Resurfacing
As they crested a gentle hill, the town of Southern Pines came into view, nestled among longleaf pines and painted in the kind of golden light that seemed to only exist in postcards. Downtown unfolded before them like a quaint painting, the streets narrow and cobbled in places, where roots had lifted bricks into gentle undulations. The storefronts were painted in soft pastels, their awnings striped and cheerful, with handwritten signs boasting artisanal goods, fresh baked bread, and local honey. Antique stores gleamed with polished brass and dusty charm, while a nearby ice cream shop, crowned by a swinging wooden sign of a smiling cartoon cow, had a line trailing onto the sun-drenched sidewalk.
Torres was practically vibrating with excitement in the back seat, his forehead glued to the window. "Is this place even REAL? Look at that porch swing! Ah! That flower cart! Sam. SAM! This is like, peak small-town America. I think I’m in love."
Sam laughed, adjusting his sunglasses with the easy grace of someone already halfway to planning their next meal as he gazed around them at all the restaurants. "Tell me this place doesn’t have a weekend farmer’s market, a parade for every minor holiday, and a lady named Barb who knows everyone’s secrets."
Just ahead, two horses trotted casually down the center of the street, their riders dressed in breeches and polos, one sipping from a to-go cup while the other waved at a passing pedestrian. Nobody so much as blinked, as if this was a usual occurrence.
Torres let out a dramatic gasp, practically vibrating with excitement behind Bucky’s chair. "Horses! In downtown! Majestic, judgmental creatures. I HAVE to ride Boss now. I’m spiritually ready."
Bucky didn’t laugh like he normally would have at Torres’s exuberance. He barely even looked out the window, slightly hunched over in his seat. The scene outside the window was picturesque to the point of unreality, each detail too perfect, too precisely curated.
Strangely familiar-
His discomfort had returned in full, pressing against his ribcage like a fist. The buzz of his Winter Soldier senses prickled beneath his skin, not loud or frantic, but steady—an old itch he hadn’t felt in far too long. He shifted in his seat, eyes scanning the crowd, the rooftops, the subtle movements at the edge of his vision.
He began to rub at the scar on his palm, thumb tracing the worn groove as if it might somehow ease the rising pressure. But it didn’t. The feeling gnawed at him, as though he were on the verge of remembering something crucial—something that refused to surface.
They passed a weathered wooden bar with a carved sign swinging gently in the breeze: THE CROOKED SPUR – LIVE MUSIC THURSDAYS, KARAOKE SATURDAYS.
Sam pointed at it with a grin, tooth gap flashing mischievously. "That’s where we’re going tonight. Torres, I hope you’re ready to be serenaded."
"Please. I was born to duet," Torres said, striking a dramatic pose.
Bucky kept his eyes forward, trying to breathe through the tension tightening in his chest.
The town slowly thinned, replaced by winding gravel roads and sprawling pastures lined with white fences. The houses grew farther apart, tucked behind old oaks or nestled against rolling hills. Finally, they turned down a long, dusty lane marked with a hand-painted wooden sign: RED HORSE-RIDING ACADEMY
The road was framed by well-maintained fencing, the boards whitewashed and freshly nailed into place. Beyond it stretched open fields, dotted with horses grazing in the afternoon sun, their sleek coats catching the light. The cottage at the end of the drive stood proudly beneath the shade of an enormous oak tree. It was an old farmhouse, white with blue shutters, its wraparound porch lined with potted herbs, wind chimes, and a pair of rocking chairs that looked like they’d seen a hundred Southern summers.
Bucky's gaze sharpened as they approached. His unease didn’t fade, but it refocused. He took in the small but deliberate details: the subtle tilt of a security camera hidden beneath the eaves, the second set of motion-activated lights wired just above the stable doors, the faint shimmer of tripwire near the back pasture that would’ve been invisible to anyone not trained to notice. Yelena hadn’t really retired. Not entirely.
