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embbarnes · 23 days ago

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Limbo | W.S

summary: Not quite Bucky, not quite Soldat, but all yours.

a/n: Oh my god, I have no self control. I love writing WS!Bucky and I'm glad so many people have been enjoying it too. So, I finally got to a smut. I won't write the typical 'aggressive' WS (if I ever do it will be like a blue moon situation) because imo I don't see that, plus...I like this better lol. Edited lightly but ignore any missed mistakes pls ty ;; wc: 5.0k

You felt like your life was a complete mess.

But it was nothing compared to his.

James, Bucky, Soldat...each name he had gave him the same reaction.

Nothing.

His brow might furrow deeply, eyes glazing over with confusion as he stares intently at the floor, his gaze drifting slowly from side to side as if attempting to piece together an impossibly complex puzzle laid out before him. When his name was called, no recognition flickered across his features, no familiar warmth lit up his face.

He wasn't truly any of the identities that had once been his. Not James with his easy smile, not Bucky with his loyal heart, not the cold precision of the Soldat.

Instead, he existed in a nebulous space between all these versions of himself, these names and personas washing over him like waves, each one bringing with it fragments of memories that would surface briefly before slipping away like smoke through his fingers. Nothing concrete would stay, only wisps of who he used to be.

He was stuck, trapped in this liminal space between identities, neither one thing nor another.

You watched helplessly as he struggled, how he would desperately grasp at each fleeting memory that surfaced, trying with all his might to hold onto even the smallest piece of his past. But inevitably, tragically, even these fragments would dissolve like morning mist, leaving him once again adrift in that haunting space between what was and what is, lost in the void between his many selves.

His handwriting often too shaky to make out among the journal’s pages.

For whatever reason, the soldier had taken to you, of all people. Not even Steve could reach him without causing further distress and confusion to the poor man. Heartbreak glossed the blonde’s eyes each time Bucky rejected Steve's gentle advances, careful attempts to trigger some form of memory, some spark of recognition from their shared past, only failed.

Your own heart ached watching these interactions, seeing the pain etched across Steve's features with every failed attempt at connection and the ever growing agitation from the soldier. You didn't want to step between them, this bond that had survived decades and wars, and you couldn't explain why he had taken such a peculiar liking to you over anyone else.

For the soldier’s sake, you took your new role without complaint.

Countless hours in the medical wing of Avenger's tower proved exhausting for the both of you. Hours of treatment on his end seemed to stretch without end, punctuated by moments of crisis when you found yourself having to wrestle with him every time someone new came into the room.

Your voice grew hoarse from spitting sentence after sentence of reassurance, constant streams of gentle reminders that no one here was going to cause him harm, that he was safe, that these people were here to help. The mantra became as familiar as breathing, though no less important with each repetition.

The soldier experienced dramatic swings between states of intense panic and unsettling calmness, making each medical examination completely unpredictable. Sometimes he would remain completely still, frozen like a statue during the procedures, while other times he would thrash and struggle with every ounce of strength to escape from the men in white. His behavior was noticeably different with female medical staff, even when they wore the white coats - he showed a marked willingness to cooperate with them much more. The behavioral change made your stomach churn with the obvious implications.

As days turned to weeks, he gradually began to show signs of adjustment within your quarters. The decision to let him stay had come naturally, as every attempt to establish separate living arrangements had proven futile…he invariably found his way back to your space.

Every time.

It became a predictable pattern: regardless of the hour, whether in the dark of night or dawn of early morning, he would somehow make his way back into your room and by your side. He was satisfied sleeping on the floor, he settled himself at the foot of it or beside it, he liked the small area tucked between the wall and your mattress, a small hidden space for him to form some sense of security.

It had been several months since the day when you first took him in, watching as he struggled daily with the fragments of his shattered identity. The psychological wounds were still raw and festering, making it impossible for him to process or accept who he truly was. Every morning brought new challenges, every evening ended in confusion and frustration.

Together with Steve, you dedicated countless hours trying to help him piece together the puzzle of his past life. Steve brought out old photographs, shared stories, and created detailed timelines in journals, but despite all your patient guidance and gentle encouragement, the poor man remained trapped in a void of forgotten memories. He couldn't recall anything from his previous life, not even the smallest detail.

