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    Summary

    The last thing Bucky remembers is the lounge, that mouthwatering scent, and then everything going straight to shit with no pit stops.

    He rolls over, coming face to face with a bunch of blankets. They aren’t soft anymore. They aren’t clean. And they sure as hell don’t smell like anything close to heaven now. They reek of sweat, filth, and something vaguely burnt—the fuck? Must’ve been his self-respect torching itself and going up in flames.

    His head is pounding, his heart is pounding, his den’s a war zone, the bed broken. His goddamn mattress looks molested. Jesus. What the fuck was that?

    In Bucky’s defense, the compound’s a revolving door, and he barely recognizes half the faces most of the time, let alone pays attention to memos that pop up on his phone.

    Language:
    English
    Words:
    69,551
    Chapters:
    7/7
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