Chapter Text
You had learned many years ago to fear the shadows, the darkness in the corners and behind doors. To avoid being alone, being seen, being conspicuous and notable and anything other than silent and invisible. Being invisible meant being alive. And being alive was–
Hard.
But you weren’t yet ready to die. That particular shadow had been creeping closer. You had felt it, seen it and heard it in those corners, behind those doors. But it hadn’t reached you yet.
It would. You knew it would. And when it did, you knew you’d embrace it. Welcome it, even, because being alive was hard, and you were so very tired. That shadow grew more tempting each day that passed as invisible, each night that passed as a toy. You knew it was close when you stole the blade from a razor one night, when you hid it beneath the corner of your mattress.
Death’s shadow smiled at you, almost warm and welcoming, but didn’t approach. Almost. But not yet.
And then one night, you woke to screams and gunshots, stumbled out of your cupboard of a room into a hall of blood and bodies. It coated your feet, cold and thick and wonderful because it came from your tormentors. The ones who made being alive hard.
That was the first time you saw him, the man of silver and shadow, with his black leather and blacker gun, and eyes that glittered gently when he looked at you. Kind eyes, old and tired and sad, and when he approached slowly, you forced yourself not to flinch. You did, anyways, and he stopped. Stopped. He stopped, and it was an odd moment of realization that his kind eyes were telling the truth.
“Are you hurt?” Low and smooth, and when you didn’t answer immediately, he switched to Russian, repeating the question. Considerate, then, to realize you probably didn’t know English.
It was still a long moment before you responded, trying to figure the best way, the safest way. They, the ones who lay dead at your feet, hadn’t known you spoke English and German and French and Spanish. Hadn’t known that they could speak many languages around you and you would still know their secrets. One of the other girls had made that mistake, giving up her ruse of knowing only Russian. They’d killed her, made sure everyone in the building could hear her screaming whilst they did.
But him, this man, wasn’t them.
It was still a hard decision, and you suddenly realized you’d forgotten to breathe. “No.” Not in the way he meant.
Those eyes seemed to smile softly when you answered in English. You wondered if he knew the level of trust you’d just given him. He didn’t make another move towards you as he spoke, “I’m here with a group of people to kill these men.” You liked the words he used, the calm way he said them. “We’ve found and are helping the other girls. Would you like to come with us?”
A choice. He was giving you a choice, and still not moving closer, and had killed the men that littered the hall. He spoke English, knowing you could and didn’t hurt you for it.
“Yes.” You stepped cautiously closer, and again, and again, until you were near enough to smell the sweat that was beginning to sour. And still, he made no move to touch you, this blood-covered man of shadow and silver.
As you followed him out of the blood, you remembered the razor blade beneath your mattress, and realized that his shadow seemed to have pushed back the one of death. Almost had just retreated a little bit, and you finally decided that was okay.
His name was Bucky. He had a friend named Steve and another named Natasha and a third named Sam. He stopped Steve when the blonde man tried to approach you, whispered something too low for you to hear, and Steve had looked at you again, eyes kind and old and tired and sad, just like Bucky, and you wondered if they were brothers. If they had borne the same demons and fought the same shadows.
Natasha had stared, and you looked down. The women of the men, they had been the worst. They were a particular kind of cruel, and the blankness of her face reminded you of that, reminded you that to be invisible was to be alive, and right now you were very, very visible.
She approached, ignoring Bucky, and you braced, flinched when she stopped even though she only tilted her head. Her eyes were sharp and bright and brilliant, and they narrowed in on the bruise on your cheek, around your neck, across your wrists. The discoloured skin along your ribs and thighs and ankles.
“You’ll heal.” Russian, and it was somewhat soothing in her low, even voice. You just nodded silently, and she added, more softly, “All of it.” You knew that. The bruises always healed. The blood always clotted, the cuts always scabbed. You nodded again, and she asked, “How many languages do you speak?”
Your fear spiked, breath catching between your lungs and the rest of the world, and Bucky looked over at you suddenly, as if sensing your fear. The movement reminded you that he was a form of safety, and that this woman was his friend, and maybe you didn’t need to be so scared.
“Five.”
She didn’t make a move to hit you, did nothing other than straighten her head. You flinched, anyways. She pretended not to notice. “Did they know?”
“No.” You listened, focused, waited for the trap that was sure to come.
“Did they speak of business around you?”
Maybe this was it, the thing that would catch you. Still, you forced yourself to answer. “Yes.”
Her eyes glinted similarly to her hair. “Would you be willing to come with us?” That’s what you were already doing, wasn’t it? Maybe she could smell your confusion, because she said, “Back to our base. In the United States.”
Away. From here. From the building you’d known as your only life, from the country you’d known only as a child. From where there was nothing except shadows and pain and blood. Your eyes darted briefly to Bucky, to where he was crouched beside another girl, gently tending an infected cut along her temple she’d gotten when she’d tried to protect a younger girl.
