Chapter 3
Don’t move.
Don’t open your eyes.
Breathe as usual.
Where am I? The thought was jagged and fractured, slipping through his mind like shards of broken glass. He tried to focus—tried to remember—but everything was a blur, slipping away as soon as he reached for it.
Hydra? No. Maybe?
He sensed the rough material he was sinking into. Something soft was laying on top of him.
Not a cell.But a trap, a trick? Could be.
Don’t move. Breathe as usual. Don’t panic. His instincts screamed at him to stay still, to assess. He resisted the urge to shift, to look around. If this was another test, another cell, any sign of consciousness could bring them—the handlers, the scientists, the pain. He’d learned that lesson well.
He strained his ears. The room was quiet—too quiet. No footsteps. No voices. Just the distant hum of a refrigerator, the creak of wood settling. Normal sounds? Maybe. His thoughts were staccato, disjointed. Stay still. His muscles tensed, ready to spring into action, but he held back. Play dead.
Think.
Think.
Think.
Panic rose in his chest. He has a hard time taking steady breaths.
Stop. Breathe. Think.
Think. But nothing made sense. Who… where… what happened? He tried to gather his thoughts, but they slipped away, leaving him with nothing but fragments.
He lightly opened one eye. The room was small, cramped. A window—curtains closed. Light, but dim. A table, cluttered. A glass of water. A book? He couldn’t be sure. Familiar? No. Nothing was familiar. Everything was wrong.
Where am I? The question circled back, gnawing at him. Why can’t I... His mind hit a wall. Names? Faces? Who? He didn’t know. Couldn’t know. It was like trying to grab smoke.
He needed to move—check the door, the window—but fear kept him rooted. Traps. Pain. Don’t move. They could be watching. Waiting for him to slip. To show he was awake.
But who? He searched the void for an answer, but it was empty. His head pounded, the ache growing with every second. This isn’t right. Nothing’s right.
The questions echoed in the emptiness. He focused on the details he could gather—there was no restraining strap on his arm, no burning sting of drugs in his veins. The air smelled faintly of something familiar—soap, maybe, or laundry detergent—clean and homey, nothing like the sterile scent of antiseptic, blood, and mold that haunted his nightmares.
That’s not a lab. Not a cell.
Then where? His chest tightened.
Don’t know.
Don’t know.
He had to get up, had to move, but every instinct screamed at him to stay down, to pretend. He couldn’t let them know he was awake.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps. Creaking of floor. Or steps. Someone’s here. Soft steps were getting closer and closer.
His hand hovered near the edge of the sheet, ready to throw it aside, to lunge—don’t let them see you coming. His breath was shallow and controlled. Stay calm. Just a few more seconds. Other hand stretched to his boot, reaching for a knife hidden there. The familiar weight was reassuring—a lifeline in the chaos of his mind. Get ready. Don't hesitate. The footsteps grew louder, each one echoing in his skull like a countdown.
The door handle turned, and his grip tightened around the hilt. He moved silently, muscles coiled, ready to spring—take them down fast, no mercy. The door creaked open, light spilling into the room as a figure entered.
A gasp exited Veronica’s mouth when she saw a man ready to throw a knife at her. A bag fell from her hand. She raised both her arms.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else. He shifted, just enough to see, his mind screaming to attack. But then—her face. The knife in his hand faltered.
‘Bucky?’ Her voice trembled, barely a whisper, but it cut through the fog in his mind like a blade. He froze, his heart still pounding. Her expression—fear, concern, something else—it wasn’t what he’d expected. Not from an enemy.
For a moment, he didn’t move, the knife still clutched in his hand, his body ready to strike. But her face—that face—it was pulling something from the depths of his mind, something buried but unbroken.
‘Veronica,’ the name slipped out, unbidden, and with it came a flood of memories. Fragmented, disjointed, but enough to stop him in his tracks. She’s not the enemy. She’s not Hydra.
The knife trembled in his grip as his mind scrambled to piece it all together. The realization crashed over him, and his grip on the knife slackened. Bucky’s breath hitched as he stared at her, the pieces of his shattered memory slowly clicking into place.
His blade fell down on the floor with a soft creak of metal. Veronica flinched, but she didn’t move back. Instead, she took a hesitant step forward, her eyes never leaving his.
‘Bucky, it’s okay,’ she said, her voice shaky but steady as she spoke. ‘You’re safe. You’re with me.’