Torres was halfway out of the car before Sam put it in park. "BOSS! I SEE YOU! YOU BEAUTIFUL BEAST! I BROUGHT SNACKS!"
Bucky followed his gaze to the front pasture, rolling his shoulders back against the tension slowly settling into them. There, a massive red gelding with a white blaze trotted calmly under the weight of a young rider, a small girl who sat confidently in the saddle, reins held steady in her gloved hands. Near the center of the arena stood Yelena, dressed in sleek black riding pants and a tucked-in button-down, a whistle around her neck and a crop in hand. Her blonde hair was pulled into a tight bun beneath a sun-faded ball cap.
She was shouting something encouraging, one hand raised, gesturing for the rider to post more evenly. Even from this distance, her posture was perfect, every inch the no-nonsense trainer she’d promised she wouldn’t become.
Bucky watched her for a long moment. Despite the churning in his gut, despite the whisper of instinct screaming that something was off, he had to admit—her setup was good. Smart. Secure. She was thriving.
And still, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
He stepped out of the car, gravel crunching beneath his boots, and tried to shake the feeling.
But it clung to him, just out of reach, waiting. Lurking.
Across the field, Yelena turned at the sound of the car doors closing, and her face lit up in a rare, unmistakably genuine smile. The sun caught the curve of her cheekbones, softening her usual guarded sharpness. She looked younger out here, standing in the middle of a pasture with wind brushing strands of her blonde hair loose from its tight bun. Happier. For a moment, Bucky felt something uncoil in his chest—a flicker of warmth, pride even, buried beneath the layers of dread he couldn’t quite explain.
The lesson wasn’t quite over yet. A couple stood by the fence line near the arena gate—clearly the little girl’s parents, dressed in casual but polished clothes, their smiles bright with gratitude as Yelena stepped over to meet them. She spoke with calm professionalism, nodding as she discussed the girl’s progress, gesturing occasionally toward the horse and the arena as if illustrating her points with invisible diagrams. Her tone was courteous, clipped with just enough warmth to pass as Southern hospitality, but not overly sentimental. The conversation lasted less than two minutes before Yelena gave a pleasant laugh, clapped the father lightly on the shoulder, and turned them both away with practiced ease.
“Keep her stretching her legs, and tell her to work on her diagonals,” Yelena said. “We’ll pick up more canter work next week.”
The parents nodded and thanked her once more, then climbed into their SUV and pulled down the long gravel drive.
As soon as their taillights vanished through the trees, Yelena’s entire posture changed.
She dropped the clipboard she’d been holding into the grass, tore the elastic from her hair with the vigor of someone escaping a disguise, and let out a guttural, dramatic groan as she shook her head, blonde waves flaring like a lion’s mane.
“FINALLY,” she exhaled, slouching like a ragdoll. “If I had to say ‘very good posting trot’ one more time, I was going to eat a handful of shavings. Or kill something. Preferably the latter.”
Then she spotted Torres, and the switch flipped fully.
With zero warning, she took off at a sprint, her boots thudding across the dirt.
“Oh shit—wait, wait!” Torres barely had time to react before Yelena collided with him, arms wrapping around his shoulders like a steel trap. She squeezed him with the force of someone who had spent months pretending not to miss him, then abruptly shoved him backwards with both hands, laughing as he hit the ground in a breathless heap.
“Welcome to hell, Captain Dork,” she cackled, standing triumphantly over him as he groaned.
Sam and Bucky reached the fence just in time to witness Torres flailing in the grass, wheezing with laughter and muttering something about lawsuits. Yelena turned to Sam next, her grin softening just slightly. She pulled him into a quick but firm hug, pressing her cheek to his for half a second before stepping back and muttering, “You smell like stale food, Wilson.”
“You smell like a barn,” Sam shot back with a grin.
Then her gaze landed on Bucky.
Her smile faltered, but not because she wasn’t happy to see him. For a brief moment, the swagger dropped completely. What remained was something quieter. Warier.