The mounting frustration grew in every line of his face, in the way his hands would clench and unclench as he'd violently shove away the journals and carefully curated photos. His eyes would dart around the room like a cornered animal, accusing Steve of fabricating elaborate lies as his mind wrestled between what felt true and what his broken psyche insisted was false.

"Shut up!" Bucky suddenly exploded, sending the leather-bound photo album flying across the room with enough force to leave a mark on the wall. He launched himself up from his position between you and Steve, his entire body radiating tension and hostility. As he whirled to face Steve, his eyes were wild with confusion and fear, nostrils flaring with each rapid breath.

Steve was clearly struggling to maintain his composure through all of this too. Though he tried his best to remain patient and understanding, watching his oldest and dearest friend transform into someone who didn't even recognize him was taking an enormous emotional toll. Rising slowly to meet Bucky's challenge, Steve's face was a mixture of hurt and frustration. "I'm not lying," he insisted, his voice thick with emotion, "Your name is James Buchanan Barnes - I'm your friend!"

"No!" The soldier shouted back, his chest heaving rapidly with each labored breath as he stood there, his long dark hair falling in tangled strands over his face while he shook his head violently in denial.

"You know me!" Steve retorted passionately, his voice cracking with emotion as he faced the resistance before him, desperately trying to reach through to his old friend.

"No, I don't!" The words came out as a raw, desperate cry, filled with confusion and pain.

You wanted to intervene in their intense confrontation, but for the moment you stayed silent and watched the two of them from your position, your heart racing as you observed their exchange, wondering if maybe Steve's unwavering determination could finally break through the soldier's programmed shell and reach the Bucky that lay buried underneath all those years of conditioning.

The soldier threw a punch, his metal arm whirring with the momentum as Steve quickly dodged out of the way. The poor soldier had thrown such a powerful and uncontrolled swing that it sent him stumbling forward, his boots scraping against the floor as he struggled to maintain his balance. You immediately rose to your feet as you realized this confrontation was rapidly escalating. You had been able to keep the soldier at bay, his unstable emotions were pretty manageable up until now and you didn’t want them to get out of hand.

"Okay, enough! Steve, stop-" You warned with urgency in your voice, desperately wanting the blond man to create some distance so the agitated soldier could have space to regain his composure.

"Soldat...easy, it's okay." You placate in a gentle voice, carefully watching his tense form as he sharply turned around to face the two of you again, his chest heaving with each breath.

"He's lying!" The words tore from his throat, anger, fear, confusion filled his tone.

"It's okay...it's all okay," You soothed, focusing all your energy on defusing the situation. You held your hands out toward him in a peaceful gesture, maintaining steady eye contact despite the intensity of his gaze. "You're fine...just take a breath." Your measured, calming tone seemed to pierce through his agitation like a shaft of light through storm clouds.

Gradually, the harsh, rapid breathing that had been wracking his frame began to slow, your non-threatening demeanor and passive body language helping to anchor him back to a more stable state.

"I think that's enough for today..." You muttered quietly, glancing back at Steve with a weary expression. He was still visibly frustrated, his jaw clenched and shoulders tense, but he had enough sense and self-awareness to know it was time to back off for now. Your attention shifted back to the soldier, carefully and gently guiding him down the hallway to your room to give him a much-needed break from the intensity of the memory session.

He was noticeably stiff when he walked, his movements reverted to being mechanical and hesitant. You had no idea what thoughts were racing through his mind, but you hoped you could help ease some of his obvious distress. Days that were more emotionally tense and unpredictable tended to disturb his sleep patterns significantly more than usual, restless nights filled with nightmares and you had to tend him through them. You didn’t mind, but it was exhausting after a few weeks.

Once inside your bedroom, you quietly shut the door behind you and watched as he began to relax ever so slightly, the familiarity of your quarters helping to settle his frayed nerves bit by bit. He slowly trudged over to your bed, his footsteps still carrying that residual tension, before sitting down heavily on the edge and looking up at you with an expression that made your heart ache - his eyes shy and pouty like a kicked puppy, clear with shame and uncertainty.

"M'sorry...I was…bad. I shouted." He muttered softly, his eyebrows deeply furrowed in distress, "I just...can't..." His hand gradually balled into a tight fist and before you could react, he struck himself in the head, hitting over and over as he sat there - delivering short and sharp knocks to his temple that made you wince with each impact.