Natasha saw, saw and recognized that glance for what it was, and murmured, “He’ll be there. You can talk to him. The information you know might save many people.” Might save other girls like you. Might bring the shadow of death to other men like those dead in the building.
It was a gift she was offering, you realized. More than one. The gift of safety in being near your savior. The gift of goodness in being able to help save others.
“Yes.” You finally met her gaze, finally forced the fear down enough to look at her face. “I’ll come. I’ll tell.” This close, you saw the blankness she wore wasn’t the same as those cruel women. Rather, it was similar to the one you saw on yourself in the mirror.
It cracked for just a moment as a corner of her lips twitched upwards. “Thank you.”
You watched her leave, watched her talk to Steve, to Bucky and Sam. Steve looked at you, and this time his eyes crinkled in the corners, driving away some of that sadness they held. Bucky stood from the girl he’d been tending, moving to you slowly. Giving you the chance to back away.
You tried not to flinch, and succeeded. He held out a blanket, soft and clean, and you noticed for the first time how naked you and the other girls were in only your underwear. You took the blanket, managing a quiet, “Thank you,” as you wrapped it around yourself.
“You can shower on the jet,” he told you softly. You nodded, and he still stayed near you, lips parted as if he wanted to say something else. Finally, he simply murmured, “You’ll be safe now.”
There was a whisper of a promise in those words, one of intimate familiarity and quiet survival and so many shadows. Maybe death was him, this man, the darkness he wore, the shadows he was. Maybe not all shadows were made of pain.
No, you corrected. That intimate familiarity – he knew pain, had been forged in it. But maybe not all shadows caused you pain.
That thought made you just brave enough to offer him as much of a smile as you could remember how to form. He smiled back, all silver and starshine, and you accepted his promise of safety.
It had been months. Long months, hard months. Healing wasn’t easy. Trusting less so. But Bucky’s promise held true. You were safe, and the things you’d heard helped save other girls, too. It felt good. Felt like more than helplessness and just being alive.
Sometimes, you still jumped at the shadows, still flinched at closed doors, remembering the pain that had once lay behind them. But the shadow of death had since left, and you no longer flinched when Steve approached you or when Natasha spoke to you.
Sam was jubilant, playful like a child, and he’d been the first to make you laugh. You did that now, laughing. Smiling. You’d had to relearn how to do both. Bucky had helped, admitting one night he’d once had to relearn the same thing.
Bucky. You liked him. Trusted him. Relaxed the most when he was around, because even though he was made of shadows and pain, he also had silver and starshine, and his shadows were safe to you. He was safe.
Life became a pattern that you decided you liked.
Natasha would train you in the spacious gym, going until you couldn’t get back up. One morning, when you were wheezing and gasping, she’d crouched beside you, gulping water and telling you of the pain she’d learned to accept and enjoy in the Red Room, the Russian words the softest you’d ever heard from her. You’d smiled, because you knew how to do that now, and reminded her that she was using her pain to save people now. Maybe it wasn’t what she’d needed to hear, but she returned your smile, anyways.
Tony Stark – you’d met him one afternoon, the vivacious man nearly sending you cowering in your room until you’d noticed Bucky simply rolling his eyes – let you work in his lab. You were good at computers, you’d discovered. Good at the zeroes and the ones, at the coding and the viruses and the secrets it could all unlock. Tony was gentle in his very distinctive way. Always loud, always exaggerated, but never harsh, never using his loudness in anger or frustration around you. You’d decided it was another gift, and had one day managed to give him a soft ‘thank you.’ He’d pressed two fingers to your wrist, as much touch from him as you could handle, and just winked.
Steve liked the sunrise and the coffee, and the early morning was with him and the warmth of dawn and the smell of bitter caffeine. At first you’d simply sat near each other, enjoying the hot drink and the morning. And then one day you’d been brave enough to ask about his shield, and he’d been quietly delighted to answer. So you asked about more, about him and his story and about Bucky; about the war in which he’d died and the one which he’d woken to seventy years later. About the silent battle one often had to fight with their own mind, and he’d offered his hand, palm up, saying, “There are good days and bad days, and that’s okay, as long as you keep living.” You’d pressed your fingertips to his, enjoying the warmth of them, and giving him a smile.
There were others around. Clint Barton was kind and gentle and fierce, and when he’d learned you knew some sign language, had offered to teach you the American Standard when he was present. You’d agreed, and sometimes your evenings were with him, silent and peaceful and lovely. Wanda Maximoff was observant and friendly, and living with a pain so deep and dark it haunted her eyes. She was the one to wake you from your nightmares, the one to cradle you and wipe away your tears. Vision was ever-calm and innocent in a way that reminded you of a child; he made you smile, and was nice company when you wanted a presence but not a voice.
