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It had been months since Valentina had presented them as heroes to the world.
And in that time, Bucky had grown accustomed to how his “teammates” behaved.
Each had their way of filling the Watchtower with noise: John with his clatter of weights and chatter, Yelena with her biting comments and loud music. Alexei with his booming laughter and forgotten stories of the past, Bob with his soft words and nervous mumbling.
Ava, though? She kept moving like silence made more sense to her. A quiet shadow drifting between rooms, keeping her distance from them most of the time.
And Bucky noticed.
He told himself it was habit. Old instincts flaring to life. He’d learned long ago that patterns revealed people, and he used that knowledge to deal with them.
Still, there was something about her that pulled at him in ways he couldn’t name.
Ironically - or perhaps, given the rough events of their first meeting - she was most careful and distant around him. Polite, professional, but never cold - a reliable teammate through and through.
But her eyes, those sharp, assessing eyes, flicked away too fast whenever he looked back at her. And she never stayed long in a room whenever he was in it - unless she had to. Unless others were there, too.
And that? Dug under his skin.
At first, he couldn’t be bothered to know why.
Let her have her own reasons, he thought then.
She had a right to them, after all.
Except, more than once, he’d catch her watching him quietly, her expression soft, sullen - like she was mourning something between them. Something that he didn't remember happening.
Then she’d walk out of the room, leaving him watching her as she did.
Soon, the memory resurfacing began.
The ones he was used to having before? They emerged ugly and violent as shit.
Usually, the Hydra ones came back jagged and cold: flashes of red lights, command words, screams cut off mid-breath. Blood on his hands. So much blood. Those memories, he’d learned to manage to get through days.
He catalogued them. Filed them away in the mental drawer marked never open unless you have to. He’d spent too long trying not to dig too deep into the holes Hydra left behind. Had to, if he wanted not to get crushed under the weight of it all.
Until then, every recollection had hurt. But this one didn’t.
It came soft.
A woman’s breath against his ribcage, then sliding further down. Smooth skin and curves under his palms. Warm, wet, want.
Then it was gone.
He woke up shaking like a leaf, his dog tags cold and biting at his skin.
What the fucking hell.
He found Ava in the kitchen the next day. Quietly pouring tea in a cup, trying not to frown at something Alexei had said.
And for a moment, Bucky found himself frozen at the door. Just kept staring at her silhouette, warmly bathed in the morning light.
He didn’t know why, but seeing her face now reminded him of last night.
Like it belonged there, instead of here.
He didn’t tell anyone. Some things were meant to stay buried, after all.
But Bucky found himself watching her more often. Trying to figure out how and why she was in his head.
Only to realize–
–she’d been spending more time with Walker, of all people.
Training runs, debriefs, the occasional sparring session that left her flushed and smiling faintly in a way Bucky hadn’t seen before.
He told himself it didn’t matter. Walker was loud, cocky, and probably the only one on the team oblivious enough to believe Ava liked hearing him talk.
But every time Bucky caught sight of the two of them across the gym, something in his chest went ugly and sharp and mean.
It wasn’t that he wanted her attention. God, no. He just didn’t like seeing her give it freely to someone who didn’t deserve it. Least of all, Walker. That was all.
At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.
But it didn’t stop him from registering that, every time Ava entered a room, his world tilted off its axis just a little bit more.
Fucking hell.
It got worse after a mission.
They’d been sent to clean up a mess in Prague. A simple extraction that turned fucking messy when their target panicked and fired on everyone. Walker handled the mess well enough. And Ava? Faded into the shadows to disarm the target without Bucky or Yelena resorting to killing him.
It went as good as it could have gone, all things considered.
Later, when the adrenaline had worn off, Bucky caught her standing alone by the windows of the Quinjet.
He walked up beside her before he could think better of it.
“You good?” he asked.
Like a good teammate.
She didn’t turn, only exhaled, “Fine.”
He waited. For what, he didn’t know.
Then she added, softer, “You’re staring.”
That earned her a quiet laugh. He didn’t mean to get caught after all.
“Sorry,” he muttered, though he wasn’t. “It’s just– you remind me of something.” Pause. “Someone. From years before.”
