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The world fell away when he fell to his knees for her.
The first time was after a mission. Her comms had dropped out, and he’d feared the worst - hadn’t even realized he could feel fear until he thought he might not see her again. So when she limped into the safehouse, hours later, a knife wound in her side? He’d dropped to his knees and grabbed her, desperate, clinging like a child.
“Please,” he said, broken.
“Please?” she echoed, looking down at him, half-smile painted across her tired features.
Instead of an answer, he pressed his lips to the jagged tear in her uniform, wanting to feel the warmth of her blood and the surety that the wound was shallow enough for him to stitch on his own. He was hers, and he would fix her.
Something changed between them after that - the impersonal sex and indifference giving way to an emotion he couldn’t name. Wouldn’t name. She knew what he needed, and as they laid waste to the enemies of their so-called saviors, they found comfort in one another.
She saw the cracks in his sanity. Knew when he was close to a break. Knew when to summon him to her quarters.
“Kneel,” she said, pointing to the carpet near her feet.
He buckled under her command, closing his eyes as she stepped closer. Brought a hand to his face and gripped his chin between her thumb and forefinger, forcing his head up.
“Do you trust me?” she asked.
He nodded.
She slapped him.
His head whipped to the side - she’d caught him unprepared; the force of the blow wasn’t enough on its own. He was stronger. Bigger. Every instinct bred into his broken mind screamed at him to tear her in half. But he was more than his instincts.
A gentler hand, bringing him back around. Another slap to the opposite side.
“You’re thinking too much,” she said. “Stop.”
“I can’t,” he replied. “My head…”
“No,” she corrected, the toe of her boot connecting with his stomach. The force of it doubling him over as he gasped for air, more psychosomatic than anything truly damaging. “My head. Stop.”
She reduced his body to a mass of welts and bruises that would heal within hours. Afterwards, he crawled to her bed, grateful and submissive. She held him then, kissing him as he moved in her. Telling him about the future they would have. The world they would build.
But he knew. Knew they were weapons, not worldbuilders. A music box ballerina and a toy soldier, frozen in time.
They put him back in the chair, locked him away. When he met his new master, he forgot about the woman he loved who put him on his knees.
He saw her on the television first. Older, yes. But he knew her - scattered fragments of his mind piecing together his history and he knew her. He’d fought with her on the bridge but more than that. More than then. The Captain had said a name - his name? - and something had shaken loose.
There was a history with the Captain. A person. Bucky settled on him like an ache, a cracked rib, a hairline fracture. Something deep and unshakeable in his bones that drove him to disregard his mission and drag Rogers’ limp body from the river.
Romanov - the television said Romanov, spilling state secrets - she was something else. Some other history. A slap. No, a gunshot. A bullet piercing flesh. There was a scar there - shot her through the scar. He remembered a knife wound, blood, shoddy work stitching her up. And he shot her. He shot her.
He remembered her. Loved her?
Belonged to her.
Ran from her.
Steve found him the same day the rest of the world did. He remembered Steve. Steve, who came with Sam but no Romanov. Steve, who came with a rescue and a mission and a man dressed as a cat all in one star-spangled package. With a helicopter and a madman and trigger words and a very small car. Very very small car.
He had missed Steve. Sam was okay.
Then, suddenly, there she was. At the airport, looking right through him. Didn’t she know him? Maybe not. Couldn’t see him.
He wanted to fall to his knees and beg her to see him.
Instead, he and Steve took the escape she offered. Made their way to the frozen north where it ended, for good or ill, before he went back to sleep.
The sleep was dreamless, and when he woke he found he’d been saved by a girl with a talent for fixing broken things. A young woman who was smarter, braver, savvier than Bucky deserved. She was someone else’s little sister, but he didn’t mind the teasing - reminded him of his own sisters, perhaps, though he couldn’t be sure. He was grateful for her time, her teasing, her friendship; he could breathe easier. Sleep easier. Smile sometimes.
Steve was there, of course. Things with him were better than either of them expected. Steve reminded him of who he was, who he had been, and helped him figure out who he might become. There was normalcy with Steve. A friendship there, too, borne out of loyalty that was so foundational it had broken apart nearly a century’s worth of brainwashing.
He didn’t ask about Romanov. Natalia. Natasha. She wasn’t there, and Steve didn’t speak of her often. There was hurt in him, too.
Then, suddenly, there she was, turning up one night, too thin by half, red hair gone white blonde.
He pulled back the curtain, let her in.
“You’re…” he began.
“I didn’t think you’d remember,” she said, stepping inside. “Took me a while. Heads are funny things. How they make you forget.”
“I missed you.” He’d never been able to lie to her. “I...remember. Remembered.”
She watched him in the dim light, mapping his features with the intensity of her gaze. Folding her arms across her chest and setting her full mouth into a thin line. “I’m not her anymore.”
His breath hitched in his throat, and he dropped to his knees, instinctive but not unwilling, winding his arms around her waist and pressing his face to her stomach. “I’m not him.”
Her small hand twined in his hair, the touch gentle - meant to be a comfort rather than a correction. Leaning into her was easy. Breathing her in as his lips found the spot where he’d healed her and hurt her in two different lives.
“No?” He was sure he didn’t mistake the tremor in her voice.
“No,” he echoed. “Just yours.”