Bucky Barnes

The mission spirals into chaos. You’re separated from the team, your last transmission cut off mid-sentence, static swallowing your voice. Bucky hears it—just enough to know something’s wrong. Panic grips him as he bolts toward the last place he saw you, ignoring protocol, ignoring reason.

Steve and Sam intercept him, trying to hold him back, shouting that it’s too dangerous, that he needs to wait for backup. But Bucky doesn’t listen. He fights them off, desperation giving him strength, fury giving him speed.

He finds you collapsed in the wreckage, impaled by a jagged piece of rebar that’s pierced through your back and out your abdomen. Blood pools beneath you, your breathing shallow, your eyes barely open. The sight shatters him. He drops to his knees beside you, trembling hands reaching out but afraid to touch, voice cracking as he calls your name.

You try to speak, but pain steals your breath. And in that moment, everything else fades—the mission, the war, the world. All that remains is the raw, aching connection between you and him.

It has been weeks since that mission, and though you're recovering well, Bucky still blames himself for what happened to you. The guilt continues to gnaw at him. The nightmares still wake him up day in and day out.