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The scream that tore through the compound’s barracks was raw and unfiltered. Not the kind someone meant to release. The kind ripped out of a person in a nightmare too real to tell from waking.
Bucky was already awake.
He had been for hours, lying in the dark, staring at the faint glow of the emergency lights in the hall, filtering in under his door. Listening to the hum of the vents. Counting the seconds between the dull whirr of the heating system kicking on and the soft click of his own jaw every time he clenched too hard. Most nights, he didn’t bother trying to sleep unless exhaustion forced him under. He was less haunted that way.
So when the scream split the quiet, Bucky was already swinging his legs off the bed. His pulse jumped, not from surprise but from recognition.
The rest of the compound was quiet.
The others didn’t stir—Yelena had her noisemaker, Ava had her earbuds, Bob slept with sitcom reruns in the background, Alexei could probably sleep through a tactical explosion. But Bucky knew that kind of scream. He’d made that kind of scream.
He followed the sound down the short hall, bare feet silent against the cold floor. When he came to John’s room he stopped, hesitant. The door was half-shut, a sliver of light leaking through the gap. Bucky knocked once, the sound muted on the cheap wood. No answer.
He pushed the door open.
John was sitting up in bed, drenched in sweat, both hands twisted tight in the sheets as though was trying to strangle them. His chest heaved, breath coming shallow and uneven, like every inhale scraped his lungs raw. His eyes were blown wide, still trapped in whatever hell he’d just clawed his way out of. He didn’t notice Bucky right away. Didn’t move. Just trembled in silence.
Bucky didn’t ask what he saw. Didn’t need to.
“Hey,” he said softly, voice pitched low, careful. Just enough to anchor him. “You awake?”
John blinked. Once. Twice. Finally focused.
His mouth opened, closed, then worked around a word. “Shit.” His voice was hoarse. He dragged a hand over his face, smearing sweat across his skin. “I’m fine.”
It was automatic. A reflex. A deflection.
Bucky recognized the lie instantly. He’d used it himself for years.
“Sure you are,” he murmured.
That got a short, bitter laugh out of Walker. The sound was rough, cracking at the edges. “What, you here to gloat?”
“What?”
“You hear me scream and figured you’d get a good laugh out of it. Thought you’d…get off on watching the fraud fall apart.”
The words were sharp, meant to wound, but the delivery was frayed. Defensive. Hollow. He still wouldn’t look Bucky in the eye.
Bucky let out a long, steady breath. He didn’t rise to it. Instead, he wanted into the bathroom, turned on the sink, and filled a glass with cold water. He set the glass gently on the nightstand.
John stared at it like it might explode. His Adam’s apple bobbed, throat working.
“Why are you being nice to me?” he asked finally, his voice flat, suspicious.
“I’m not,” Bucky said, shrugging faintly. “I’m being…not an asshole. Don’t get used to it.”
That at least earned him a sideways look. After a long pause, John’s hand reached out. The tremor in his fingers was impossible to hide. He lifted the glass and drank deep, like he’d been swallowing ash and needed to rinse the taste out. Even after he set it down, his hand shook.
“I saw him,” John said at last, his voice low, unsteady.
Bucky stayed quiet. He knew better than to push.
“Nico.” The name cracked in John’s mouth. “The kid I…” He swallowed hard. His knuckles whitened on the glass. “I keep seeing his face. Over and over. That last second before I—before I killed him.” His voice thinned to a whisper. “He was just a kid.”
The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating like the walls were closing in.
Bucky crossed the room slowly and sat down on the edge of the bed. Not close, not crowding, just there. Just present.
“Magadan,” he said quietly.
John turned, brow furrowed.
“1995,” Bucky continued, his voice low and rough. “I was…out. On the run, just around the Hydra facility they were keeping me at. A guy came at me. I didn’t even think. Just reacted. Took him down before he could touch me.”
Walker frowned, confused.
“He wasn’t trying to kill me,” Bucky went on. “He was trying to ask for help. His daughter was sick, but he was too weak to carry her to the doctor.” His gaze dropped to the floor, jaw tight. “I shattered his spine.”
The words hung in the air like lead.
“No one ever talks about the lives we take unless society deems them important,” Bucky said after a beat. “Politicians, celebrities, martyrs, they get all the attention when their lives are taken, but the others… the world forgets them like they never mattered.” His voice dipped lower. “But I still see his face. I still hear the crack.”
John went utterly still. Even his breath seemed to falter.
Then, in a voice so faint it almost wasn’t there, he asked: “Does it ever go away?”
Bucky lifted his eyes. Met John’s.
“No,” he said, firm but not unkind. “But it gets easier to carry if you confront it rather than avoid it.”
Walker’s jaw worked. He looked like he hated how much sense that made. His shoulders hunched, weighed down. He glanced at his hands, still trembling faintly.
“I thought I was the hero,” he said, voice breaking. “And I murdered a kid with a shield I didn’t deserve.”
Bucky’s throat tightened. His jaw flexed.
“You’re not the only one who ever got blood on that shield,” he said. “Don’t let one mistake have the power to define you.”
John blinked hard, fighting the sting in his eyes. His breath hitched, but he didn’t argue. Didn’t speak.
Bucky stood. His joints popped faintly in the silence. “Try to get some sleep.”
He made it halfway to the door before John’s voice stopped him.
“Hey, Barnes.”
Bucky turned.
“…Thanks.”
No smile. Just the words.
Bucky gave a single nod. Quiet acknowledgment. Then he stepped out, pulling the door closed behind him with a soft click.
That night, neither of them slept much. But the silence that followed wasn’t quite as lonely.