Between Who I Am and Who I Pretend to Be

You are very good at pretending.

That is the first thing you learn about yourself.

Not fighting. Not lying. Not surviving missions or bleeding quietly in corners of the world while people call you “strong.”

Pretending.

You can be whoever the room needs.

Funny when Peter needs laughter.

Serious when Steve needs focus.

Calm when Bruce is spiraling.

Sharp when Natasha is bored and testing you without saying it.

Soft when Bucky looks like he might disappear if someone speaks too loudly.

And none of it feels fake enough to stop.

That is the problem.

You wake up some mornings unsure which version of you stayed behind in your dreams.

There are too many of them now.

Too many ways to exist inside the same body.

You sit at the edge of your bed in the Avengers compound and stare at your hands like they belong to someone else.

“You’re overthinking again,” Sam says from your doorway without knocking.

“I’m not thinking at all.”

“That’s worse.”

You don’t look at him.

“What do you want?”

“Breakfast.”

“From me?”

“From the kitchen. You’re just coming with.”

It’s not really a question.

Sam is like that. He doesn’t ask when he already knows the answer you need.

You follow him anyway.

The compound kitchen is loud in the morning.

Tony arguing with a toaster.

Peter eating cereal too fast.

Steve reading something printed on paper like it’s sacred.

Bruce quietly correcting Tony’s toaster logic.

Natasha drinking coffee like she hasn’t slept in a decade and is proud of it.

And Bucky.

Bucky is always there.

Not always close.

But present in a way you always feel first before you see.

He looks up when you enter.

Just briefly.

Then away again.

But something in your chest still reacts like it always does.

Every time.

Like a reflex you never trained out.

“You okay?” Peter asks you brightly.

“Yeah.”

It comes too fast.

Too practiced.

Natasha glances at you over her mug.

Sam doesn’t say anything, but you feel him watching.

Steve smiles politely like he believes you.

Bruce nods like he’s already cataloguing your answer for later concern.

Bucky doesn’t look again.

But his hand tightens slightly around his mug.

You notice anyway.

You notice everything.

Later, training room.

Metal floors. Controlled space. Controlled chaos.

You are supposed to spar with Sam.

Instead you hit harder than you mean to.

Sam blocks your strike and stares at you.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“That was a ‘nothing’ punch?”

You reset your stance.

“Focus.”

He doesn’t move.

“You’ve been like this all week.”

“Like what?”

Sam lowers his guard slightly.

“Like you’re trying to disappear while standing in the middle of the room.”

That lands too close.

You hesitate for half a second.

He sees it.

Of course he does.

“Talk to me,” he says softer.

You shake your head once.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Start with the truth.”

You almost laugh.

It sounds broken instead.

“Which one?”

Sam goes quiet.

And suddenly you realize you said something you didn’t mean to say out loud.

That night, you sit on the roof of the compound alone.

You always come here when your thoughts get too loud.

The city doesn’t ask you to explain yourself.

It just exists.

Far below, everything moves like it knows what it is.

You wish you did.

“You’re going to fall off one day,” Bucky’s voice says behind you.

You don’t turn.

“You always say that.”

“Because you always sit too close to the edge.”

Footsteps.

Then he’s beside you, not touching, but near enough that you feel the warmth of him.

He sits carefully like he’s learned your distances.

You hate that he’s learned you.

And also that you let him.

Silence stretches.

It doesn’t feel empty with him.

That’s another problem.

“You’re not yourself lately,” he says eventually.

Your throat tightens.

“Maybe this is myself.”

He looks at you then.

Really looks.

Like he’s trying to find the version of you he recognizes.

“No,” he says quietly. “It isn’t.”

That should feel comforting.

It doesn’t.

It feels like being caught.

You pull your knees closer.

“What if I don’t know who I am without being useful?”

The question slips out before you can stop it.

Bucky goes still.

Not surprised.

More like… understanding in a way that hurts.

“That’s not who you are,” he says.

You laugh faintly.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“How?”

He hesitates.

Just long enough for honesty to matter.

“Because I’ve seen you when you’re not trying to be anything.”

Your chest tightens.

“When?”

“Early mornings,” he says. “When you think no one’s awake.”

You freeze slightly.

He continues anyway.

“When you sit in the kitchen and stare at the coffee like it’s solving something.”

A pause.

“When you hum under your breath without realizing it.”

You don’t remember doing that.

He remembers anyway.

That feels dangerous.

“That’s not real,” you whisper.

He turns toward you fully now.

“It is.”

“That’s just…” you struggle. “Habit. Noise. Whatever’s left when I’m not thinking.”

Bucky’s voice softens.

“That’s you.”

Silence.

The wind shifts around the rooftop.

You feel too exposed suddenly.

Like he’s seeing too much and you don’t know where to hide.

The next day, it gets worse.

Because you start noticing it.

How often you adjust yourself around others.

How quickly you change tone.

How easily you become someone else without meaning to.

