—not enough to spill, but enough to sting. Sam knew his words had cut through the barriers, the stubbornness in his friend's mind.
And Sam just nodded toward the horizon, where the first pale rays of dawn were cutting through the mist.
“Come on,” he said again, voice softer this time. “Let’s keep walking.”
So they did. Two fractured men, side by side, carrying more than they deserved, but carrying it anyway. One breath at a time. One step at a time.