Southern Surrender

The night had gone exactly how it should have.

If you asked Sam, or Torres, or even Yelena beneath all her dry sarcasm, it would’ve gone down as one of the best evenings in months. Sam had brought the house down with his rendition of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” harmonizing BADLY with Torres, who kept missing his verses and ad-libbing with sound effects that somehow made the crowd cheer louder. Yelena had even—god help him—joined in for the last chorus, shouting more than singing, her arm thrown around Torres’s shoulder while he slurred lyrics and swayed on his feet like he’d forgotten what the word “balance” meant.

It should’ve been a perfect night. It looked like one, if you stood back and watched from a distance—the laughter, the warmth, the music, the easy camaraderie of people who loved each other fiercely and without condition.

But Bucky couldn’t shake the dread coiling in his gut like barbed wire.

Not even as he held Sam upright, the heat of him folded against Bucky’s side, his laughter low and breathless against Bucky’s ear.

They were outside now. The humid summer air clung to everything, thick with pine and damp asphalt. Somewhere behind them, the karaoke bar was still lit up with neon and raucous cheers, but out here in the lot, it was quieter. Still.

Yelena wrangled Torres with all the grace of someone hauling a particularly unruly goat into a barn, dragging him toward her beat-up truck while he giggled like a six-year-old who’d had too much cake. He wasn’t walking so much as shuffling—arms flailing, voice slurred, complaining that his legs were made of “cooked spaghetti.”

“If you vomit in my truck,” Yelena snapped, her Russian accent thick and full of threat, “I WILL leave your body in the woods and say you were taken by a cougar.”

“That sounds... weirdly sexy,” Torres mumbled, blinking up at her with a glazed grin.

Yelena rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle she didn’t lose her balance. “I mean animal, not older woman, you fucking idiot.”

She shoved him—gently, if not exactly delicately—into the backseat, where he collapsed in a pile of limbs and a happy sigh, mumbling something about hot honey pizza.

Bucky watched all of this unfold while still holding Sam upright beside him. Sam was heavier like this, loose-limbed and warm with the weight of a few too many drinks, his smile lopsided and fond as he leaned his head against Bucky’s shoulder.

“You smell good,” Sam mumbled, voice sleep-thick.

“You’re drunk,” Bucky replied, but his voice was softer than it should have been. He tried to sound annoyed, but it fell flat—because Sam was looking at him with those warm, hazy eyes, like Bucky was the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Doesn’t mean you don’t smell good,” Sam countered, lips quirking into a lazy smile.

Bucky huffed a laugh. “C’mon, lover boy. Into the truck before you fall over.”

He guided Sam gently, careful with every step as if Sam were fragile glass and not a trained soldier capable of leveling a city block. But that was the thing about love—it made even the strongest feel breakable. He opened the back door and eased Sam inside with a tenderness that made his own heart ache.

Sam clung to his shirt for a second longer, tugging him down. “Wait.”

Bucky leaned in, caught between exasperation and adoration. “What now?”

Sam kissed him.

Slow. Uncoordinated. A little sloppy. But real. Mouth warm and sweet with beer and breathy laughter. Bucky didn’t pull away—didn’t even try. He kissed him back, one hand braced on the truck door, the other resting over Sam’s chest like a promise.

When they broke apart, Sam stared at him like he was something sacred.

“I love you,” he whispered.

Bucky’s breath caught. The world tilted.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and brushed a thumb over Sam’s cheek. “I love you too.”

But the words tasted wrong.

Not because they weren’t true—but because SOMETHING was coming, and he could feel it. Like a freight train, just around the bend.

He buckled Sam in gently, brushing sweat-damp curls from his forehead as Sam sighed and settled into the seat, mumbling sweet nonsense that made Bucky’s heart feel too big for his chest.

Then he closed the door and stepped around to the passenger side, sliding in beside Yelena, who had already started the truck.

She didn’t say anything for a minute, just flicked on the headlights and pulled out of the lot, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. The radio played something soft and forgettable, barely cutting through the noise of Torres and Sam in the back seat, who had somehow rallied enough strength to start singing again—badly.