And Bucky. He was everything he’d promised on that first day, and so much more. The first few nights he hadn’t left your side, had chased off the shadows when they became too much. He’d shown you the world outside of everything you’d ever known, had commiserated good-naturedly when you’d been overwhelmed. He’d cooked for you, and one day you had for him, and the smile he’d given you made him look so much younger, washed out the darkness in his eyes, and you’d known it was a smile to be treasured.
It became a talisman against your nightmares.
He had them, too. You heard them. Everyone heard them. But you and Steve were the only to ever leave the comfort of your beds and seek to soothe him. You hadn’t, at first, but as the fear lessened and trust increased, you’d decided you wanted to help him as he had you. So, you’d crept to his room, knocked on the door but hadn’t opened it, knowing just how vulnerable one was in the throes of a nightmare. He’d answered, voice hoarse and ragged and so utterly broken, and you’d told him you had a glass of water for him, that you’d leave it outside his door.
After a few weeks, he’d open the door to you to accept the water. Unless he was on a mission, Steve stood beside you, and Bucky would take the water and let him in. You knew that he curled into Steve the way you did into Wanda, that Steve was his anchor to reality and truth after the terrors the way Wanda was yours.
But tonight, tonight Steve was gone, and so was everyone else, and Bucky was screaming and screaming, worse than you’d ever heard, and when he finally woke and opened the door, you couldn’t hide the tear tracks gleaming silver down your cheeks. He paused, staring, and you ducked your head. And then the door opened a little wider, a silent invitation, and you accepted, stepping carefully into his room, not sure what to expect and for once not scared of the shadows gathered in the corners.
“Watch TV with me?” It was whispered, and you were settling into his sofa before he’d even chosen a program. He chose one and glanced at you, sipping the water and asking, just as quietly, “Can I touch you?”
Because he needed an anchor. He needed proof he was alive and safe and real. You moved without hesitation until you were pressed against his side, until his arm wrapped around you, pulling you closer. You kept your gaze locked on the TV as he buried his face against your shoulder and cried, but you cupped his fingers in your palm, squeezing gently.
Neither of you slept the rest of the night, but that was okay.
It was a change to your pattern, and you found you didn’t mind. You’d wake to his screams, and show up with a glass of water, and he’d let you in and lead you to the sofa. Sunrise was your thing with Steve, but those darkest hours of the morning were what you had with Bucky.
By the time the team returned nearly a week later, there was a budding, barely there something between you and the man of shadows. Wanda saw immediately, head tilting curiously before she smiled. You knew she wouldn’t be coming to your room anymore. Natasha saw it, too, but said nothing. It wasn’t approval quite, nor was it disapproval. It was patience. She’d wait before talking to you about it.
The men were entirely clueless, or so you thought, until Sam caught you in the kitchen alone. “You and Barnes?” His voice was quiet and gentle, not accusing or condemning, though perhaps a little wary.
You met his gaze hesitantly. “I think so.”
“Does he think so, too?”
“I hope so.”
Sam smiled, small and familiar. “Talk to him. And just go with what feels right for you.”
So, you did. Early the next morning, his arms around you, his fingers cupped in his palm. “Bucky?”
“Hm?”
The nerves hit you suddenly, and for a moment you couldn’t breathe. You forced yourself to, and forced yourself to keep going. “Could this be something romantic?”
You didn’t notice you’d switched to Russian until he answered similarly. “I think it could. I’d like that, maybe.” His words were soft and hesitant. “Do you want it to be?”
“I think so.” You felt him smile against your shoulder, felt him relax behind you, and when his lips pressed a whisper-kiss to your clothed shoulder, you smiled.
It took three days for Steve to realize something had changed. With you, with Bucky, between or around you, he wasn’t sure. You weren’t quite, either, despite having spoken to Bucky about it, but you were okay with that.
It was during your sunrise time with Steve that he asked. You’d missed him when he was gone; you always missed him when he was gone. Having the coffee and the sun and him—it was nice.
His voice pulled you from your thoughts. His tone, soft and hesitant and somewhat embarrassed, put you slightly on edge. “Hm?”
His fingers were tapping a nervous pattern on his leg, eyes staring at your shoulder and not your face. He didn’t respond right away, but you knew how to be patient and silent. Finally he blurted, “Has something happened with you and Bucky?” and blushed immediately afterwards. “It’s just,” he stumbled to explain, “I haven’t heard him screaming since we got back, and you come from the direction of his room in the mornings.”
“Yes,” was your simple answer. His mouth closed, as if realizing he’d been spewing words, and your amused smile was gentle and genuine. Steve was kind and soft and Bucky’s brother-by-choice; you’d answer the questions you knew he was too shy to ask. “I’ve learned his pattern. I go in before he starts screaming and wake him up. We watch TV until morning.” You hesitated, and then added quietly, “I think Bucky would still like if you came.”