He stood just past the fence, shoulders tight, posture a little too still. His jaw was clenched like he was holding his breath, and one hand kept twitching at his side, fingers brushing the scar on his palm over and over like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment.
“Barnes,” Yelena said gently.
He met her eyes, and whatever she saw in them made her expression go very still.
He looked haunted, he knew he did.
She didn’t call him on it. Didn’t make a scene. She simply crossed over to him, her boots crunching softly on the gravel, and laid a hand on his shoulder—not hard, not playful, but steady. Firm. Familiar.
He gave her a faint nod, barely more than a twitch of the chin.
Behind them, Torres was already back on his feet, dusting off his jeans and rambling about Boss like he’d just witnessed a mythical unicorn. Sam tossed an arm around his shoulders and steered him toward the porch, chuckling.
Yelena fell in step beside Bucky as the group moved slowly toward the cottage. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t press.
But she kept glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, and Bucky could feel it.
And still, the feeling didn’t go away.
If anything, it was louder now.
Like something buried was trying to claw its way to the surface, and he didn’t know if he had the strength to stop it—or the clarity to let it come.
-------------------
Yelena’s cottage was nestled beneath the heavy shade of pine boughs, its whitewashed wood siding framed by its blue shutters and a porch that looked hand-built decades ago and repaired with love ever since. The screen door squeaked softly as she held it open, ushering them into a space that felt lived-in and fiercely protected. The air inside carried the scents of leather and hay, tempered with lavender oil and old books. Light spilled through gauzy curtains, warming the honey-colored hardwood floors and catching on dust motes that danced lazily in the still air.
Every corner spoke of Yelena’s dual nature—her soft edges and wicked sharp corners. The walls were decorated with faded art prints and framed photos of horses mid-gallop. A small table held a worn chessboard mid-game, a hunting knife sticking out of a cracked wooden cutting board nearby. Fluffy pastel blankets were piled on a sagging couch in mismatched colors, and a bulletin board by the kitchen was layered in maps, ribbons, and encrypted notes written in her own shorthand.
Laughter bubbled up as they crossed the threshold, Torres launching into an enthusiastic commentary about everything from the dusty decor to the variety of snacks he spotted on the counter. Yelena smacked his arm lightly as he reached for a pack of cookies. “Tour first. Snacks after, God. You greedy manchild.”
The barn was next. She led them out back along a path of flattened pine needles, pointing out each structure with a mixture of pride and sarcasm. The main barn was red, faded from sun, with new hinges on the heavy doors and thick vines creeping up one side. Inside, the scent of hay, leather, and animal musk wrapped around them, grounding and nostalgic. The horses shifted in their stalls, their ears flicking, tails swishing, each of them watching with the kind of lazy curiosity that only horses possessed.
“Okay, rule number one,” Yelena said, pointing at the largest stall, where Boss stood with his head turned slightly, regarding them with imperial disdain. “Don’t go near him unless I’m within ten feet. He is a demon. He kicked a fence rail last week out of pure spite because I cut back on his grain, the old fucker.”
Torres squinted at the massive chestnut. “But he looks so friendly. A CHILD rode him.”
Yelena rolled her eyes so hard it was audible. “And that child has more sense than you, Birdie. That’s not friendliness. That’s hubris. Go near him and I promise, your bones will rearrange themselves.”
Torres muttered something about dramatic Russians and betrayal, while Sam quietly laughed behind him.
They moved stall to stall, meeting horses with names like Ajax, Cricket, and Mischka. The stable cats darted around their feet, slipping between bales of hay. Yelena pointed out feed bins, grooming stations, and the tack room, still full of military precision. Everything about the setup screamed discipline layered over a chaotic heart.
Bucky followed them, but less and less of what they were saying was reaching him. The laughter felt distant, like it was coming from underwater. That itching, gnawing feeling under his skin had grown stronger. More vivid. His shoulders were tight, and his fingers curled in on themselves, brushing his scar again and again.