Yelena sighed. “This is my hell.”

Torres howled out a line of ‘Living on a Prayer’ while Sam clapped off-beat. Bucky, despite everything, snorted.

“You did this to yourself,” he muttered.

She cut him a sidelong glance, one brow arched. “You’re the one dating the patriotic golden retriever.”

“He’s not a retriever.”

“He’s a retriever,” she said, flatly.

Torres hit a high note that cracked like glass. Yelena winced. “I’m going to drive us into a ditch.”

But Bucky barely heard her now.

Because the laughter behind him—the warmth, the joy, the love—it didn’t quite reach where the dread sat coiled in his stomach. It twisted there, restless. The itch hadn’t left. If anything, it had gotten worse. Louder.

He looked out the window as they drove, the trees passing in a blur, the soft glow of the town falling behind them like embers fading in the dark.

He was surrounded by people he loved.

And still, he felt like something was watching.

Waiting.

Like the past wasn’t just a shadow anymore—but a shape. Taking form. Almost visible if he looked too long at the edges of things.

Yelena glanced at him, just once, not enough to seem like anything.

But he caught it.

The way her eyes lingered.

The way she looked worried.

It wasn’t like Yelena.

Not in the way Bucky knew her—not in the feral, unflappable way she usually carried herself, all swagger and sharp-edged humor and unspoken threats coiled just beneath the skin. No, this look was different. Quieter. Subtler. She hadn’t said a word since the truck pulled away from downtown, but it was in the corners of her mouth, the flick of her eyes in the rearview mirror, the rare absence of some dry, cutting remark at Torres and Sam’s expense. Something sat heavily in her chest, and Bucky could feel the weight of it pressing into the narrow cab like a second atmosphere.

He glanced at her, frowning softly.

Behind them, the chaos had finally dulled. Torres was a mess of limbs, one leg hitched awkwardly over the other as his head lolled against the window, mouth slack in deep, dreamless sleep. Sam had gone quiet too, curled against the seat with one arm slung over his eyes, lips parted just slightly as his breathing settled into a soft, steady rhythm. It was peaceful, almost intimate, that quiet descent into exhaustion—but for Bucky, the silence only amplified the roar in his own head.

They drove for a long moment in that thick, strange quiet—crickets thrumming outside, tires humming against the old country road, the weight of something unspoken stretching like tension wire between them.

Finally, Bucky broke the silence, his voice low and rasped, more resigned than confrontational.

“What’s your problem?”

It wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t angry. It was just... tired. That special kind of weariness that crawled into your bones when you were done pretending not to notice the cracks forming in the walls around you.

Yelena didn’t look over right away. She turned her signal on—needlessly, as the road was empty—and flicked it back off after they passed an unmarked turn. Her fingers were tight around the wheel, knuckles pale even in the low dashboard glow.

“I’m thinking,” she said, finally. Her voice was quiet, no hint of sarcasm, which unsettled Bucky more than if she’d snapped at him.

He sighed and let his head rest against the window, the glass still faintly warm from the day’s heat, now fading into the still, thick humidity of the southern night. Pines rushed past in a blur, their shadows long and bent in the moonlight.

The silence stretched again, longer this time. Not companionable. Not hostile. Just... weighted.

Then, almost too softly, Yelena spoke again. “I don’t trust him.”

Bucky didn’t need to ask who she meant.

He snorted under his breath, lips twitching into something that might’ve been a smile if the knot in his gut wasn’t pulling tighter with every mile.

“No shit,” he muttered.

But Yelena didn’t return the banter. Didn’t snort. Didn’t roll her eyes. She stayed silent, and when Bucky finally looked over, he saw her jaw tight, her expression unguarded in a way he didn’t often see.

“This isn’t funny, Barnes.”

That pulled him straighter in his seat. He turned to face her fully now, dread starting to pool behind his ribs like cold molasses.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, voice low.

Yelena’s eyes flicked to the mirror again, confirming that both backseat passengers were still out. Then she glanced at him—just briefly, but the look was enough to send a chill up his spine.

“I think you know him,” she said.

Bucky blinked. “I don’t.”