"Soldat, hey, no. Stop it right now." You quickly grasped his wrist firmly but gently, staring at him with intense concern in your eyes. "We talked about this so many times...don't hurt yourself like this. You don't deserve any punishment...none of what happened was your fault. You just got a bit overwhelmed by everything, and that happens to everyone, even me." You soothed in a gentle voice while maintaining your grip, determined to keep him from continuing to hit his head. “You don’t need to hurt yourself anymore, okay?”

He didn't reply verbally, but the gradual lowering of his mechanical arm provided enough reassurance and comfort for you to finally release your grip on his wrist. With a heavy exhale, you pushed yourself up from your position, muscles protesting slightly from the tension. "I think it's best if we stay in tonight, all things considered." You observed thoughtfully, taking measured steps toward your closet to retrieve some fresh clothes, "I'm going to take a shower, okay?" You turned back to look at him after seconds of silence, only to find his piercing gaze fixed intently on you, his eyes blinking slowly as if processing your words. "Soldat?"

"Да." The response came swiftly and automatically from his lips, prompting you to turn and make your way deliberately toward the attached bathroom. As you walked, you couldn't ignore the sensation of stress gradually creeping through your body, tension coiling through your muscles like a spring. You knew that a hot shower would at least provide some relief, hopefully working to unknot the tight muscles that had formed across your shoulders and down your back.

When you emerged from the steamy bathroom later, towel pressed against your damp hair as you scrunched the moisture from the strands, you stopped in your tracks when you crossed the threshold - the soldier was spread across your bed, his body taut with obvious need as he desperately sought some form of release.

He was alone, his eyes darting around nervously.

Your room smelled nice, a gentle and comforting aroma that made him relax ever so slightly. He felt deeply estranged sitting perched on the edge of your bed, knowing he shouldn't be on the furniture. The memory of that lesson being violently beaten into him surfaced with crystal clarity, he felt a sharp phantom pain at his side, electricity fueling his body.

Should he get down onto the floor where he belonged? You hadn't said anything about it when you left, hadn't seemed to mind his presence on the bed, so maybe just this once it was okay?

“Just this once, you mutt.” He spat at the soldier, perhaps its handler felt some sort of pity for it that day. It was just grateful it didn’t have to curl up on the splintering wooden floor by the bed.

After several long moments of internal debate, he decided to stay on the bed.

You were nice, you wouldn’t hurt him.

He laid back against the bed, a soft sigh escaped his barely parted lips. The sheets smelled incredibly good, carrying your distinct scent; your shampoo, your natural musk that gradually seeped into his sensitive nose as he hesitantly buried his face against your impossibly silky pillow.

God it smelled so good.

Try as he might, he couldn't quite pinpoint the exact notes of the scent, his senses having been shot and dulled for so terribly long. But he knew deep in his bones that it smelled good, smelled sweet and pure and perfect.

As he clutched your pillow closer, hugging it tightly to his chest, he suddenly felt something unfamiliar stirring in his gut, like a sharp fluttering sensation that made his breath catch. His trousers felt uncomfortably tighter and he glanced down at himself with wide eyes, blinking in confusion at the sight. Seeing his body react this way was deeply odd...he hadn't experienced anything like this in such a long time. His handlers always had to give him pills to get this kind of response, otherwise it simply didn't happen.

Growing increasingly curious despite his lingering apprehension, he cautiously felt himself through the fabric and was genuinely surprised to discover that it felt good. It felt...really good, wonderfully good. And it didn't hurt in the slightest. It had always used to hurt so badly before, so why didn't it hurt now? Each time one of his handlers touched him, it hurt a lot. He remembers sharp pain, it made him nauseous a lot of the time. But now…he didn’t feel that pain, only this fluttering feeling.

He couldn't help himself any longer, his control crumbling entirely. Before he fully realized what he was doing, he had frantically ripped his own pants off, stumbling awkwardly as he struggled to kick his heavy combat boots off in order to tear the restricting black pants completely off himself as he penguined around your room. Bouncing precariously on one leg and growling in mounting frustration, he nearly toppled over onto his ass in his desperation.

He stared at his crotch, his thick cock twitching and leaking fluid as it throbbed at attention. The neglected part of him begged for his touch, the way it sent neurons rapidly to his brain to do something almost hurt. The soldier was desperate yet hesitant, he hadn't been allowed to touch himself in HYDRA, it was forbidden for him to ever do so. Only his handlers had that luxury, and it never felt good.