Then something scraped—a light metal clang—and Bucky turned sharply.
Gun drawn.
Everyone froze, eyes locked onto him as he stared down the barrel of his SIG.
A barn cat blinked back at him from a rafter beam, tail flicking lazily.
Bucky’s jaw clenched. Slowly, he lowered the pistol and tried to laugh. “What do you know? Just a cat.”
But the laugh came out wrong, hollow.
Torres gave a nervous chuckle, and Yelena, to her credit, didn’t call him out. She simply murmured something about feed bags and led Torres away toward the back paddocks, her arm slung casually over his shoulders.
But Sam lingered, because of course he did.
Bucky kept his eyes on the rafter for a long beat before Sam’s hand gently touched his elbow.
“Buck,” he said softly.
Bucky didn’t respond.
Sam moved to stand in front of him, gently taking him by the arm, guiding him to the side where sunlight filtered through a half-open stall door.
“What’s going on?” Sam asked, voice low and unthreatening.
Bucky exhaled slowly, his eyes distant. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth, the sharp edges of anxiety making his skin crawl. “I don’t know. I feel… wrong. Like something’s pulling at me. Like I’m supposed to remember something but it won’t come, and it’s clawing at me from inside.”
Sam’s brow furrowed, concern washing over his features. “Is it Fort Bragg?”
“I don’t know.” Bucky rubbed at the back of his neck, frustration coloring his tone. “It’s not just that. It’s like—like something is just out of reach. Something I should know. Like I’ve walked into a place I’ve been before but everything’s wearing a different skin.”
Sam cupped Bucky’s face gently, his thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “Hey. Look at me.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked to his.
“You’re not crazy,” Sam said firmly. “You’re exhausted, you’re surrounded by new things, and yeah—being this close to a place that did what it did to you? That messes with your head. It would mess with anyone’s. You’ve done the work, Buck. You’ve come so far.”
Bucky nodded slowly, but it didn’t settle the storm.
“I want to believe that,” he murmured. “But it feels like something is missing. Something important.”
Sam pulled him into a hug, arms strong and grounding. “Then we’ll figure it out. Together. We always do.”
Outside, Yelena’s voice rose in mock indignation as Torres attempted to climb the fence.
“Get the FUCK down before I take your kneecaps-!”
The sun was warm and the farm was peaceful.
And still, deep in Bucky’s chest, something stirred—waiting.
----------------------
Dinner at Yelena’s cottage should have felt like comfort incarnate. The little home, nestled at the edge of the pines and framed by a fading pink sky, exhaled the sort of warmth Bucky imagined normal people associated with safety. The walls were painted in soft earth tones, worn around the edges, filled with mismatched picture frames—some crooked, some overlapping—each one a piece of something living. There were photos of horses, of smiling students mid-jump in the show ring, ribbons from local competitions. Mixed in were signs of their strange, stitched-together family: Sam in Delacroix with his arms wrapped around both Torres and Yelena, a blurry photo of Yelena on Boss grinning like a maniac, Torres mid-sneeze next to a disgusted Yelena, and in the center of them all, a photo of Bucky—surprised, out of focus, but laughing.
And yet… despite the scene around him—the homey clutter, the scent of woodsmoke and oregano, the warmth of laughter rolling between walls—Bucky felt like a ghost haunting someone else’s peace.
The kitchen was alive with movement. Yelena moved like she was half-host, half-commander, opening cabinets with sharp precision, tossing paper plates onto the old oak table, her excitement humming just beneath the surface as she announced that her favorite pizza place had delivered everything she asked for and then some.
“I told the guy on the phone I was hosting a militia,” she said, dragging box after box across the counter with a flourish. “He asked if I meant metaphorically. I didn’t answer.”
Torres let out a dramatic gasp as he opened a box topped with spicy honey and jalapeños. “You’re feeding me and threatening me at the same time. I’m not sure if I’m turned on or terrified.”