“You DO,” she insisted, quietly, firmly. “Or your body thinks you do. Something in you RECOGNIZES him. You’ve been on edge since the second he stepped on my property.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Because she wasn’t wrong.

He had been on edge. But hadn’t he been BEFORE that? Since they got to Southern Pines? Since the drive past Fort Bragg? Since the scar in his hand started to itch again?

“I DON’T know him,” he repeated, shaking his head. “I don’t remember—”

“But you might have,” Yelena interrupted, her voice still controlled but gaining urgency now. “What if he was in one of those files we never opened? What if you knew him THEN—not now, not as Bucky Barnes, but before. As HIM.”

Bucky’s shoulders twitched, his muscles pulling taut beneath his shirt.

He looked away.

“Stop,” he said quietly.

“No,” Yelena pressed, soft but relentless. “What about Kandahar? Afghanistan? Does that ring any bells? What about Riley—Sam’s partner—what do you remember about that name?”

“I don’t,” Bucky said again, voice sharper now. He pressed two fingers to his temple, blinking hard.

“Think,” she whispered. “Was there a mission? A cliff? A fall? You said something about climbing—what were you climbing toward?”

“Stop.”

“Was it a kill order? Were you targeting someone—was it Riley? Did you know him?”

“I said stop,” Bucky bit out, clutching his head now, the pain blooming hot and bright behind his eyes.

Yelena’s hands were still on the wheel, steady and composed, but her tone shifted—gentle now, coaxing.

“If we can figure out what happened, we can—”

“YELENA.”

The name came out ragged, his voice thick and raw, both hands pressed hard against his skull now. The truck was moving too slow, too fast—he couldn’t tell. The pine trees on either side of the road blurred into something disorienting. His ears were ringing. The scar in his palm was burning.

“I DON’T remember,” he gasped. “I can’t—every time I try to reach it, it’s like—it’s LOCKED away. It WON’T LET ME IN-”

Yelena’s knuckles flexed against the steering wheel, her mouth a hard line. “Then force it. You’ve done it before.”

“I CAN’T-”

He doubled over slightly, forehead nearly pressing to the dashboard, jaw clenched as the pain crested, sharp and electric, stabbing like ice picks behind his eyes. The world narrowed to a single point of pressure, of heat, of memory clawing against the inside of his skull without form or clarity.

“Tell me what you’re seeing,” she said, and now there was concern in her voice, real and unguarded. “James—tell me—”

“STOP.”

He whispered it this time, and it was worse than shouting.

The word hung there, fragile, broken.

She looked over—and for the first time since he’d known her, her eyes held no calculation, no edge, just worry.

He was shaking. Sweat slicked his brow. His hands trembled as they dropped into his lap, curled like claws, nails digging half-moons into his thighs.

“I’m sorry,” Yelena said softly. “I’m trying to help.”

“I know,” he breathed. “Just... not now. Please. I—I need to breathe.”

And so, for the rest of the drive, they didn’t speak again.

Only the silence remained, wrapping around him like a vice, and the pain behind his eyes like a warning:

‘You are not ready for this.’

-----------------

The world was still in that slow, hazy hush that only came with early southern mornings—the kind that crept in on padded feet, before the hum of cicadas or the chatter of breakfast radios. A faint breeze rolled through the open window above the bed, carrying with it the scent of damp pine, warm earth, and distant honeysuckle. It curled through the room like an exhale, lifting the edge of the curtain and then letting it fall again with the lazy rhythm of something barely awake.

Bucky stirred before the light fully crested the horizon, the gray-blue dawn filtering through with soft shadows. He blinked into the stillness, head heavy but not aching, body slack from too little sleep but still somehow aware. He knew that feeling—the weight in the air. A storm was coming. He could feel it in his ribs, in the dull pressure behind his eyes, in the way the breeze didn’t quite offer relief. It wasn’t hot yet, but the heat was hiding just beneath the soil, waiting.

His eyes adjusted, and he rolled carefully onto his side, gaze falling immediately on the man next to him.