Her shoulders stiffened. Just a fraction, but noticeable.
“Yeah?” she said, eyes still on the dark clouds outside. “Anyone I’d know?”
The question hung between them. Too pointed. Too steady.
Too dangerous.
What was he supposed to say? I think we got in bed together but I'm not completely sure it was you?
When he didn’t - couldn’t - answer, she inclined her head at him and left to join Yelena on the other side of the jet instead.
A week later, he woke up drenched in sweat. Again.
The images in his head had been clearer this time, except no, they weren't part of a dream.
They were from a memory.
A room bathed in candlelight. A woman across from him, her white mask on. They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. They just moved together; him taking the shot at security through the open balcony, her jumping the distance to rush inside the marbled halls, a short sword drawn out.
Then, two bodies falling to the floor. Throats cut. Sokovian diplomats. Dead.
Objective met. Extraction at dawn.
Seven hours from that moment.
He remembered the way she’d paused and turned towards him, face still hidden under her mask.
And then—
–skin, heat, a dark kiss against the skin of her throat. A sense of quiet, desperate connection between two people who didn’t expect to survive past their usefulness.
Soft fingers, tracing the scar that bound skin and metal. And a whisper:
I don’t expect you’ll remember this, but it’d be nice if you do.
Next thing he knew, he was sitting up on the cold floor, heart hammering against his chest.
Not this fucking thing again.
Next time he saw Ava at training, every muscle in his body went tight.
She was putting on gloves, needling Walker about some idiotic bet she and Yelena had made at his expense. Her hair was pulled up, a small scar running along the side of her neck.
He’d never noticed that scar before.
But now he remembered exactly how it felt under his mouth.
Back at the Watchtower, he couldn’t look at her the same.
Not after that. Not when every glance, every contact - no matter how light - pulled another piece of the past free.
He saw the whole night in fragments, sometimes out of order: the mission. The targets. Their deaths. Then rain against the window, her dark hair sticking to his shoulder, the soft words he caught in her throat. Connection. His mouth devouring hers. Warm, wet, want.
And after it, something even heavier: the memory of leaving. Extraction at dawn.
Then the memory getting cut, like it never happened.
And for a few years, Bucky had gone on believing it didn’t.
All thanks to the chair, the devices, and an unforgiving memory wipe.
Until Val, until Oklahoma, until Ava.
He found himself rightfully angry about it. Just another part of himself torn and discarded away like it’s fucking nothing. Like he hadn’t had enough of those stolen from his being.
Perhaps the worst part?
She never said anything.
Maybe she forgot about it, too.
Or maybe she was forced to forget.
Just like him.
Fucking hell.
That morning, Bucky had left his mark on the punching bag in the training room so hard that Walker just had to complain about being unable to use it. Loudly. To his face.
It got ugly after that.
And it took the combined efforts of Yelena, Bob, and Alexei to break apart two super soldiers hell bent on ripping each other’s heads off.
Ava, though?
Never intervened.
Smart woman.
But Bucky could feel her eyes on him as he stalked out of the room to cool off just the same.
She found him in the observation deck of the Watchtower.
At first, she said nothing. Merely stood a few feet away from him.
Like she wasn’t aware her very presence was making him more and more unhinged.
“You good?” she asked.
And its cadence sounded so much like:
I don’t expect you’ll remember this, but–
“Shouldn’t you be staying away?” he’d snarled without looking at her, hand gripping the balcony railing so tightly it bent under his grasp. “You’re good at that, aren’t you?”
She exhaled. Slowly.
“This was a mistake,” she said, then turned to go.
Only–
–he’d caught her arm then.
Ava looked back at his hand, then at him, her eyes guarded.
Fuck it.
“That night,” he said, voice low, “in Sokovia–”
Her breathing hitched. “Don’t.”
And that single word confirmed everything.
Still, he asked, “You know what I’m talking about?”
“It was a mission,” she replied, phasing her arm away. “Nothing more.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” he grunted, the muscles in his jaw working. “What happened after–”
“It wasn’t planned. All right? Neither of us were built for that kind of thing. It just sort of… happened.”
“Just happened,” he repeated. “Between us.” To his ears, it sounded so stupid. Like they were people who did that on the regular. He wondered if she realized it.