The poor thing felt hot and he bit back a strangled whine as he finally allowed himself the intimate touch he'd been denying for so long. His trembling fingers hesitantly explored bare skin, trailing down his abdomen and to his neglected cock.

He carefully grasped himself, unsteady and out of practice, his hand moved up and down the length with tentative strokes as he tried to replicate what he knew from distant memories. He squeezed and turned his hand with experimental motions, though the sensations remained frustratingly muted, falling short of what he desperately sought. His behavior replicated that of past hands, mechanical and clinical touches that had never prioritized his pleasure or comfort.

His frustration mounted steadily as his pent up desire overwhelmed his senses, leaving him breathless and yearning for more. The soldier moved back to your bed with shaky steps, his cock felt heavy, his balls full and needy for some kind of release. He buried his face deep in your pillow once more, inhaling deeply to chase that fluttery feeling that he felt earlier when inhaling your scent.

As you stood there, freshly showered with droplets of water still clinging to your skin, the plush towel wrapped securely around your body - you were surprised at the sight before you. The soldier on your bed moved with such raw, unrestrained desperation, his movements so primal and needy that you couldn't help but wonder if this was his first taste of pleasure, as if he hadn't ever experienced the sweet release of an orgasm before, or hell, even remember what it was like.

The man clung onto your pillow, face buried in it as his hips jut into your bed, the comforter balling up under him. His grunts were muffled against the pillow, his thrusts against your sheets were sloppy and jerky. You could tell he was just trying to reach climax, but none of his actions would get him there. He'd only cause himself enough friction to stay hard.

He lifted his face up gradually, his flushed cheeks burning bright and his dark eyebrows drawn tightly together in concentrated pleasure. His lips were glossy and parted, glistening with saliva as he practically drooled with desperate need, his entire body trembling on the edge of climax. His frantic thrusting began to slow to an erratic rhythm as waves of tension visibly radiated through his muscular form. The soldier's heavy-lidded eyes fluttered open hazily, only to suddenly lock onto your watching form.

In that moment, his entire body froze completely rigid, like a marble statue caught in a compromising position, as the full realization dawned across his features that you had discovered him rutting so shamelessly against your bed.

Assuming the worst, he quickly got up and leaned back, exposing himself without realizing it. His cock angry with need, leaking thick fluid as it tried to get its host to relieve the growing pain of orgasm denial. Your eyes were naturally drawn to it, the thick member twitching and staining your favorite pillow.

His face was flushed a deep crimson with overwhelming embarrassment, his eyes cast downward to avoid meeting your gaze as he desperately tried scooting further back on the bed. The poor man was clearly consumed by shame, not just from staining your belongings but from experiencing such intense, primal need for the first time in what felt like countless decades.

You had always been careful with him before, understanding and respecting his past experiences and trauma. But right now, watching his reactions and body language, it seemed like he was silently pleading for your intervention.

And honestly...the sight of him this way made your pussy feel wetter by the second.

"Awe, baby...are you struggling?" You asked in the softest, most nurturing tone you could, slowly making your way to the bed, careful not to startle him. "Don't worry, I know it feels weird, huh...I'll help make it better."

Your hand gently reached out and ran up from his knee to his thigh, the bare skin feeling warm and inviting against your palm. Your fingertips traced delicate patterns as they moved upward, savoring each moment of contact he allowed you to have. Your eyes glanced down at the scars marring his beautiful body - silvery lines etched across his skin like a canvas of survival. He didn't like looking at them, always trying to hide them away from view, but you didn't mind. They didn't make him any less pretty to you .

You reached his pelvis, your touch feather-light as you looked up through your lashes to meet his eyes. They were glossy with need, dark with desire as he stared down at you - his broad chest heaving with painful anticipation, each breath making the muscles in his abdomen tense and relax. "Please..." he spoke meekly, voice barely a whisper, his bottom lip trembling as he gripped the sheets beneath him, desperately resisting the overwhelming urge to rut upward towards your teasing touch.

"I'll take care of you," your voice cooed, gently reassuring him as your heart fluttered rapidly against your ribcage as your gaze drifted downward to rest upon his erect cock. Your fingertips traced light patterns up the length of his thighs, the touch both teasing and tender, avoiding those silvery scars. You pressed against his thighs, carefully guiding his legs to part.