Sam was still asleep—deeply so, face turned toward the window, mouth slightly parted, breath slow and even. One arm flung across the sheets, the other curled up close to his chest. His shirt was askew, twisted from sleep, exposing the smooth curve of his shoulder, the strong line of his collarbone. His short, cropped curls were a mess, haloed around his head like he'd been wrestling angels in his dreams.

And God, Bucky loved him.

So much it hurt.

He reached out, slow and reverent, brushing a callused thumb across the soft line of Sam’s jaw. He let his fingers linger there, tracing the dip beneath his ear, the curve of his neck, the place where pulse met skin in a quiet, steady beat. Sam was warmth and strength and steadiness. He was the first thing Bucky had ever allowed himself to want without shame.

If anything ever happened to him...

Bucky’s heart clenched. No. He couldn’t finish the thought. Wouldn’t.

The wind shifted again, cooler now, tugging at the curtain like fingers reaching in from some distant memory. He could feel the pressure change, the slow crawl of barometric weight pressing against his chest.

A storm was coming. Outside, maybe.

Or something else.

A low groan broke the silence, followed by a rustling of sheets as Sam slowly blinked awake.

Bucky quickly softened his expression as Sam turned toward him, bleary-eyed and squinting against the muted gray light. Sam made a noise that could only be described as a death rattle, followed by a muttered, “Shit.”

Bucky huffed a laugh through his nose. “Morning, sunshine.”

Sam winced. “Why are you already awake? Oh GOD- HOW are you already awake?”

Bucky gave a soft shrug, still laying on his side, propped up on one elbow. “Super soldier serum, remember? That, and you talk in your sleep.”

Sam cracked one eye open. “Did not.”

“You did. Something about... karaoke world domination. I stopped listening after you called me a snack, though.”

That pulled a groggy chuckle from Sam, who reached out and lazily tried to drag Bucky closer. “You ARE a snack,” he mumbled, then winced again and flopped back onto the bed, groaning. “Ow. God, my everything hurts.”

Bucky grinned, eyes twinkling. “Getting old?”

Sam peeled one eye open again and glared at him. “You’re literally over a hundred.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, voice smooth. “But I’m PRESERVED.”

“Shut up.”

“You brought it on yourself. Who sings Bon Jovi that hard without hydrating first?”

“I will throw you out of this bed.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Sam groaned and rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. “Too early for your mouth.”

Bucky chuckled, low and fond, pushing the comforter down and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stood slowly, stretching until his back popped, arms over his head, spine lengthening.

Sam cracked one eye open again—just enough to let it trail down the length of Bucky’s back, the planes of muscle, the scars, the smooth gleam of the vibranium arm catching the dull light.

“Damn,” Sam mumbled.

Bucky paused mid-stretch, smirking over his shoulder. “What?”

“You look good,” Sam said, eyes still half-lidded, like it was some secret he didn’t want to share with the universe just yet. “I mean. Really good. That’s just rude.”

Bucky laughed—quiet, breathy. “Shut up. I’m getting you water.”

“Bring me drugs too,” Sam groaned. “The good kind.”

“No promises.”

He padded quietly out of the bedroom and into the hallway, the floorboards creaking under his bare feet. The house smelled like wood polish, old hay, and last night’s pizza. He made his way to the kitchen, the light from the window painting silver lines across the wooden countertop. Outside, the sky was growing darker in patches, the first low rumble of thunder echoing far, far away.

Bucky stood at the kitchen sink, one hand curled around the edge of the counter, the other holding the glass beneath the stream of cold water. The sound of it filled the room, quiet and steady, but his focus was fixed on the window in front of him. Beyond the smudged glass, the world looked… strange. The kind of strange you only noticed if you’d spent enough time around war zones, or inside too many dangerous silences.

The horizon had shifted since he woke. The pale blue wash of early morning was giving way to a black wall of cloud creeping in from the west, swallowing the soft morning light as it came. Lightning blinked somewhere in the belly of it, faint flashes of electric white against deep, brooding gray. The pines were still, too still, their branches barely swaying despite the wind that had picked up in uneasy gusts.

He could feel it in the pressure, too—low and heavy, the way it settled behind his eyes and along the bridge of his nose like a coming migraine. It was a warning. One he didn’t know how to interpret yet.