Pieces of memories clicked back together like a jigsaw puzzle.
She’s not Hydra. I’m not there anymore.
‘I’m sorry, shit, I’m so sorry,’ he mumbled, his voice thick with the remnants of panic. But she shook her head, stepping closer.
‘It’s okay,’ she whispered, reaching out with trembling hands. He didn’t take it. He moved even more not to let her touch him. She just stood with her hand withdrawn to offer comfort from a distance.
***
Knife hidden back to the left shoe was lightly pinching his foot. The knowledge that a blade was there was both reassuring and ominous. He could defend himself but also hurt someone. Hurt her.
He sat at the small table that previously served as a makeshift operation table, watching her move in the kitchenette. She tried to look relaxed, bustling about, but her shoulders were tense. She was glancing over her shoulder once in a while, checking on him.
The smell of cornmeal toasting and the simmering broth filled the small room, grounding him in the present. His mind was still racing, flashes of disjointed memories and instincts he couldn’t fully control, but the rhythmic sounds of her preparations—water bubbling, the gentle scraping of the wooden spoon—were oddly soothing.
Bucky’s gaze dropped to the floor, noticing the way her bare feet moved quietly over the cold tiles. His own combat boots, mud-caked and scuffed, felt wrong and heavy on clean flooring. Without a word, he bent down, unlacing them and setting them delicately beside her worn canvas shoes. The shoes sat together, hers small and familiar, his large and out of place.
Veronica’s eyes softened, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she caught the gesture.
‘Do you want some tea?’ She asked, accompanying the sound of water boiling in the kettle.
‘No, thanks,’ he said immediately.
He almost flinched when two cups landed in front of him, pulling him out of his thoughts. The small, chipped cup was pleasantly warming his hands when he picked it up. Steam reaching to his face made it a little red because of his cheeks lightly blushing. His tensed body ached for a warmup like that.
A steaming liquid seemed delicious, but he couldn’t bring himself to accept it. He couldn’t use her like that. She had already done so much for him.
He placed the mug back on the table, pushing it further from himself so it wouldn’t lure him. His metal, glowed hand was stil warm from the temperature of the liquid.
Veronica didn’t speak much, just a few quiet words now and then as she worked. She’d seen the panic in his eyes when she walked in earlier—the way he’d tensed and expected a danger. But she hadn’t asked questions. Not yet. Instead, she’d calmly set to work in the kitchen, giving him the space he needed.
'Almost done,' she murmured, stirring the thickening mamaliga. The cornmeal mixture was turning golden in the pot, smooth and creamy as she whisked it with practiced ease. 'It’s not much, but I hope you will like it. My grandma used to make this.'
She placed a bowl full of thick substance, cheese, and a fried egg in front of him. His stomach groaned loudly, exclamating it's in need of food. But he hesitated.
‘Come on, it’s not poisoned’ Veronica smiled with a mouth full of mamaliga.
‘I can’t eat that,’ he said, absently staring at his bowl. Her smile dropped.
‘Oh shit, I haven’t asked you.' Her panicked voice echoed in a room. ‘Are you allergic or something? Or maybe you don’t like it?’
‘What? No-’
‘I will make you something different. What would you like?’
‘No, wait,’ he hissed when he reached to stop her from rushing to the kitchen.
Silence became tangible again. She hid her face in her hands, trying to gather her thoughts. He was massaging his sore wound.
‘You have already done so much for me; I don’t want to use you anymore, and-’
‘You are not using me!’ She burst out, ‘Okay, okay, let's start all over again. You are my guest. You do not owe me anything. We’ve met in a strange situation, but it doesn’t matter. If you want to eat this, I will be greatly pleased.
The hunger won over him, and he started shoving spoonfuls of food into his mouth. Veronica watched him eat, relief softening her features. She hadn’t meant to push, but seeing him take that first bite eased the tension she’d been holding in her chest. She let out a quiet breath and sat back down across from him, taking another bite of her own meal.
They ate in silence, the only sounds being the clink of their spoons against the bowls and the distant hum of the city outside. It wasn’t awkward, though. It was a silence filled with something close to peace, or at least the beginning of it.
When Bucky finally set his spoon down, the bowl nearly empty, he glanced up at her. ‘Thank you,’ he said, his voice gruff but sincere. ‘For the food... and everything else.’