Fuck, he was beautiful.

Pretty pink head just weeping for your touch, twitching as it laid against his belly, sticky fluid webbing into his neat, curly happy trail. Pretty pearls flowing out of him as the blushed tip became a darker, angrier red with the company of your touch.

His balls hung heavy, so so full, so you gently kneaded his sac. This earned a loud whine in response to your warm hand palming against him, massaging the sore testicles. "Please, please...please, I need..." His pretty voice was so delicious as he begged for something, he just didn't know what.

"What do you want baby...tell me, I'll give it to you," you whispered softly against his skin, your warm breath causing goosebumps to ripple across his flesh. The man beneath you was struggling to maintain his composure, his chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. Tears welled in his glacial eyes as he trembled against the soft, cotton sheets, his fingers desperately clutching at the bedding beneath him.

His voice caught in his throat - a deep, ripping cry of need as you slowly placed tender kisses along his knee. You took your time, savoring each press of your lips as you traced a path along the sensitive inside of his thigh, feeling the muscles quiver beneath your touch. Just before reaching the spot he craved your attention most, you paused, letting the anticipation build a bit.

"I won't tease too much, I know you are needy." You finally grasped him, letting your hand move along. Bucky squirmed, moaning and desperately rutting up into your touch for more. You kept a slow pace, steadily stroking his hard flesh so as to not overwhelm him. Your thumb gently caressed his tip, circular motions spreading those pearly beads all around and coating the tip in a thick lubricant.

You let your thumb gently press and swipe up through his slit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make him quiver. The sensation overwhelmed him, causing his body to tremble uncontrollably as waves of pleasure coursed through him. His back arched dramatically off the bed as he cried out in pure ecstasy, every nerve ending singing with delight as it felt so good. You felt so incredibly good, your touch electric against his sensitive, neglected cock.

This was entirely new territory for him - he had never experienced anything that came close to this level of intensity before. Physical contact without pain was a rare occurrence, and when he did get touched in the past, it was never on his terms. But this - this was something entirely different, something that made his whole body feel alive with sensation. The pleasure built and built until it felt like brilliant fireworks were exploding in his belly, sending sparks of pure bliss radiating through his entire body until his fingertips and toes tingled with static numbness.

You let out a soft breath, a smile quirked at your lips as you viewed the mess of white ropes that hung against his belly and draped on your fingers from your stroking. He came already, you barely touched him and he fucking came. Disheveled, he took deep breaths and looked up at you, his eyes peeking open as a small whimper emitted from his throat.

However, he was still hard.

You wondered if super soldiers could go more than once without a refractory period.

"What do you want, Bucky?" you asked the trembling soldier, your voice barely above a whisper. His breath hitched as you leaned closer, eyes searching his face intently. "What do you want...tell me. You get to choose. You decide what happens now," you murmured, watching his reactions carefully as your hands slowly traced gentle patterns across his thighs, fingers trailing deliberately up and over his pelvis, thumbs following the natural V-line. You applied just enough pressure to his shaking muscles to make him gasp, feeling the way he tensed and relaxed under your touch.

The poor man could barely form a coherent thought, his mind clouded with desire. His hands frantically grasped at your arms, fingers flexing against your skin as he tugged and yanked lightly, desperately trying to pull you on top of him. His voice came out rough and pleading, filled with raw need as he begged, "More, more...more..." His lip trembled and his eyes watered, you had never seen him like this, so taken over by the cloud of need.

"You want me to ride?" you asked gently, your fingers unwound the towel still wrapped around your body, letting it fall softly and you tossed it off beside the bed. Your skin glowed in the dim light as you leaned forward, your voice dropped to a calm whisper. "I'll ride you, all you have to do is sit back and enjoy..."

The words ghosted across his skin as you traced a delicate path with your lips, starting at his sternum and working your way up, each kiss lingering longer than the last. Your mouth found the sensitive spot where his neck met his shoulder, and you could feel the thundering of his pulse beneath your lips.

His breathing had grown ragged and uneven, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath your touch. His arms encircled you, fingers pressing into your skin as if he were anchoring himself to reality, terrified that if he loosened his grip even slightly, you might fade away and he’d wake up in a cold cell again.