His gaze flicked lower, past the fence line and across the pastures. Hay had been scattered, and a few of the horses were already chewing lazily, heads bobbing as they worked through breakfast. But it wasn’t the horses that caught his eye—it was Yelena.

She was moving methodically across the gravel pathway that led from the barn to the fenceline, shoulders tense, hair pulled back into a high knot. She was already dressed for the day—tight riding breeches, a dark thermal long-sleeve shirt, boots laced tight. Not just riding gear. Tactical gear, if you knew what to look for.

Bucky did.

She stopped at the far fence post and crouched, gloved fingers adjusting something that glinted faintly in the overcast light. A wire. One of her trip sensors. Then she stood, checked the pole-mounted security camera, and moved on to the next marker without hesitation.

She was sweeping the perimeter.

Something clenched tight in Bucky’s gut. Their conversation from the truck last night came back in full: the nagging feeling, the headache, the way she’d pressed just enough to make him bleed from the inside out. The pain that had cracked open behind his eyes like a pressure valve, the storm that had clawed its way toward the surface and then fled the moment he tried to look at it head-on.

He looked away from the window, his pulse skipping once.

No.

Not now.

He turned the tap off, watching the final droplets fall into the glass. The sound was too loud in the silence. The hum of the refrigerator, the creak of the floorboards beneath his bare feet—they all pressed in at the edges. He grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen from the counter, shook two into his hand, then padded quietly back down the hallway toward the bedroom, trying not to let the dread follow him like a shadow.

Sam was still in bed, tucked beneath the sheet, sprawled out like he had no intention of moving until well past noon. His eyes cracked open as Bucky entered, a lazy smile pulling at his lips even as he winced.

“You look like you got hit by a bus,” Bucky murmured, setting the glass and pills on the nightstand before sliding onto the edge of the mattress.

“Feel like it,” Sam rasped, then chuckled low in his throat. “But I regret nothing.”

“You never do, sweetheart.” Bucky replied, his voice soft.

Sam pushed himself upright just slightly, groaning as he reached for the glass. His hands were sluggish, so Bucky took it instead, guiding it toward him.

“Let me,” he said gently.

Sam didn’t argue. He took the pills from Bucky’s palm, then drank slowly, Bucky’s hand steady at the back of his neck as he tilted the glass. Once he was done, he sank back down, sighing as Bucky smoothed his fingers through the short curls at his temple.

“That’s nice,” Sam murmured. “Your hand. It’s cool.”

Bucky leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Thought it might help.”

“Mmhmm. You’re good at this,” Sam said, eyes fluttering shut. “All soft and caring in the morning.”

Bucky snorted quietly, brushing another curl from his face. “Don’t tell anyone. You’ll ruin my reputation.”

Sam opened his eyes again, heavy-lidded and slow, and reached for Bucky’s wrist as he moved to stand.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

Bucky paused, glancing down.

Sam was watching him with a look that was still sleepy, but no less sincere. “You okay?”

There it was.

That question again. The one that made the scar on his palm itch. The one that curled that ache tighter in his chest like a secret trying to escape.

“I’m fine,” Bucky said, lowering himself onto the bed again beside him.

Sam’s gaze dropped to his hand, and he reached for it, palm brushing against the old scar now framed by perfect skin. The wound from last night was gone, replaced by that same crescent of tissue that never quite faded.

“Always amazes me,” Sam murmured. “That you heal like that.”

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” Bucky replied. “Doesn’t stop things from hurting.”

Sam was quiet for a beat. “No. I guess it doesn’t.”

Bucky moved to get up again, but Sam held on, not tight, just enough to pause him.

“You’d tell me, right?” Sam asked. “If something was wrong?”

Bucky froze.

The words should’ve come easily. Of course. Always. Yes. But instead, he hesitated—just long enough for it to matter.

Sam didn’t push. Didn’t flinch. He just looked at him the way he always did, with patience and trust, even when Bucky didn’t feel like he deserved it.

“Yeah,” Bucky said eventually, nodding, his voice quiet. “I’d tell you.”

