Chapter Text
The mission should've been simple. They knew what they were doing. They always did.
A quiet op through a low-security data center on the outskirts of Berlin. No guards on-site, no surveillance on the inside, just a fast grab-and-go. In and out with the encrypted drive before anyone even noticed the power grid flicker.
Clean. Fast. Easy.
But the moment Bucky stepped off the quinjet, something felt... off.
It was subtle, just a dip in his equilibrium. Like the ground tilted slightly beneath his boots, a whisper of disorientation that he almost mistook for the hum of the engines behind them. He rolled his shoulder, blinked hard. Not dizziness exactly. Just a misalignment.
A degree or two. Nothing worth mentioning. Nothing that should matter.
It'll pass, he told himself.
Nerves, or a bad night's sleep. The altitude drop. He wasn't twenty anymore. Hadn't been for a very long time. Maybe his body was just starting to remind him of every break and bruise it had collected in the last hundred years.
But he shook it off. He didn't have time to focus on it now. The op was in motion. stopping now would mean loosing the data they'd spent weeks tracking down.
They moved through the industrial block in silence, weaving between tall fences and shipping crates. Stepping with light steps, listening to everything happening around them. Security here was laughable, a couple of outdated cameras easily looped, a keypad lock that Natasha handled in under ten seconds. He shadowed her steps, boots whispering over concrete, rifle tucked in tight.
Through the fence. Down the dark hallways. Up a utility ladder. No slips, no stumbles.
Until the roof.
Rain had slicked the metal surface, the scent of ozone lingering in the damp air. Gravel crunched under their boots. The leap across the alley was nothing—short, easy. He'd made longer jumps in full gear under fire. This was child's play. Fifteen feet max. No gunfire and light gear.
But his timing was off. Just a fraction of a second.
His boot landed too far back. Instead of gravel, slick metal took him, and his foot slid. His body tilted dangerously, caught only by the edge of a vent—slick and cold beneath his grip. He righted himself, jaw tight. Why had he jumped so early?
Natasha stood, holding the door open. Her green eyes trained on him.
"You good?" She asked quietly.
"I'm fine." He nodded, brushing off his knees and adjusted his grip on his rifle and nodded once. "Just a little slippery."
Her gaze lingered on him, the corners showing her concern. He knew she didn't believe him. But she didn't press.
Not yet. She would, once there were home. Or possibly on the way. He couldn't be sure but he knew it was coming.
For now she simply turned and led them in, down the stairwell toward their end goal.
The stairwell was narrow, the walls sweating moisture. He followed, but his feet felt slightly... delayed. Like his body was half a beat behind his brain. Depth and distance refused to agree, and every so often, the edges of his vision shimmered, doorframes warping, railings bending. Each time, he blinked it away.
It's nothing. Keep moving.
He didn't have time for this. Not right now.
Halfway down, he misjudged the turn, catching only the edge of the step. His hip clipped the wall, metal hand slamming into the rail with a clang that echoed like gunfire. The sound echoed in the stairwell, bouncing off the walls.
Natasha froze, eyes shooting towards him. They waited in silence, listening for anything that could signal they'd been caught. But all was silent.
She motioned for him to follow, and he did so. Watching every step, ensuring everything went smoothly. They may not be in a heavily secured facility. But the last thing either of them needed was a gun fight.
By the time they reached the server room, the walls were pulsing. Not physically, but in his vision. Like the lights were too bright, casting halos around everything. His stomach was churning, a dull heat crawling up the back of his neck, and there was sweat under his collar even though the room was cold.
His fingers clenched reflexively around the rifle. He could still feel. That was something. He could handle this. He could. And then he would figure out whatever this was.
"Watch the door." Natasha said softly, moving through the maze of computer towers until she found her goal.
He nodded and positioned himself by the entry, out of sight from the open hallway, but close enough to take down any one who might wander in. He watched, but the ghost images kept finding their way in. Blinked away for a moment and then floated back. Two doors instead of one, twin shadows where there should only be one.
Muscle memory kept him steady, she was relying on him. He couldn't risk it. Risk her.
He blinked hard, again. Faced away from her so she wouldn't see it.
Natasha was quick, fingers dancing over the console. She didn't need him to ask what she was doing, he knew the rhythm of her work. They'd done this a dozen times together in the last year alone. But tonight, he could feel her eyes watching him. Turning away from her progress to check him. Brief glances over her shoulder, that concerned look never leaving it.
And he hated how it made him feel. Like she was worried she couldn't trust him.
"Drive secured," she said at last, slipping the device into her belt.
Bucky pushed off the wall with a breath that felt too heavy.
He could make it to the extraction point. And then he could close his eyes. Just long enough for the world to stop spinning around him.
After that he wasn't sure what he would do. But he knew something wasn't right.
It took twenty minutes to get from the building to the extraction site.