Before you knew it, his cock was poking your slick entrance and you sunk down on his length without wasting a beat, impaling yourself on his thickness. He let out a shuddering cry, his glossy eyes widening with unbridled desire as his trembling hands instinctively shot out to grasp your plush, inviting hips, fingers pressing deeply into the soft flesh.

Oh, this felt...fuck, he struggled to find words. The warmth enveloping him, the wetness made his head spin, the softness of your cunt threatened to undo him completely.

You squeezed him so good, your inner muscles contracting rhythmically around him like your body was purposefully attempting to milk him of everything he had stored away, drawing out every last drop. You carefully began to move on him, lifting your hips up slowly before letting gravity guide you back down, savoring each sensation as you felt him stretch and move your insides. The fullness was overwhelming - he was absolutely massive in you, spreading you wider than you'd ever been, yet somehow he fit perfectly, like your bodies were made for each other, two lost pieces of a puzzle finally united.

Your body moved in perfect harmony with his, each roll of your hips drawing out beautiful moans in response. The way you naturally undulated against him, finding an intoxicating rhythm that had him gasping and trembling beneath you. His hips bucked up desperately to meet your movements, seeking more of that friction that felt so damn good. The soldier's hands gripped you tightly, his fingers still digging into your skin as he struggled to maintain what little composure he had left.

"C..can't...gonna..." His voice strained and broke, he buried his face into your chest as he thrusted up hard - warm, gooey cum shooting out and coating your cervix and inner walls, pooling out of your cunt and coating him as he thrusted slowly until he stopped and remained tucked inside.

He cried out against you, his body trembling and clinging desperately as waves of intense pleasure coursed through him, his second release of the night overwhelming his senses completely. His fingers dug into your skin as he shuddered, overcome by the intensity of sensations he had been denied for so very long.

"I've got you," you whispered soothingly, your arms wrapping protectively around his broad shoulders. One hand found its way into his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gently scratched his scalp in a comforting rhythm. His face remained buried against your breasts, and you could feel the warm wetness of tears against your skin.

A seed of worry took root in your gut at his emotional response, but you quickly reminded yourself that these tears were caused by relief and pleasure, not pain or distress. His hurt body and tortured mind were simply overwhelmed by the rush of positive sensations - after decades of existing without any form of physical pleasure or intimate touch, it was natural for him to be overcome by these emotions when finally getting to experience pleasure again.

Bucky sobbed.

His body trembled violently as if the bitter chill of winter had taken his body all over again, leaving him shaking uncontrollably in the aftermath. He clung to you, unwilling to release his grip on you. The safest he had ever felt was here, wrapped in your arms, where nothing else seemed to matter.

His broken mind, a constant battlefield of screaming thoughts filled with pain and unrelenting anger, was silenced - if not just a little - when he was in your arms. The constant torment of pain and guilt became manageable right here by your side, tucked away against your chest and arms.

No longer lost. No longer wandering aimlessly.

Thanks for reading. -em 🌿

Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Images found on Pinterest.

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mournthebird · 27 days ago

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Bleeding Heart. | B.B

summary: You're his assigned nurse.

a/n: EDIT: Originally posted on my main but deleted to post here and it will be a new series I will write for. Still writing for my recovery series too! But now I have two with WS <3

A lot of nurses in WW1 and WW2 were called 'mother' or 'mom' a lot by the soldiers and I just wanted to write something like that. I made it work lol. I also tried to write more dialogue in this one since I tend to just focus on details and painting a picture so hopefully it doesn't seem too much. Also, in the comics it is said that Bucky's mother died when he was young, but for the sake of this story, she's still alive. ;; wc: 10.6k ��

Unedited because I just want to post this. Errors to be fixed later.

Bucky did his best.

He did his best to stay strong for his friend, his family, and his fellow soldiers. To be the role model he was always viewed to be, to put on a brave face and stare at fear without flinching.

But there were some things he couldn't stay strong for.

"Sergeant Barnes, this is the third time this week, and it's barely Tuesday." You frowned at the soldier sitting in your tent, his usual charming smile now tinged with a hint of pain as he clutched his side. "There are other nurses here too, you know. I'm starting to think you're deliberately getting yourself into trouble just to see me."

Bucky huffed and slowly lowered himself onto the bed, a barely suppressed wince crossing his face as he settled. His hand remained firmly pressed against his bleeding side, the crimson stain slowly spreading beneath his fingers. "Now, doll, would I do something like that?" He asked, his voice strained despite his attempt at levity. "I only like when you tend to me...you've got the gentlest touch in the whole camp. I swear it."