Veronica smiled, a warm, genuine smile that reached her eyes. ‘You’re welcome, Bucky, but you don’t have to thank me for everything’
'No, I have to,’ he said suddenly in a stronger manner. He knew that thanking wasn’t even enough. ‘You have already done so much for me, and I want to make it up for you just a little’
‘You don’t have to,’ she sighted. ‘I’ve already said, Let's forget about everything what happened earlier. And if you really want to make it up to me, you can… I dunno… Wash the staircase because my neighbor is always complaining that I should do it more often.
‘Yeah, I can do it’ He chuckled a little. ‘By the way, do you possibly know anyone looking for a worker, any kind, any job?’
‘Actually, I do!’ She reached for her phone and exclaimed the number, ‘He should find you something to do. But I don’t know if you will be able to work… How is your shoulder, by the way?’
Bucky hesitated for a moment, his gaze dropping to the floor as if searching for an answer he didn’t want to give. When he finally spoke, his voice was restrained, almost as if he was forcing himself to sound casual. 'It’s... fine. Just a bit sore, nothing I can’t handle.'
‘Can I check?’
For a moment, Bucky seemed to struggle with himself, his body tensing as though caught between wanting to trust her and the instinct to keep everything hidden. But then, slowly, he relented. His movements were deliberate, almost hesitant, as he peeled off his shirt, exposing the gauze that clung to his shoulder. Veronica’s breath caught in her throat when she saw the dark stain of blood, but what truly shocked her was what lay beneath. As she carefully pulled back the dressing, she found herself staring at a wound that was already well on its way to being healed, the fresh pink skin standing in stark contrast to what she expected to see.
‘How…?’ She breathed out, her voice trailing off in disbelief as she lightly touched the skin, almost as if she needed to feel it to believe what her eyes were showing her.
His entire body went rigid, his discomfort almost palpable. ‘I… I have a fast metabolism,’ he admitted, the words tumbling out with a nervous edge. ‘And healing, too. It’s complicated. Please… don’t ask any more.’
Veronica’s fingers hovered for a moment longer before she quickly pulled back, sensing the vulnerability in his tone. 'Okay,' she responded, her voice filled with quiet understanding. She didn’t press him, didn’t question further, just carefully rewrapped the wound with gentle hands, her touch more delicate now, almost reverent. Once she was done, she let the fabric of his shirt slip back over his shoulder.
Her fingers hovered for a moment longer before she quickly pulled back, sensing the vulnerability in his tone. ‘Okay,’ she responded, her voice filled with quiet understanding. She didn’t press him, didn’t question further, just carefully rewrapped the wound with gentle hands, her touch more delicate now, almost reverent. Once she was done, she let the fabric of his shirt slip back over his shoulder.
As Bucky moved to adjust his shirt, his sleeve inadvertently slipped, revealing a brief flash of metal where there should have been flesh. Veronica’s eyes immediately locked onto the gleaming prosthetic, making her curiously turn her head.
Bucky noticed her stare, and without thinking, he quickly covered the exposed metal with his hand, as if trying to shield it from view, his entire posture closing off, defensiveness settling in his eyes.
‘You have a prosthetic?’ She said before she could bite her tongue.
‘Yeah,’ he responded, the word coming out clipped and tight, as though it was a painful admission rather than a simple fact.
Veronica immediately regretted her words, her heart sinking as she saw the way Bucky stiffened, pulling back into himself. She felt a flush of embarrassment rising in her cheeks, her stomach twisting in knots. 'Oh, God, I’m sorry,' she blurted out, her voice shaky and hurried, almost tripping over the words in her rush to take them back. 'I didn’t mean to pry, or… or make you feel uncomfortable. I just… I wasn’t thinking.'
She bit her lip, her eyes darting to the floor, feeling foolish for having brought it up in the first place. She hadn’t wanted to make things awkward or drag him into a conversation he clearly didn’t want to have. She glanced at him again, worry etched on her face. 'I just… I didn’t mean to make things weird,' she added quietly, her fingers fidgeting nervously with the hem of her sleeve, not quite sure how to fix the moment that had just slipped away.
For a brief moment, Bucky’s guarded expression faltered, replaced by a look of quiet surprise. He hadn’t expected her to understand, but there was something in her tone, in the way she spoke, that resonated with him. ‘I know,’ he replied, his voice softer, the harsh edge gone, replaced by something almost like gratitude.
The silence stretched between them again, but this time it was comfortable, almost companionable. Bucky leaned back in his chair, his body finally starting to relax, if only a little. He was still on edge, still alert, but the immediacy of the threat felt distant now, overshadowed by the warmth of the food and her presence.