“You should be both,” Yelena replied without missing a beat, handing him a stack of napkins and slapping his hand when he tried to grab a slice too early.
Sam, ever the steady center of the room, popped open a bottle of beer with the edge of the counter and handed it to Bucky without saying a word. His other hand reached up to switch on the bluetooth speaker above the fridge, which immediately began playing some easy, jazzy soul track—Sam’s favorite. The air felt golden, warm and alive, filled with echoes of familiar people being familiar with each other.
Bucky tried to match the rhythm. He took the beer with a murmured thanks, nodded along with Torres’s latest unhinged story about a flight suit malfunction that almost killed him, and made a joke that even got a laugh out of Yelena. But it all felt like watching himself from behind glass. His movements were a beat too late. His smile felt too tight. His hands fidgeted restlessly on the neck of the bottle, thumb circling the label again and again as his mind spun like wheels stuck in sand.
And then came Fanny—Yelena’s mutt of indeterminate breed and boundless empathy—who padded in from the hallway, tail wagging lazily, tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth.
She sniffed once at Torres’s knee, ignored Sam entirely, and made a beeline for Bucky.
With a groan of doggy exertion, she dropped to the ground beneath his chair and set her chin gently atop his foot.
Yelena blinked. “Huh,” she said, slightly too casual. “She doesn’t usually pick favorites.”
Bucky glanced down at the dog and back up at Yelena, giving her a wary look.
She hesitated, her smirk flickering just slightly before settling back into place. “I got her for my mental health,” she added with a shrug, her voice light. “You know. Emotional support gremlin. Guess I’m not the most fucked up on here.”
The joke landed like a brick.
Bucky’s jaw twitched. His beer bottle made a dull clink as he set it down on the table. Yelena winced, barely perceptible. Sam started to speak.
But Torres, ever the diplomat in disaster, clapped his hands loudly and leaned forward. “Yo, seriously though—what kind of pizza is THIS one? Because it smells like someone weaponized garlic, and I LOVE that.”
Yelena jumped back into the conversation without pause, launching into a detailed explanation of each absurd combination she’d ordered. She spun open box after box, gesturing dramatically while Torres made increasingly over-the-top noises of awe.
And Bucky—Fuck. He was trying. He picked up a slice. He nodded when Sam nudged his shoulder and offered a reassuring smile. But that itch at the base of his skull hadn’t gone away. It was louder now. Sharper. Like teeth.
It was halfway through dinner when it happened.
The barn cat—the same one from before that Yelena had dubbed Oligarch for reasons no one wanted to ask—crept out from under a cabinet and darted beneath the table, brushing unexpectedly against Bucky’s ankle.
His chair clattered backwards.
His gun was in his hand before anyone could speak.
Fanny barked once and the cat fled, meowing indignantly as it ran through the screen door. Torres stared with wide eyes. Yelena froze mid-chew, blinking at him.
Bucky’s hand shook as he lowered the weapon, breath coming fast and shallow.
“Jesus Christ,” Bucky grimaced, teeth clenched so tightly his jaw creaked. “Sorry. Reflexes.”
Sam stood slowly, eyes on Bucky, the lines around his mouth drawn tight.
Yelena didn’t speak. She just continued eating, chewing slowly as her eyes darted between him and Sam.
“I’m gonna—” Bucky didn’t finish. He stepped out the back door without waiting for permission.
The night air hit him like a wave, thick and cool and too quiet.
A moment later, Sam followed.
He didn’t touch Bucky right away—just stood next to him, letting the silence settle like dust.
Bucky’s voice, when it came, was a rasp. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Sam exhaled. “Nothing’s wrong with you.”
“I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my own skin.”
“It’s just stress.”
“It doesn’t feel like just stress, Sam.” Bucky’s fingers dug into the railing, white-knuckled. “It feels like I forgot something important. Like… like there’s a wolf in the woods and I’m the only one who can smell it. I don’t like that feeling.”