“We were both there,” she elaborated. “It was convenient. You helped me disappear for a night. I helped you remember you were still human.”
In a smaller voice, she added, “That’s all that was.”
Silence.
Which he spent just staring at her.
He should’ve argued. Told her she was wrong. That it had been more than that.
But the words were stuck in his throat.
Because even if she meant it like a throwaway line, it wasn’t. Not to him.
The world had spent years reminding him of what he’d done. What he’d become. Even if he had no choice in it. She was the only one who showed him that he was someone, not some thing.
To him, that night hadn’t just been about need. It was about being touched without recoil. About being seen without fear.
And maybe that’s why it terrified him now. Because a part of him wanted that again.
Wanted her to see him that way again.
He should've told her that.
Instead, he grunted, “Sure. Because you get to decide how I should look at it.”
She exhaled again. “I didn’t think it was worth remembering. It was one night. And it’s been, what, years? Since then?”
“And you never thought about saying something now?” he demanded.
At that, she laughed. “Right! Because that’s always a good conversation starter. Hey, Barnes, remember that night in Sokovia when you screwed my brains out post-mission? That was fun. Wanna do it again?”
Her voice cracked faintly under the sarcasm, and that did it.
“Don’t do that,” Bucky muttered, stepping closer. “Don’t hide behind jokes. You think I don’t remember how you didn’t flinch at me that night? How you saw me?”
“Bucky—”
“No,” he snapped, louder now. “You don’t get to tell me what it meant. You don’t have that right. You’ve been walking around here all along, pretending that night was some convenient mistake, while I’ve been—” He stopped, shaking his head, jaw tight. “—while I’ve been trying to figure out why I wake up shaking over something I didn’t even realize I lost.”
Ava’s eyes softened. “You weren’t supposed to lose anything. You were supposed to forget.”
He stared at her, stunned. “And you’re okay with that? Living with that in your head? Knowing I didn’t?”
“I’ve been okay with it for the past few years. I’ve been okay even with you here,” she replied, crossing her arms. “What made you think I won’t be?”
Because we’re both here now.
Because we could–
Because I want–
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Because anything he said now would sound too much like a confession.
Ava lingered for a moment. She opened her mouth to say something, closed it, then turned away. “Just… come back inside when you’re ready. Yelena has some words for you.”
And he watched her go until the door shut behind her.
The silence that soon followed her absence was the kind that gnawed.
For days, they circled each other.
Yelena noticed the way Ava left a room whenever Bucky entered it, the way Bucky suddenly found a reason to “check the perimeter” whenever Ava was around.
Even Walker picked up on it, though he had the decency - for once - to keep his jokes to himself after Bucky’s last glare nearly sent him through a wall.
The team felt it: that tense, fractured air that hummed beneath the surface between two of their quietest members.
And if they were curious and vocal about it, Bucky was just as quick to tell them to shut the hell up.
It could’ve gone on like that forever.
Except it didn’t.
Because missions have a way of breaking whatever balance you pretend to keep.
They were sent to Bucharest for recon: a type of intel pickup, low risk, in and out.
But missions never stayed low-risk as far as they were concerned.
The handler on-site double-crossed them, because of course he had. Soon, Yelena had a bullet graze on her arm, Walker barely made it through a corridor alive, and Ava–
–Ava almost died.
She’d phased through a wall too late when an explosion hit their side. He found her half-pinned under debris, dazed, bloodied, but breathing.
And something in him - something old, wild, possessive - snapped loose.
He tore through the rubble pinning her like it was paper. Didn’t stop to think, didn’t stop to even breathe. Just got her out, hand trembling when he pulled her head close to his chest.
“Don’t move,” he’d said, voice low, urgent. “You hear me? Don’t move.”
She’d tried to speak, but the ringing in his ears drowned her out. It wasn’t until later, after extraction, after the adrenaline burned off, that the reality settled in.
He could’ve lost her again.
And that… that was–
Back at the Watchtower, she’d insisted she was fine. Superficial bruises, mild concussion. Nothing fatal, but enough to shake her. And she brushed medical attention off the way she brushed off everything.
Including him.
“You should rest,” he’d muttered anyway, just watching her.