Veronica yawned, covering her mouth with her hand. ’It’s been a long day’
‘You can go to sleep, I will wash the dishes.’
‘No, I…,’ she wanted to oppose, but she knew that she really needed to rest. She was all sore, and her leg started hurting really bad. ‘Thanks’
Bucky nodded, watching as she moved toward the bed placed in the corner of the room, not far from where he would be sleeping. The apartment was tiny—there was no escaping the shared space, no separate bedroom to retreat to. She turned back to him just before lying down, her hand brushing against the blanket. 'Goodnight, Bucky.'
‘Goodnight, Veronica,’ he replied, his voice softer now, more at ease when he sounded her name.
Veronica pulled the blanket up around her, curling into a comfortable position as she settled in. The apartment fell silent again, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant sounds of the city outside. Bucky looked around the dimly lit space, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and unease. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, just the two of them.
As he washed the dishes, the warm water running over his hands, he let his thoughts drift. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring or how long he could stay in this fragile peace, but for tonight, it was enough. The memory of Veronica’s small, sincere smile stayed with him, a glimmer of something hopeful in the midst of all the darkness.
In the quiet of the night, with Veronica lying just a few feet away, Bucky allowed himself to believe, if only for a moment, that he might find a way to fit into this world again.
***
Loud music blared from two large speakers, the bass reverberating through the smoke-filled apartment. The air was thick with the scent of burnt cigarettes, a haze that clung to everything, making the space feel even more cramped. There were only twelve of them, but it felt like the presence of twice more. On missions, they were calm and composed—professionals to the core. But here, at the party, they were unrestrained, letting loose in a way that only those who lived on the edge knew how.
Veronica was deep in conversation with Conan when Heather slid into the seat beside her. The overpowering mix of her friend’s perfume and the sharp bite of alcohol hit Veronica instantly. Heather wrapped an arm around Veronica’s shoulders, pulling her close. Her lips stray on Veronica’s face. Veronica could hear the muffled voice of the guy next to them, trying to join in, but his words were lost in the pounding rhythm of the music. It didn’t matter; nothing mattered except the thrum of the beat that seemed to sync with her heartbeat. The red couch beneath them was soft, almost too soft, as if it might swallow them whole.
A moment later, Lucas and Mark joined them, their usual grins plastered on their faces, each holding a cigarette in one hand and a red cup of beer in the other.
They were like two-faced beasts. On mission, the best snipers focused on their task, but back to the base, they were truly party animals.
But then something shifted inside her. Veronica pulled herself out of Heather’s embrace, her movements unsteady as she stood. She needed to go to her room. She felt an urge to get out. Now. She had to go.
As she reached for the doorhandle, everything exploded.
She staggered back, disoriented. Screams pierced the air, mingling with the sharp, burning pain in her leg. The smoke that filled the room became thick and sufocating. Her ears rang with a high-pitched whine that drowned out everything else. Panic surged through her as the smoke grew thicker, choking her lungs.
She couldn’t breathe. Pain was agonizing.
She heard Heather's voice, distant and distorted, as if calling to her from another world. But the scene around her shifted violently. The apartment dissolved into a vast expanse of sand.
She was back in the desert. The sun bore down mercilessly, the heat oppressive, the sand endless. Veronica saw all of them—her friends. Their bodies were broken, bleeding, and their faces twisted in agony. They screamed at her, their voices raw with pain, but she couldn’t move. She was paralyzed, rooted to the spot, unable to help, unable to even scream.
***
Veronica jolted awake, drenched in sweat, her heart racing as if it were trying to tear itself free from her chest. Her breath came in shallow gasps, each inhale like knives in her lungs. She blinked rapidly, trying to ground herself in the present, but the dream—the explosion, the desert, the screams—clung to her like smoke, refusing to let go. Her right leg throbbed with pain, her muscles tense as if she were still bracing for impact.
Tears welled in her eyes, hot and unbidden, and before she could stop herself, they spilled down her cheeks. Her throat was tight, her body trembling as the panic swelled, pushing her closer to the edge. She swallowed hard, trying to stifle the sob threatening to escape her lips. Her hands gripped the blanket like a lifeline, knuckles white with the force of it.