Sam didn’t respond at first. Just stepped closer, placing a hand against the back of Bucky’s neck, grounding him. Warm, steady.
“I know that feeling, Buck. You know I do.” he said quietly. “You’re not crazy. And you’re not alone.”
Bucky leaned into him, forehead briefly pressing against Sam’s shoulder. He closed his eyes.
He didn’t say it aloud—but something still gnawed at him.
Something was WRONG.
And he didn’t know what.
----------------
He hadn’t slept. Not even a little.
The air was still silver with dawn when Bucky stepped barefoot onto Yelena’s wraparound porch, the boards cool beneath his feet and slick with morning dew. He hadn’t bothered changing out of his t-shirt and sweats—there hadn’t been much point. Sleep had eluded him all night, slipping through his fingers like mist each time he closed his eyes. Instead, he’d laid awake listening to the old cottage settle around him, the low hum of horses shifting in their stalls, the creak of wood expanding with the cooling air, the steady, rhythmic breathing of Sam from the bed they’d shared every night for over a year now.
And last night, Bucky couldn’t bring himself to climb into it.
Not when he felt like his mind was unspooling in the dark, dragged down by something he couldn’t name.
The porch wrapped around the back of the cottage, facing the long, gently sloping pastures that stretched toward the horizon in neat, white-fenced lines. A soft fog hovered just above the grass, pale and ethereal in the early light, and the dew clung to every blade like frost. In the quiet, he could hear birds stirring in the trees, the occasional nickering of a horse, and the whisper of wind rustling through the pine tops.
It was beautiful. Peaceful.
And it made him feel like he was going to crawl out of his fucking skin.
Bucky sat on the wide porch step, elbows resting on his knees, posture slouched in that way Sam always gently corrected when they were out in public. He stared out into the fog with a clenched jaw and hollowed eyes, the scar in his palm picked raw where his fingers had worried it throughout the night.
Something was off. Still off. And now, after another sleepless night, the absence of an answer was becoming a kind of madness.
His mind wasn’t screaming at him anymore. It was whispering—low, insistent, just out of reach. Something was wrong, something was MISSING, and he didn’t know whether to trust that instinct or fear it.
A quiet guilt tugged at him as the fog rolled and curled beyond the fence line. He hadn’t gone to bed with Sam. Hadn’t wrapped himself around the only person who had ever managed to make him feel truly safe. He’d let the panic win, again. And now his chest ached with it—regret coiled deep in his ribs alongside the anxiety.
He didn’t hear the door open until it creaked, and footsteps padded softly across the old wood.
“I figured I’d find you out here.”
Sam’s voice was still heavy with sleep, low and rough-edged in the way Bucky had come to associate with mornings that started too early. He turned his head slowly to find Sam standing there in flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt, hair mussed, stubble catching the rising light. He looked like home. And he was holding two mugs of coffee.
Without a word, Sam walked over and settled beside him on the step, pressing one of the mugs gently into Bucky’s hands.
Bucky murmured his thanks and took a sip. Strong, black, exactly how he liked it. He felt the warmth of it radiate through his hands even as his shoulders refused to unclench.
They sat in silence for a long while. The kind of silence Bucky had come to treasure—companionable, weightless, never pressured. It gave him space to be without having to explain.
Eventually, Sam spoke, voice soft. “You didn’t sleep.”
Bucky shook his head, biting his bottom lip. “I know.”
Sam didn’t push. Just sipped his coffee and watched the fog slowly thinning across the field.
“I hate this,” Bucky said quietly.
“Hate what?”
“This.” He gestured vaguely toward the horizon. “The not knowing. The... sense that I should be remembering something. Like my brain’s trying to hand me a puzzle piece and it keeps dropping it in the dark.”
Sam nodded slowly, digesting the words. “You ever think it’s not about remembering something that happened, but anticipating something that hasn’t yet?”
Bucky turned his head, frowning.