But the guilt sat thick in his gut, bitter and cloying.

Sam let go, letting his arm fall back to the mattress. “Okay,” he said, not smiling this time. Just watching. Just SEEING him.

Bucky leaned down and kissed him again, soft and slow.

“Rest,” he whispered.

And then he stood, walked to the door, and stepped out into the hallway, leaving Sam behind in the cocoon of tangled sheets and growing questions he didn’t know how to answer. Not yet.

Outside, thunder rolled again—closer this time.

The storm was almost here.

------------------

Bucky stepped out onto Yelena’s wraparound porch, the old screen door creaking behind him before slapping shut with a soft, tired thud. The boards groaned under his weight, familiar now, but somehow louder in the heavy quiet of the morning. The sky had gone gray—no longer the gentle haze of early dawn, but a deeper, bruised slate, smeared thick across the horizon like an unspoken warning.

He stood still for a moment, just beneath the overhang, arms folded across his bare chest, eyes locked on the southern tree line.

There, far off in the distance, the storm was gathering itself.

The clouds weren’t just dark—they were the kind of black that swallowed light. A wall had formed, rising behind the dense forest, like something ancient and slow moving, the way a mountain might rise in time-lapse. It was still miles off, but he could feel it in his bones. The pressure had dropped again, almost imperceptibly, but his body noticed. The serum didn’t care if the storm was hours away. His instincts were wired for survival, and his nerves had already gone taut beneath his skin.

His shoulder ached in that dull, familiar way it always did before rain—an old pain that had nothing to do with damage anymore and everything to do with memory. Phantom pain, he supposed. But he didn’t rub the shoulder. Didn’t stretch it out or try to ease it.

Instead, his fingers drifted to his right palm, absently brushing the crescent of scar tissue like he might somehow smooth out the twitching thought that had taken root in his mind and refused to let go.

Guilt clawed at his ribs.

It wasn’t guilt like the kind he used to carry—the kind that dragged him beneath its weight, crushing him with images of the Winter Soldier’s trail of blood and silence. No, this was something else. More subtle. More frustrating.

He didn’t know what he was hiding from Sam—but he WAS hiding something. He could feel it, thick and unspoken, coiled around his spine like a serpent of unease.

The wind shifted, and with it came the smell.

Not the crisp, clean scent of ozone that most people noticed before a storm—but deeper, denser. The rain hadn’t touched the earth yet, not here, but Bucky could smell where it would. The sharp scent of petrichor carried on an electric wind, laced with moss and copper and something he couldn’t quite name. He breathed it in, slow and cautious, as if his body might recognize something his mind hadn’t caught up with yet.

The hairs on his arms stood on end. Static. Anticipation. Pressure. It all hummed in the air like a warning bell no one else could hear.

He exhaled sharply, shoulders curling inward for just a breath, then straightened.

This was useless.

He needed to move.

He stepped off the porch and into the open air, bare feet sinking slightly into the damp grass. The wind tugged at the hem of his sweats as he made his way down the steps, out into the yard, and toward the pasture fence that ran the perimeter of the property.

He followed the worn path along the fence line, where horse prints dotted the soft dirt and grass had been worn to brown beneath hooves. The air was thick, and the wind tugged at the trees in slow gusts, making the pine needles whisper secrets he couldn’t quite make out.

The farther he walked, the worse the itch got—not physical, not really. It was mental, emotional, some kind of pressure building behind his eyes like something waiting to be remembered.

His eyes scanned the tree line beyond the property, gaze shifting constantly, too fast, the way it did on missions. He wasn’t in combat. He KNEW that. But it didn’t stop the training from bleeding through. The longer he walked, the more it crept in—the subtle alertness, the way he noted the position of every outbuilding, every potential blind spot.

The wind picked up again, colder this time, sharp and insistent as it cut across the back of his neck.

He stopped walking.

Looked up.

That wall of cloud had grown. It was higher now, the underbelly tinged with green—a sickly, unnatural hue that stirred something primal in his gut.

A storm was coming. The kind that could level a house if you weren’t careful.

But it wasn’t just the storm pressing on him now.