She looked up, trying to find any reassurance. Panic surged through her veins as she scanned the room, her eyes finally landing on Bucky. He wasn’t asleep on the couch. Instead, he sat there with a notebook open on his lap, his pen moving thoughtfully across the pages as if he had been writing something important.
‘Bucky,’ she whispered, her voice shaky and barely audible. Her body trembled uncontrollably.
Bucky looked up from his notebook, his expression immediately softening as he noticed her distress. Without hesitation, he set the notebook aside and moved toward her, concern etched into his features.
‘Veronica, it’s okay,’ he said gently, kneeling beside her. His calm presence was a stark contrast to the chaos swirling in her mind.
Her chest tightened, the panic still clawing at her, refusing to let her breathe properly. She clutched her leg where the pain from her dream still throbbed.
Bucky reached out, his hand hovering hesitantly before resting lightly on her shoulder. ‘It was just a dream,’ he assured her, his voice steady and soothing. ‘Take your time. Breathe. Just... breathe.’
She tried to follow his instructions, but her breath came out ragged and uneven. Her chest felt tight, like the weight of the desert sand was still pressing down on her. She tried again—inhale, exhale—her mind grasping at the rhythm he was offering. She glanced at him, seeing the genuine concern in his eyes, the way he cared without pressing her for details.
Then her breath steadied just enough to talk ‘I’m… I’m so sorry.’ She ran her shaking hand through her hair nervously. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you up.’
‘Don’t apologize; I wasn’t sleeping anyway.’
Veronica wiped at her face, embarrassed at how shaken she still felt. She hated being like this—vulnerable, exposed. She stood up, ignoring him. She couldn’t bear his stare.
Her gaze drifted toward the small cabinet across the room, where she knew she had stashed a bottle of vodka weeks ago. The thought of the sharp burn sliding down her throat, numbing the turmoil inside, was tempting—too tempting.
She couldn’t walk without the pain. She needed to steady herself by the wall to walk to the kitchen. Bucky’s gaze followed her, but he said nothing as she grabbed the medicine bottle and poured out a handful of pills. She swallowed them dry, her throat burning, then reached for the vodka, her hands shaking as she unscrewed the cap.
She glared at him as if daring him to start reprimanding her. But he didn’t say anything; he just walked to the table and stedied himself on the chair.
‘Do you want some?’ She asked, but he refused.
She sat next to him, placing a bottle on the table. She drank too quickly to even be under the ilusion that she drinks for fun. She wanted to get drunk and forget everything.
After a long moment of silence, broken only by the clinking of the bottle and the sound of a glass being filled, she finally spoke, ‘I think… maybe we should try to get to know each other… you know, while we still can.’
‘That’s… probably not the best idea’ Bucky replied quickly, ‘We shouldn’t know anything more about each other than it’s necessary. It’s dangerous’
‘Yeah.. you are probably right.' silence settled between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Veronica shifted in her seat, the alcohol buzzing in her veins, making her braver—or maybe just more reckless. ‘But... what if we just asked stupid, not important questions? No heavy stuff, I promise.’
‘So… You want us to get to know each other, but without getting to know each other?’ He asked jokingly
‘Well, no… maybe yes… You just have to ask the right questions.'
He couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips despite himself.
'Like… do you prefer cats or dogs?' She asked, her tone playful, her eyes daring him to answer.
‘What question is that?’ Bucky laughed surprised.
‘A very serious one. So: cats or dogs?’ she insisted
‘I don’t know... Maybe... probably cats’
'Interesting,’ she said, her voice growing softer, almost dreamy.
‘And you?’ He couldn’t resist her magnetic energy. He was now all in the game of questions.
‘Both’ She smiled proudly, ‘Definably both. I guess I just don’t like choosing.’
Bucky chuckled, the sound lighter this time but still carrying the weight of unspoken things. ‘I can see that about you.’
‘Your turn,’ Veronica insisted, a mischievous grin spreading across her face as she squirmed in her chair like an excited child.
He shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I don’t know. I’m not good at this. You ask the questions.’
‘Nope,’ she said, shaking her head with mock sternness. ‘Either you ask something or I’ll start asking you some very personal questions.’
He let out a soft, nervous chuckle, trying to stall. ‘Okay, okay, give me a second to think.’
‘Tick-tock, tick-tock,’ she teased, clicking her tongue like an imaginary clock, her eyes playfully narrowing as she watched him squirm.
‘Uh, where were you born?’ He finally blurted out, almost wincing at how basic it sounded.