“I mean,” Sam continued, “you’ve lived through some of the worst shit a person can. You’ve learned to read signs most people can’t even see. Maybe what you’re feeling isn’t memory. Maybe it’s instinct. Trauma logic. You’re here—Fort Bragg is just down the road. That base, what it represents… maybe your brain’s reacting to proximity.”
Bucky let out a slow breath. “I don’t feel scared of the base. Not really. I just… I don’t know.”
Sam leaned back on his palms, his shoulder brushing Bucky’s. “Sometimes healing isn’t a straight line, Buck. You know that better than anyone.”
“I thought I was doing better,” Bucky murmured, voice catching.
“You are,” Sam said, and there was so much certainty in it that Bucky almost believed him. “You’ve come so far. That doesn’t mean you won’t have bad days. It doesn’t erase the progress.”
Bucky gave a tired smile, barely more than a twitch of his lips. “You’re really good at this, you know.”
“Therapy?”
“Talking me down.”
Sam bumped his shoulder. “Practice makes perfect, sweetheart.”
They sat like that for a while longer, watching the fog burn off as the sun slowly rose higher. The fields were beginning to brighten, soft gold flooding over the fence lines, glinting off the roofs of the barn and the paddocks.
From the far side of the property, the sound of laughter broke through the stillness. Yelena’s voice—sharp, amused—followed by Torres’s louder, always exuberant cackle.
They both turned their heads to see the two of them crossing through the pasture, Yelena leading the way with a feed bucket in one hand and her hair pulled up in a messy braid. Torres was trailing behind her with a bale of hay, talking animatedly, gesturing with one arm while the other held the weight against his shoulder.
“They’re up early,” Bucky murmured.
“Probably wanted to beat the heat,” Sam replied, leaning into him a little more. “You good for breakfast? Or should I tell Yelena to keep Torres out of the kitchen before he burns the cottage down?”
Bucky huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Let’s not risk it.”
Sam nudged him gently. “C’mon. Let’s eat. Then maybe take a walk. We can check out the trails by the back pasture. Clear your head a little.”
Bucky nodded, grateful. He wasn’t sure the walk would help—but he was sure that walking it with Sam would.
---------
Instead of the walk, they made breakfast.
It was quiet at first, the hush of early morning clinging to the air like mist off the fields. The kitchen filled with the soft clatter of utensils and the rhythmic sizzle of bacon curling in the pan. Bucky stood barefoot at the stove, watching batter bubble on the griddle while Sam leaned against the counter, stirring coffee with one hand and humming an old Al Green tune under his breath.
There was something sacred in it—this unspoken language of domesticity. Sam handed over the cinnamon without being asked. Bucky reached for the whisk without looking. They passed behind one another without ever bumping, every motion practiced, easy. It was muscle memory, the kind built not from war, but from mornings like these—quiet and warm and close.
Bucky didn’t smile often without effort, but this was one of those rare, stolen moments when it came easier. Especially when Sam squirted a dollop of whipped cream directly onto his nose.
Bucky blinked, deadpan. “You serious?”
Sam, grinning like a devil, leaned in and kissed it off. “Deadly.”
And for the first time in what felt like days, Bucky actually laughed. Nose-wrinkling, breathless. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, but it was real. The tightness in his chest loosened a fraction, and he leaned against Sam for a heartbeat, forehead tucked to his shoulder.
Of course, that was the moment the front door swung open with a bang and the sound of muddy boots and loud voices filled the hall.
“WE HAVE RETURNED,” Torres bellowed like a conquering hero.
Yelena trailed behind him, flicking dried hay from her braid and scowling at the mess he tracked in. “And by ‘we,’ he means ME doing all the actual work while he tried to bond with a horse that hates him.”
“She doesn’t HATE me,” Torres said, dropping his arms dramatically. “She just doesn’t know me yet.”
“She tried to bite your elbow, dipshit.”
“I have very chewable elbows, okay? It’s a known fact, Lena.”