It was THAT FUCKING MEMORY.

Or—not even a memory. A THREAT of a memory. Something circling just outside the reach of thought, too blurry to catch, too loud to ignore. It pulsed behind his eyes, behind his scar, like a pressure valve building to burst.

He turned in a slow circle, scanning the pasture, and then finally spotted her—on the far side, kneeling near the corner of the fence, her fingers doing something meticulous with one of the sensors she’d buried weeks ago.

Yelena.

Always methodical. Always precise. He watched her for a moment, feeling like a ghost in his own skin. His feet didn’t move. His breath didn’t deepen. He stood there, frozen, feeling that itch flare again at the base of his skull.

She crouched low, head bowed, one hand twisting a length of wire beneath the fence post with quiet precision. The storm framed her silhouette like something out of a painting—sharp against the looming dark, hair whipped loose from its knot, eyes narrowed in concentration.

Yelena moved like a soldier pretending to be a civilian—fluid, calculated, with just enough casualness to fool the untrained eye. But Bucky knew better. He saw it in the way she checked each fence post with surgical precision, in the way her eyes flicked to each corner of the property like she was still clearing a room, in the way her hands—though bare—twitched like they were always half a second from reaching for a blade. She was meticulous, methodical, a constant contradiction of control and unrest, always calculating even in peace.

And he didn’t blame her.

He felt it too—that undercurrent of wrongness, like a ripple in a still pond just before something surfaced. The kind of tension that didn’t scream, didn’t shout—it coiled, it waited. And now, it lived in his chest.

He moved toward her slowly, footsteps silent against the damp earth despite the gravel. He hadn’t meant to go quiet. Not deliberately. But as soon as he’d stepped outside, as soon as the wind brushed past his bare shoulders and the air prickled at his neck with the promise of a storm, he’d shifted. Without thinking. Without effort. He became a shadow again. Old instincts settled in like an unwelcome second skin.

Yelena didn’t hear him until he was nearly at her side. She shot up like a wire snapped loose, pivoting with a speed no ordinary civilian could match, the blade in her hand catching the low, storm-heavy light as it came to rest just under his jaw.

His breath didn’t hitch. He didn’t blink.

“Morning,” Bucky said flatly, meeting her eyes with cool disinterest. “You always greet guests like this, or am I just special?”

Yelena narrowed her eyes, exhaled sharply through her nose, and pulled the blade back, sliding it into a sheath hidden at the small of her back. “You scared the shit out of me.”

He shrugged, offering a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess I still got it.”

“Still got what?” she muttered, bending again to her task. “The ability to make people almost stab you?”

He didn’t respond, not immediately. He just stood there, arms folded across his chest, eyes on the horizon where the black clouds were slowly swallowing the pale morning light. The sky was split between two moods—one soft with a hint of peach and lavender, the other bruised and storming, thick with pressure and the threat of downpour. He could smell the rain from miles away. It was a sharp, electric scent, metallic and heavy. Like blood on iron. It filled his nostrils and made his shoulder ache where the old metal met bone.

“You’re basically naked,” Yelena muttered, breaking the silence. “Wandering my property like a feral ghost. At least put a damn shirt on before the horses start mistaking you for an omen.”

He finally smiled—soft, but fleeting. “You’re lucky I’m wearing pants.”

“I’d shoot you on sight if you dared.”

“Flattering.”

She didn’t laugh. That was how he knew something was bothering her too.

He moved to crouch beside her, watching as she adjusted the wiring on a weather-warped post with deft, practiced fingers. He didn’t offer to help this time. She hadn’t asked.

“What are you really doing out here?” he asked quietly. “You’ve already swept the perimeter twice. Maybe three times.”

Yelena’s jaw ticked, her focus not wavering from the post. “You’re keeping count now?”

“I’ve got eyes,” he said simply. “And not a lot else to do while spiraling.”

That got her attention. She looked up, sharp and focused now, eyes narrowing slightly as she studied him—not the surface of him, not the relaxed posture or the faint smirk, but the tension beneath. The way he was holding himself too carefully. The lines around his mouth. The constant pull at the scar in his palm.