Twenty minutes of weaving through rain-slick alleys where every light fractured in the puddles, spreading halos that clung to his vision even after he blinked. Twenty minutes of bootsteps that didn't feel like his own, like his feet were hitting the ground a fraction before the message reached his brain. Twenty minutes of Natasha's glances, sharp, calculating, and each one seeming to hang in the air longer than it should.
By the time the quinjet came into view, the sound of its engines felt like relief. The rear ramp lowered, spilling pale interior light into the mist. Natasha jogged up ahead of him, her stride as steady as ever. Bucky followed slower, boots heavy on the metal ramp, the damp air clinging cold against his neck.
He didn't bother with protocol once inside, didn't strip gear, didn't check his weapons. He just dropped into the nearest seat and let his body sag against the backrest. His rifle leaned within arm's reach. Gloves still snug. Leather jacket still zipped to the collar. His eyes shut tight.
It was quiet. Too quiet. The hum of the quinjet seemed to deepen and fade in waves, like a sound heard underwater. Outside, the city was reduced to smeared shapes through fogged glass, neon bleeding into the rain-slick windows in doubled streaks.
He didn't need to open his eyes to know she was watching him. She'd been doing it since they cleared the target, since the moment they were safe enough for her to stop scanning for threats and start scanning him.
It wasn't the same sharp stare she gave towards enemies. This was quieter. But it still cut just as sharp
The deck shifted slightly under turbulence. She stood without a word, boots soft against the metal, her silhouette bending at the edges for a moment before snapping back into place. When she sat beside him, the dip of the seat felt like it pulled him sideways.
Her hand rested on his knee, solid, grounding.
"You gonna tell me what happened back there?"
He exhaled, cracked one eye open, though her face seemed framed by two overlapping outlines before settling into one. "Nothing happened."
"You slipped. You nearly missed the roof." She said, voice growing stern. "You didn't clear your six in the corridor. We almost got caught with that ruckus in the stairwell."
"We weren't caught." He mumbled.
"That's not my point, James."
He looked up and met her green eyes. She was close enough he could see the worry in the creases of her face. The tension in her shoulders.
"I had it under control."
"No." She let out a bitter laugh. "No, you didn't"
His jaw tensed. He could deflect or toss out practiced lines. But she knew him well. Too well. She would see right through him. She always did.
She knelt in front of him, taking his hands in hers. Warm skin over one, cool metal under the other. His right hand trembled, just enough for her to feel it. Her thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles. Her eyes narrowed.
"What's going on, James?"
He broke eye contact. The floor seemed to breathe faintly, the seams between the panels warping as if shifting under his boots.
"I don't know." His voice was hoarse. "I felt... off. Before the jump. Since we landed. Vision's been weird. Balance. Nausea." He ran a hand through his hair. "Thought it was nothing. Just a bad night."
"How long?"
He hesitated.
"James."
He sighed, he knew that tone. There was no fighting her. "I told you. Since we landed."
But he silence told him she didn't believe him.
"A week." He mumbled giving in, knowing it was going to be a long fight if he didn't. "Nothing crazy, just a second of dizziness, a moment where my vision doubled. Nothing like today."
Her expression didn't change, but he saw the calculations in her eyes. She was going through the past week, remembering each faltering moment, each action he had taken.
"Why the hell didn't you say anything?"
"Because I thought it would go away." He snapped. "And I don't need babysitting. I can handle myself."
"This isn't about babysitting!" She shot back. "It's about backup. If you're compromised in the field I need to know."
"I wasn't compromised-"
"You were." Her voice rose, and then dropped as she regained control. "You were slow, vulnerable. And you didn't tell me."
He shook his head, hands lifting in frustration. "Because I didn't want you looking at me like—" He stopped himself, jaw flexing. "Like this. Like I'm broken and you can't trust me. I'm fine."
"James," She brushed her fingers across his jaw. He closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling.
"You think I haven't been there? Lying to yourself because the truth's scarier? I know what it's like to keep moving because stopping might mean you don't get back up." She drew her hand back slowly. "But you don't get to do that with me. Not in the field. Not when I'm relying on you to get us both out alive."
"I know." The words caught, almost breaking.
"Then act like it."
They sat in silence, filled only by the patter of rain on the roof and the steady hum of the engines.
"I'll see the med team in the morning," he said at last. "I promise."
"You'll see the med team as soon as we land," she corrected. "And you're benched until they clear you."
He cracked one eye at her, faint humor in his tone. "You gonna stay mad at me?"
"I'm not mad, James. I'm worried. Big difference." She took his hand again, squeezing once.
"I'll get checked. Promise." He gave her a tired smile. "Just didn't want to make a big deal if it was nothing."
Her grip tightened. "Next time, tell me before your knees give out on the rooftop."
A quiet, hollow laugh escaped him. "Yes, ma'am."
She rolled her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder. "Don't call me ma'am, you idiot."