“Already did,” she said, grabbing a cup of tea and heading for the observation deck. “You should try it sometime.” The entire time, her demeanor screamed 'leave me alone.'
Bucky followed her anyway.
He soon found her sitting by the wide window, cradling tea in her hands and watching the world pass them by. He settled somewhere near to her right.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said softly without looking at him.
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, stepping closer, “you almost died.”
Ava’s lips twitched, not quite a smile as she glanced at him. “Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”
Something in that broke him.
“Don’t,” he muttered, with a sharp look thrown her way. “Don’t joke about it.”
Silence.
“Sorry," she shrugged, not at all sounding like she was. “Guess we all have different ways of coping with things, huh.”
And he couldn’t help but comment, “Is pretending another one of your coping mechanisms, too?”
Ava froze for a few seconds.
“I mean, I could do that,” he added lightly. “But you. You just… take it to a whole new level. You know?”
She sighed again. Louder. “What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Maybe an admission. Maybe just– tell me that time in Sokovia wasn’t nothing to you.”
“Why does it matter so much to you now?” she asked, frustration coloring her tone.
“Because it wasn’t nothing, Ava. You said it yourself - that night, you helped me remember I was still human. Despite everything Hydra had done to me, you weren't afraid. You welcomed me. And that– ” He exhaled loudly. “That would always mean something. To me.”
Ava bit her lip, her expression softening.
For several moments, neither of them spoke.
“You weren’t supposed to remember it,” she said quietly. “That was the point. You deserve peace, Bucky. Not another mess with my name on it. I didn't want to drag you back to a time that was ugly for both of us.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her until she started to shift under the weight of his attention.
“You think I ever got peace by pretending things didn’t happen?” he asked softly. “That’s not how it works. Not for people like us."
“Then what does?” she asked, barely above a whisper.
“Owning it,” he said. “Facing the truth. Even if you don't want to.”
She put her teacup down and spent several moments just staring at the rim.
"If I agree, then? That it was something to me, too?” she asked him. “Then what?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. This was it. She was giving him an opening, and fucking hell he better not screw it.
“I thought we could... rebuild.” It sounded so simple to his ears. He wondered if she realized it, too. "Restart things."
She turned to face him now, and he could see it in her face: the indecision between running and staying. “Bucky–”
He stepped even closer now. “You once told me you thought it’d be nice if I remembered that night. And now, I do. The memories worth keeping, at least. So the question is, what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t–” she began, shaking her head.
Then she went quiet.
For several moments, he thought - feared - she’d say, I don’t want to.
And he would allow her that choice. Of course.
Didn’t mean he’d like it. But he wouldn’t control or force her, either.
They’d both had enough of that in their lives.
"I don't think we're built for that," she said instead, which allowed him to release the breath he was holding.
Bucky didn’t respond right away.
He just looked at her. Catalogued the faint bruises still blooming along her jaw. The tiny cut near her temple. The exhaustion that lived in the space between her eyes.
And beneath all that, the same bone-deep weariness that mirrored his own.
“Probably not,” he acknowledged, voice low. “But I want to try anyway. See if we’re wrong about that.”
Ava huffed a breath, a faint, humorless sound. “Bloody hell,” she sighed. “You don’t know what you’re asking for, you know.”
“Maybe I do,” he replied, turning fully to face her. “And if I don’t, then let me figure things out. About you. About us. There are no extractions here, Ava. I’ve got all the time in the world.”
She stared at him for a long time, her eyes hooded, unreadable. Then she exhaled, slow and deep, like she’d been holding it for years.
Surprisingly, it was Ava who reached across the narrow space between them to touch his metal wrist. Feather-light. Uncertain.
And when he turned his hand, their fingers met halfway. His thumb stroked the back of hers. Steady. Deliberate.
Her breathing hitched. “All right,” she said finally, so quiet he almost missed it.
And that was enough.
For now.
As the first rays spilled through the deck glass and caught the silver edge of his arm, Bucky thought of Sokovia: candlelight, stolen freedom, and two weapons pretending to be human for a night.
He tugged her closer, and was fiercely glad she didn't phase away.
This time, though, he wasn’t letting the memories of them fade into nothing.
Not again.