He avoided her gaze.

“You don’t believe in peace, do you?” she asked finally, straightening up and brushing her hands off on her pants. “Even when it’s right in front of you.”

Bucky stared at the ground. “Doesn’t feel like mine.”

“What, because you didn’t build it with your own hands?”

“No,” he said, then paused. Swallowed. “Because I ruin things. I touch peace and it goes to shit. I walk into a quiet place, and the silence never lasts.”

Yelena stared at him. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

He stood too, slower this time, brushing dirt from his knees, eyes distant.

“You’ve made a good life here,” he said, voice lower now, quieter. “This place. These horses. The kids you teach. You’ve carved something good out of something hellish. And now I show up, dragging ghosts behind me, rattling like chains. I see the way you look over your shoulder now. I know that look.”

Yelena exhaled slowly, and for a moment she didn’t speak. Then she turned on her heel and started toward the water troughs. He followed.

“I don’t look over my shoulder because you’re here,” she said. “I do it because I’m always looking. That’s what keeps me alive. That’s what kept YOU alive.”

He watched her check the water level, watched her pretend to be casual. But her shoulders were too tight. Her hands moved too precisely.

“You were happier before I got here.”

“I was quieter. There’s a difference.”

“You’re dodging.”

“And you’re being an idiot.”

They stopped walking.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. His gaze dropped to the dirt again. “You don’t understand. You can’t. I feel like I’m ruining everything.”

Yelena stepped closer. “You think I’d let you ruin my life?”

“You let me stay.”

“Because you’re my family,” she snapped. “And because you don’t get to decide you’re a curse every time your brain spits out a bad memory.”

He flinched, just slightly, like her words struck somewhere vulnerable.

She softened. Barely.

“James,” she said, quieter now, watching him. “You don’t even know what this memory IS. You said it yourself. You CAN’T remember. So how can you sit here and declare guilt for something you haven’t even uncovered yet?”

“Because I FEEL it,” he ground out. “I feel it in every bone. I’ve done something—something bad enough that my mind buried it. And now it’s coming back. And it’s going to take everything with it.”

Yelena exhaled, stepping back slightly. The wind tugged at her braid.

“You’ve remembered worse,” she said.

He met her gaze. “I don’t think I have.”

He dropped his gaze. Rubbed at the scar on his palm, already raw from worry. “I’m terrified, Lena.”

“I know.”

“If I lose Sam—”

“Hey. You WON’T.”

He looked up. The conviction in her voice knocked the air out of him. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” she said, louder now. “Because he loves you. All of you. The parts that laugh and cook him breakfast and brush his hair out of his eyes. The parts that shut down and spiral and can’t sleep, which, no offense, is most of you. And the parts you still don’t understand. He loves all of it.”

He shook his head, throat tight. “I don’t deserve that.”

She stepped into his space, reaching out—not touching him, just making sure he saw her. “He chose you. Not because you’re perfect. Because you’re YOU. And nothing you forgot, nothing you might remember, is going to undo that.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Well, I do.”

The breeze lifted again, cooler now, carrying the smell of rain and thunder. He shivered, though not from the cold. The fear in his chest pulsed harder, darker. And he knew—he KNEW—something was coming.

“You’re still scared,” she said quietly, frowning softly.

He nodded, and for a moment, his eyes stung with something hot and sharp.

“I can’t lose him,” he whispered. “If I do, that’s it. That’s the end. Everything good goes with him.”

Yelena’s face softened, but her voice didn’t. “Then hold on tighter and stop looking for reasons to let go, Barnes. He LOVES you, no matter what.”

He closed his eyes.

Lightning forked across the sky, followed by a roll of thunder like a distant drumline. He felt the storm in his bones. Felt the weight of what was still hidden pressing against the edge of his mind, coiled and waiting.

“We should head inside,” he murmured. “Storm’s almost here.”

She didn’t argue. Just turned and walked with him, her pace unhurried, her presence grounding in a way few things ever were.

And Bucky, shirtless and barefoot and trembling from something no one could see, followed beside her—quietly praying that the storm inside him wouldn’t tear down everything he’d finally begun to love.