He grunted softly through gritted teeth, clearly trying to maintain his façade of nonchalance. But you could see right through it - the tightness around his eyes, the slight tremor in his hand, the paleness of his usually ruddy cheeks. Your frown deepened as you approached, worry gnawing at your insides. You maintained professionalism the best you could, but you couldn’t help but care a bit too much for this one soldier.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Sergeant," you replied, though your tone was gentle. You were already reaching for your medical supplies, your training kicking in despite your exasperation. "Now, let's see what mess you've gotten yourself into this time."

"It's nothing, really." He attempts to deceive, fully aware that his lie is transparent to you. A visible grimace crosses his face as his gaze reluctantly drops to the crimson stain spreading across his uniform. "Just got roughed up on the battlefield, a little scrape," he adds, trying to downplay the severity with a nonchalant shrug that doesn't quite mask his discomfort.

Your eyes narrow as you carefully examine the injury, gently pushing his protective hand aside to get a better look. The wound is angry and raw, far more severe than he's letting on. "This is significantly more than a minor scrape, Barnes," you chide softly, your concerned gaze meeting his. A flicker of embarrassment crosses his features; the seasoned soldier, so accustomed to projecting strength and capability, felt himself struggling with this moment of physical weakness.

"It's...it's not that bad, sweetheart, don't go worryin' too much about me," He chuckled through gritted teeth, his strong front crumbling as you delicately probe the inflamed skin surrounding the wound. His body instinctively recoils from your touch, a sharp intake of breath betraying the intensity of his pain. "Ah, damn it!" He hisses, his composure finally shattering under the weight of his injury. "Why'd you go and do that for," he asked with strain.

"Oh, Barnes...this seems like something you could have easily avoided," you observed, your keen eyes quickly assessing the shrapnel wound and the way it had likely come into contact with his body. You couldn't help but furrow your brow slightly, concern and mild exasperation crossing your features.

Bucky was known for his agility and quick reflexes; he typically managed to escape fights with either minor scrapes or, in the worst scenarios, severe injuries, or even completely unscathed. This particular wound, falling somewhere in between, was uncharacteristic of him, suggesting that something must have been distracting him.

"You have absolutely no sympathy for me," he grumbles, though there’s no real bite to his words. His steel blue eyes remain fixed on your hands as you carefully apply the gauze to his injury, your touch gentle and practiced. There's a subtle softening in his expression, a quiet appreciation for your care despite his feigned complaint.

"It's deep..." You muttered, your brow furrowing with concern as you carefully examined the wound. Pulling your hands away, you reached for more of the sterile gauze you had ready behind you. "I am going to keep holding some gauze over it so I can help the blood clot and stop flowing so quick," you added, your voice calm but tinged with an urgency he picked up on that only helped that tiny seed of anxiety begin to sprout.

Bucky's face contorted, his eyes met yours, searching for reassurance. "Just tell me I won’t die from it, and I’ll be fine" He attempted a wry smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. Despite the gravity of the situation, there was always a subtle tease in his playful tone. You were almost certain Bucky Barnes couldn't take anything seriously.

"You’ll live, Sergeant Barnes," you replied, your tone steady and professional. "But I won't sugarcoat it, and it isn't a simple scratch. You're going to need a substantial number of stitches, and the recovery process won't be pleasant." You turned back to the wound while you spoke to him, pressing the gauze firmly against it, the white fabric quickly bloomed with crimson. "Especially knowing you and your inability to sit still."

Bucky let out a long, weary sigh. "Fantastic. Just what I needed to add to my list of battle scars," he quipped, his voice dripping with sarcasm. But then, almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth twitched upward. His eyes, still fixed on you, softened slightly. "Well, if I have to be patched up, at least I'm in the best possible hands," he murmured, his gaze lingering on you. "And scars are pretty attractive, huh?" He quipped with a lopsided grin.

"Uh-huh. Be still for me, alright soldier?" You hummed softly, your voice soothing him a little. You could read him like a book and the more cheeky he got, the more nervous he was. You prepared a needle to numb the site of the injury before you could begin the delicate process of suturing the wound, something you had done many times prior with other patients. You were the best at stitches, able to leave minimal scarring, even on large injuries.