“What does that even mean?”
They both stopped short in the doorway, blinking at the cozy scene in front of them: Sam and Bucky still tangled up in their pancake prep, soft music playing in the background, bacon frying, coffee brewing, and the unmistakable scent of sugar and cinnamon in the air.
“Ugh,” Yelena groaned, dropping her gloves onto the bench by the door. “You two are like an ad for queer domesticity. It’s disgusting. I love it.”
Torres, meanwhile, had already spotted the bacon. “Do I have permission to live here now, or—?”
“Just be quiet and eat,” Sam said, handing him a plate.
They gathered around the small, sturdy kitchen table, mismatched chairs pulled tight, steam rising from the pancake stack like incense. Torres devoured with the focus of a man possessed, muttering praise between mouthfuls. Yelena, already on her second cup of coffee, surveyed them all like a proud general watching her troops settle in.
“This is nice,” she said, surprisingly soft. “It’s almost like we’re normal people.”
Bucky gave her a sideways glance. “Almost.”
She smirked. “Speaking of ‘almost,’ after breakfast I want to show Torres the new toy I tactically acquired.”
Sam paused mid-sip. “Toy?”
Yelena smiled slowly, wicked and wild. “Bazooka.”
Sam choked. “Like… an actual—?”
“Yes.”
Torres lit up like a Christmas tree. “Can you shoot at me while I try to dodge with my wings?”
There was a silence. A long one.
Bucky set his fork down.
“No,” he said, voice flat. Final.
Torres pouted. “Aw, come on—”
“She’s not going to shoot a rocket at you so you can play tag,” Bucky snapped.
Yelena was already leaning forward, chin in hand, her expression somewhere between intrigued and deeply amused. “I mean, if he signs a waiver—”
“No one is signing anything,” Bucky bit out.
Torres raised both hands, eyes wide and dramatic. “Wow. I didn’t realize breakfast came with a side of grumpy dad energy.”
Sam leaned over, brushing his hand along Bucky’s arm in a soothing pass. “Buck, he’s joking. Mostly.”
But Bucky’s mind had already gone.
The edges of the table faded.
A flash—
Dust. Screaming. The searing weight of a launcher pressed into his shoulder. A target marked in his HUD. A child’s scream in the distance. His breath, cold and methodical. A command whispered through an earpiece. ‘Eliminate.’
He blinked.
Reality snapped back like a whip.
Everyone was still eating. Laughing. Sam was watching him with careful eyes, brow furrowed in concern.
Bucky swallowed hard. His coffee tasted like ashes.
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea is all,” he said, quieter now.
Torres tilted his head. “Wait—are you serious?”
“I just—” Bucky hesitated. His fingers were trembling. He curled them into his palm, the old scar now freshly picked scabs. “I don’t-”
Sam set his fork down slowly. “You okay?”
“I don’t know,” Bucky admitted softly.
He tried to smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.
The room fell silent for a moment, the easy rhythm of laughter and conversation suddenly too fragile to hold itself up.
Yelena gave Torres a subtle nudge. “Hey, go help yourself to another pancake. I think you missed the one with bacon baked in.”
Torres, blissfully unaware, leapt to his feet like he’d been knighted. “Oh my God, I LOVE this place.”
Yelena let him go, then turned her gaze to Bucky, something colder and sharper behind her eyes now.
“You’re remembering something.”
“Not clearly,” Bucky murmured. “It’s just flashes. Sounds. A feeling. I was holding something. I think—maybe a rocket launcher.”
“That could be any day ending in ‘y,’” she said dryly, but her tone had lost its humor.
Sam reached for Bucky’s hand under the table. Their fingers met and curled together.
“You don’t have to remember all at once,” he said gently. “Whatever it is, it can wait until you’re ready.”
Bucky nodded, but inside, the memory scraped like rust against his bones. It was there. Faint. Fragmented. But it was real.
And he had a sinking feeling it wouldn’t stay buried for long.