Veronica burst into laughter. ‘That’s a very personal question!’ she teased, then leaned back with a smirk and took a big sip from the glass. ‘But fine. Illinois, US. And you?’
He raised an eyebrow, surprised. ‘Wait, you’re from the US?’
She nodded, a bit of nostalgia flashing in her eyes. ‘Born in the US, raised by my Romanian grandma. And you?’
‘New York. Brooklyn,’ he replied.
Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘No way! You speak Romanian so well. How did you learn?'’
He hesitated, then tried to deflect with a small smile. 'That’s too personal,' he said, attempting to keep the mood light.
She laughed with her face red, both from laughter and alcohol. ‘Alright, alright, different question then. Do you have any phobias?’
Bucky hesitated, the lightheartedness of the game making way for something deeper. ‘That’s… that’s a tough one. You first.’
She bit her lip, thinking. ‘Well… I’m deathly allergic to bees. So, naturally, I’m terrified of them.’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I guess… I hate trains.’
Her expression softened, realizing the weight behind his words. ‘Is that... where your accident happened?’ she asked gently.
Bucky’s nod was almost imperceptible, but it was there.
Veronica leaned forward, her voice tender. ‘I’ll protect you from trains,’ she promised with a small smile.
‘And I’ll protect you from bees,’ he replied, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. Somehow, she always managed to make him feel just a little lighter.
She beamed at him, raising her glass in a mock toast. ‘Your turn.’
He sighed, still unsure. ‘I really don’t know what to ask—’
‘Tick-tock, remember?’ She interrupted, clicking her tongue again, her gaze playful but with an intensity that made him want to participate.
‘Okay, okay,’ he said, caving under her expectant stare. ‘What’s your favorite color?’
She groaned dramatically, hiding her face in her hands. ‘Nooo, that’s a terrible question! You’re just going to laugh at me.’
Bucky couldn’t help but chuckle, intrigued. ‘Why would I laugh?’
‘Because it’s pink. A freaking pink! What serious adult person likes pink? And hey, you said you wouldn’t laugh!’ Veronica protested, her voice tinged with genuine offense, though her eyes held a glimmer of vulnerability. ‘And you, Mister, ‘Laugh-at-Somebody’s-Favorite-Color’?’
Bucky tried to stifle his laughter, but it kept bubbling up, not at the color but at how serious she was about it. He finally shrugged, still smiling. ‘I don’t remember, but—’
‘How can you not remember your favorite color?! It's literally your favorite color, not something you need to remember’
The laughter died in his throat, his face draining of color as reality came crashing back in, sharp and unforgiving. How could he have been so careless? It was as if, for just a fleeting moment, he’d forgotten who he was—what he was. He had let himself relax and allowed the comfort of her presence to make him believe, even for a second, that he was just a normal person, capable of small talk and harmless banter. But he wasn’t normal. He was anything but.
The weight of his past, of the things he had done, the person he had been—how could he explain any of it? How could he possibly make her understand the broken fragments of memories that haunted him, the shards of a life that didn’t feel like his own?
He could feel the walls closing in, the protective barrier he had spent so long building threatening to collapse under the weight of her gaze. He didn’t know how to be this person she thought he was and didn’t know how to be anything other than what he had been trained to be. The Soldier. The weapon. And now, caught in this vulnerable moment, he was terrified that she would see through the cracks, see the monster lurking beneath the surface.
‘Hey, are you okay?’ Veronica’s voice pierced through the fog in his mind, pulling him back from the edge. But her concern only deepened his dread. How could he possibly answer her? How could he find the words to explain the truth, without destroying the fragile connection they had just begun to build?
‘I—I…’ His voice faltered, and he swallowed hard, trying to push down the rising tide of panic. But the words wouldn’t come. He felt like he was drowning, unable to breathe, unable to think. ‘I have… I’ve lost my memory some time ago,’ he finally forced out, the confession hanging in the air like a dark cloud, heavy and suffocating.
Veronica's eyes widened, she froze a little, and then emptied another glass of vodka. Bucky shifted unconfortably on the chair and stiffened in position.
‘I didn’t see that coming,’ Veronica finally said, her voice heavy with the weight of his confession. ‘Man, that sucks.’
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. But then, with a flicker of her previous self, she forced a small, teasing smile. ‘But… you know, I haven’t told you something about myself.’
Bucky looked up, a hint of color returning to his face. ‘Yeah?’