And how exhausting it is to keep track of which version is real.

During a mission briefing, Tony is speaking too fast.

Steve is trying to slow him down.

Natasha is already bored.

Peter is pretending he understands more than he does.

Bruce is quietly panicking in scientific language.

Sam is watching you.

Bucky is watching the map.

And you are watching all of them watching each other.

Then Tony says, “We need someone adaptable for infiltration.”

Everyone looks at you.

Of course they do.

You feel it immediately.

That shift.

The expectation.

And without thinking, you nod.

“I’ll do it.”

Sam’s head turns sharply.

“You don’t have to volunteer every time.”

“I’m fine.”

Bucky finally looks at you.

Something in his eyes tightens.

“That’s not an answer,” he says quietly.

You don’t respond.

The mission goes fine.

That’s what you tell everyone.

That’s what you say when you come back.

That’s what you repeat until people stop asking.

But your hands shake in the elevator back to the med bay.

And you don’t know why until Bucky steps inside with you.

The doors close.

Small space.

Too quiet.

“You got hit,” he says immediately.

You glance at your arm.

“It’s minor.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You sigh.

“I’m fine.”

He steps closer.

“You always say that.”

You freeze.

He notices.

“That’s the second time you’ve done that today,” he adds.

Your throat tightens.

“Done what?”

“Lied like it’s automatic.”

The elevator hums around you.

Too loud.

Too small.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” you say quietly.

Bucky’s expression softens.

“Not that version of you.”

That hits harder than expected.

You look away.

“What version, then?”

He hesitates.

“The one that doesn’t look like she’s holding herself together with pressure alone.”

Your breath catches slightly.

He reaches out, but doesn’t touch you yet.

Like he’s asking without words.

You don’t move away.

So he lets his hand rest lightly near your wrist instead.

“You don’t have to perform here,” he says softly.

Something inside you cracks quietly at that.

It gets worse before it gets better.

Because after that conversation, you try not to perform.

And you realize you don’t know how to exist without it.

You become quieter.

More uncertain.

Less “useful.”

And people notice.

Steve asks if you’re okay.

Natasha watches you longer than usual.

Sam stops joking as much.

Peter looks worried constantly.

Bruce offers to check your vitals even when you didn’t ask.

And Bucky…

Bucky stays close.

Not pushing.

Just present.

Like he’s letting you figure out what you are without interruption.

One night, you break.

Not loudly.

Quietly.

In the kitchen at 2 a.m. when no one is supposed to be awake.

You are staring at a cup of tea you don’t remember making.

Hands still.

Thoughts too loud.

“I don’t know who I am,” you say out loud.

You don’t realize Bucky is there until he answers.

“You’re right here.”

You turn slightly.

He’s leaning against the doorway.

Soft hoodie. Bare feet. Tired eyes.

Not soldier.

Not weapon.

Just him.

“That’s not what I mean,” you whisper.

He walks closer slowly.

“Then tell me.”

Your voice shakes.

“I feel like I’m borrowing myself all the time.”

Silence.

He doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t fix it immediately.

Just listens.

“When I’m with Steve, I’m one thing,” you say. “When I’m with Natasha, I’m another. With Sam, with Tony, with Peter…”

You swallow.

“With you…”

Your voice breaks slightly.

He steps closer but still doesn’t touch you.

“What about me?”

You laugh faintly.

It sounds exhausted.

“I don’t know which version I am when I’m with you.”

That makes him pause.

“Maybe that’s the point,” he says quietly.

You shake your head.

“That doesn’t feel like a good thing.”

“It can be,” he insists gently.

You finally look at him fully.

“I’m scared that if I stop being useful, I stop being anything at all.”

His expression changes immediately.

Sharp pain.

Recognition.

Like he understands that fear too well.

“That’s not you talking,” he says softly.

“It feels like me.”

“It isn’t.”

Silence stretches between you.

Then he says quietly:

“You know what I see?”

You don’t answer.

He continues anyway.

“I see someone who notices everything and still chooses to stay.”

Your breath catches.

“I see someone who gets up every time, even when she doesn’t want to.”

He steps closer.

“I see someone who thinks she’s pretending, but she’s actually just adapting.”

Your eyes sting.

“That sounds nicer than it feels.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Most truths do.”

He finally reaches out then.

Carefully.

His hand wraps around yours.

Warm.

Steady.

Real.

“You don’t have to become smaller to be accepted here,” he says.

Your voice barely works.

“I don’t know how to stop.”

“Then we figure it out,” he replies immediately.

“We?”

He nods.

Like it’s obvious.

Like it always has been.

Something inside you loosens slightly.

Not fixed.

Not healed.

Just… seen.

And for the first time, that feels like enough to breathe.

Later, much later, when you are back in your room and the world is quiet, you realize something strange.

You are not performing anymore.

You are just tired.

And human.

And still here.

And Bucky is still here too.

Which somehow makes it easier to believe you might be, as well.