Steve’s eyes brightened at that, and it was a small hurt in your heart that he’d thought you were replacing him. You made the decision then that you’d never let Steve forget how important he was to Bucky, how much the assassin needed America’s favorite soldier in his life and heart and mind.
A curious look furrowed Steve’s brows slightly. “Does he touch you?”
Old wariness sprang up, and you had to consciously remember that you weren’t there anymore, in that building with those men, and that the people here would never play those word and mind games with you. “Yes.”
Something that might have been pride flickered across the blonde man’s face. “Good.”
You heard what he wasn’t saying. Good, because it meant Bucky trusted someone else to be his anchor, and that was a sign of his healing. Good, because it meant you didn’t flinch from him, didn’t tense or have to steady yourself as you did with everyone else, and it was a sign of your healing, too.
You just gave Steve another smile, hoping he could see the pride you held for yourself, as well. Hoping he could see your gratitude for his easy acceptance of the change. You weren’t sure he could, but he pressed his fingertips to yours, and you slid your hand down his until you were touching palm-to-palm. Carefully, giving you the chance to pull away, he closed his hand gently around yours, squeezing slightly. It was the most he’d ever touched you, the most you’d ever been able to allow, and his eyes were silver-lined with pride and elation and something that might have been careful love. You were okay with that, too.
“The arm doesn’t bother you?”
He sounded so wary, so defeated and expectant of the negative. You twisted to look at him, the light from the TV washing everything in an odd glow. He wouldn’t meet your gaze, an act of self preservation you recognized from yourself.
“No.” And you brushed your fingers along the metal as demonstration.
A furrow of utter confusion appeared between his brows. “Why?”
The answer was a surprisingly easy one. “Because I’ve only ever known you with it, and only ever known you as good.” Despite being a man made of shadows, he was good, truly and deeply, in that damaged way that so many people were.
Still not quite looking at you, he hesitantly maneuvered his left hand so it was palm-up, and you placed your hand in it without needing to think. You felt his breath catch, felt his heart stutter, and turned to place a soft kiss on his clothed shoulder. “The world isn’t a kind place. It is cruel and unforgiving and breaks everyone in many, many ways.” He finally met your gaze, eyes so old and tired and sad, and you whispered, “And that’s okay. It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re bad because you’re broken.”
He didn’t answer and you returned your attention to the TV. He didn’t let go of your hand, either, though, and never again hesitated to hold it in the metal one he hated such.
Things changed. A good change, a slow one. You still trained with Natasha, still helped Tony, still learned from Clint. Wanda would come to you sometimes, either for a presence or for words, and you didn’t mind offering either. Mornings were still with Steve, and nights were still with Bucky.
The change was other. You stopped going to your own room, instead sleeping on the sofa in Bucky’s. You were able to allow more touch, and he began pressing kisses to your cheeks and forehead and wrists. The thought of him made your heart warm, his smile drawing out yours, his laugh echoing in your head for days.
It was months after that mission when you found yourself curled under a pile of blankets in Bucky’s bed. It was a bad night; you both had them, though his were often worse than yours. He’d moved you to the bed, telling you to sleep, not allowing your touch as he sat stoic and shattered on the sofa. He refused to look at you, to speak to you, and after many futile attempts, you texted Steve.
The blonde was at the door in less than a minute, giving a single knock as warning before entering. Bucky didn’t stir, not when Steve spoke, or sat down beside him, or placed a hand on his shoulder. You tuned them out, recognizing the intimacy of the interaction, rolling so your back was to them.
You didn’t hear or see their approach, and started when the mattress dipped, lurching up and grabbing the blankets as a protective barrier. Steve had Bucky cradled to his chest and was lowering him to the bed. He gave you an apologetic look, and you forced yourself to breathe again. You were safe. The shadows here wouldn’t hurt you.
The blonde made sure Bucky was tucked under as many blankets as you before he climbed onto the bed beside his best friend. You made to stand, seeing and understanding the vulnerability and privacy of the entire situation.
“No.” It was Bucky’s voice, hoarse and broken, and you looked at him, startled. His eyes were glazed, but you knew he was seeing you. “Stay.”
Something close to panic flared. You’d only shared beds with people who wanted to hurt you, use you, break you. It was a long moment of measured breathing to calm down. Bucky wouldn’t do that, and neither would Steve, and he was pleading, words unspoken and so terribly loud, and maybe it was because of that warm feeling he gave you, but you slowly returned to the bed, close enough to feel his heat.
Steve pressed close from the other side, large and safe and protective, a shield against the world and the demons in Bucky’s head. When his fingers brushed your shoulder, you tipped your head to meet his gaze. His eyes glittered with a mixture of relief and caution, and you gave him a small smile you hoped was reassuring.
Oddly enough, it was easy to not be scared when you were helping someone.