‘I loooove oversharing when I’m drunk,’ she said, drawing out the words, and then let out a genuine laugh. ‘And right now… I am absolutely loaded.’ He couldn’t help but chuckle along with her. ‘So, special offer tonight—you can ask me anything. Seriously, anything.’
‘Anything?’ he echoed, trying to shake off the lingering tension.
‘Anything,’ she repeated, throwing her head back, letting her hair cascade down her shoulders.
He hesitated, then asked, ‘Okay, were you in the military?’
Her laughter stopped abruptly, her expression sobering. ‘Yup. Sort of. You?’
Bucky hesitated, noticing the sudden change in her demeanor. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to—you don’t have to—’
‘No, it’s okay,’ he cut in softly. ‘I also was, sort of.’
They both fell into silence, lost in their own thoughts. The hum of the refrigerator grew louder, and the red-blue flashes of a passing police car briefly illuminated the room, casting eerie shadows on the walls.
‘I was more of a special forces type... a small strike team, type of shit.' Veronica finally said, her voice distant, as if she were speaking to herself. She let out a bitter laugh. ‘I know I didn’t do that well back then, at the market, but I swear I can fight better... I could at least’
‘Yeah,’ Bucky responded quietly, almost to himself. ‘I usually do better to’
It felt strange talking about things like this—about fighting, about hurting, about killing. The words hung in the air, heavy and unresolved.
Glas clinked on the table when Veronica hid her face in her palms. Her shoulders bagun shaking a little. When her eyes peeked out from behind her hands, they were full of tears.
‘The people I worked with... my friends, my Wraiths...’ Her voice cracked, and she quickly wiped her eyes, as if embarrassed by the display of emotion. ‘Shit… I don’t want to dump this on you... I’m sorry.’
Bucky leaned forward, his voice gentle. ‘You can talk, Veronica. It’s okay.
She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. ‘I kinda enlisted too young, you know? I didn’t have anyone back then, and I thought… God, it sounds so stupid now… I thought that the military could replace anything that was missing from my life.’ Her voice cracked one more time ‘ And I worked so hard to be the best, to be on top, because what else was there? And then I met them… we worked together, lived together… we were a family, in every way that mattered.’
She smiled, but it was a sad, fleeting thing. 'We were all so young, so reckless… we thought we were indestructible. And then… they just died. Just like that. Gone.’
She didn’t break down, didn’t sob or wail. She just stared into Bucky’s eyes, her tears silently trailing down her cheeks.
‘Everyone, the doctors, the psychiatrists, my superiors… they all said it was an accident, that it wasn’t my fault. And I wanted to believe that, I really did.’ She sniffled, her voice a fragile whisper. ‘But when all your friends die… and when you’re the only one who survives... how do you convince yourself that it wasn’t your fault? Tell me how?’
Bucky sat there, paralyzed, as he watched Veronica’s face crumple. Her shoulders shook slightly as she hid her face in her hands, and he could see the tears streaming down her cheeks when she finally looked up at him, her eyes red and glistening. She was trying so hard to hold it together, to keep her composure, but it was clear that the weight of her past was crushing her.
He wanted to help, to say something that would ease the ache in her heart, but he didn’t know how. What did people do in situations like this? What could he possibly say that wouldn’t make it worse? His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling into fists as he fought the impulse to reach out to her. Closeness felt like a foreign language, something other people did, something he wasn’t built for. He wasn’t sure he even remembered how to do it, or if he ever knew.
But as he sat there, watching the silent tears fall from her eyes, something shifted inside him. Slowly, almost tentatively, he lifted a hand, hesitating as it hovered in the air between them. With a deep breath, he closed the space between them. His arms, stiff and unsure, wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her into an embrace that felt both foreign and natural all at once. He wasn’t sure if he was doing it right, wasn’t sure if this was what she needed, but as he felt her melt into him, her body leaning into the comfort of his presence, he knew that it didn’t matter.
The tension in his muscles slowly eased as he held her, his hand brushing gently through her hair. He didn’t have the words to take away her pain, didn’t have the power to undo the hurt she had endured, but he could give her this—this moment of connection, this silent understanding that she wasn’t alone.
'It’s not your fault,' he whispered, his voice low and steady, the only thing he could think to say as he rested his chin on top of her head. 'And… I think pink is a really pretty color.'
She let out a small, choked laugh, burying her face in his chest as the tears continued to fall. And for a moment, in the midst of all the pain and regret, there was comfort.