Bucky nodded, his body tensing slightly as he tried to suppress the involuntary shiver that cascaded down his spine at your clinical tone. A potent blend of attraction and a hint of intimidation stirred in his gut at your tone. He found your authoritative presence both alluring and slightly unnerving, he always had a secret attraction to commanding women. Something about that stern, yet caring tone of yours just made him want to pull you on top of him.

Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep, steadying breath, attempting to steel himself mentally for the impending discomfort. "Just get it done and over with," he muttered, his voice a low rumble.

"You can squeeze my hand if you want, I can do this with one," you offered. You began to clean the area of insertion, the antiseptic cool against Bucky's skin. He flinched slightly, the wipe tickling him. You smiled at the subtle flinch his body gave, observing the smile that tugged at his own lips, the short huff out of his nose that resembled a quiet laugh...it was human. A small hint that you liked about him, that little bit of him that he allowed you to see. Despite most of the nurses seeing their patients as stoic soldiers, you never did.

You angle the needle, poised to begin the procedure. Bucky's eyes flickered open, his gaze drawn inexorably to your face. He studied your features intently, noting the concentration etched in every line, before his eyes drifted to your outstretched hand. He swallowed thickly, feeling a familiar knot of nervousness tighten in his chest.

"Don't let me break your hand, doll," he warned, his voice affectionate. He reached out, enveloping your hand in his. His grip was firm enough to convey his need for support, yet gentle, mindful of his own strength and your delicate fingers. The warmth of your skin against his provided comfort, grounding him with silent reassurance.

Bucky flinches as the needle pierces his skin, the sharp sting causing an involuntary reaction. He maintains a firm grip on your hand, just as you had requested he do, but he was conscious enough not to squeeze too hard. "Damn, that stings," he grunts through gritted teeth, his voice strained but determined. The strange feeling of cold medicine rushing through his body gave him a weird taste in his mouth, his fingers remaining intertwined with yours.

You notice his discomfort and frown slightly, working as swiftly as your expertise allows, careful not to compromise the quality of your work. "I know, I know," you respond, your voice soothing his frayed nerves. "You're doing so good, Sergeant. Just a few more seconds for the medicine to get in you." Your words are gentle, almost melodic, as you maintain a deliberately calm demeanor. You modulate your tone, keeping it soft and reassuring, hoping to quell any rising anxiety he might be experiencing. “Too quick plunging it in, and it will burn more and cause extra discomfort. We don't want that, do we?”

Bucky swallows hard, his throat working visibly as he processes the sensations. A light huff escapes his lips. As you carefully withdraw the needle from his side, his eyes find yours, seeking reassurance. "You know how to make a grown man melt, don't you?" He murmurs, his voice low and tinged with affection.

"It's a gift," you reply with a hint of playful modesty, your lips curving into a small smile. You tend to the injection site, dabbing the area with a clean piece of gauze. The soft cotton absorbs any residual blood, leaving the skin clean and ready for the next step. Once you were satisfied, you reached for the nearby tray, your fingers hovering over the surgical thread and needle.

Bucky's smile softened, his grip on your hand loosening slightly as the numbing agent began to take effect. The gradual fading of pain didn’t deter him from letting go, he maintained his gentle hold, unwilling to sever it. He liked how your hand felt in his, he wished he could be holding it while you both walked down a boardwalk together, or across from one another in a fancy restaurant, a drive-in, or just…sitting close. His eyes locked onto yours, searching for something beyond the surface. "You're far too sweet for a place like this," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. The weight of his words hung in the air, the room remained quiet.

"War, murder, death... these aren't things you should be surrounded by. You should be at home, safe with your own family, far from the horrors of this place."

As you methodically prepared the medical supplies, Bucky watched you intently, his mind racing with questions about your presence here. The starkness between your gentle demeanor and the harsh realities of war was not lost on him. His mind couldn't help but drift with thoughts about the circumstances that had brought you to this profession. Your beauty, youth, and kindness seemed so out of place amidst the chaos and destruction.

It wasn't that Bucky believed women had no place in war, it was the thought of you, specifically, being exposed to the brutal, soul-crushing aspects of conflict that troubled him deeply. He struggled with the idea of your innocence being tarnished by the grim realities that surrounded you both.

"I... well, I don't really have what you'd call a family," you spoke slowly, your hands busy laying out a towel under his side. Your voice carried a hint of melancholy as you continued, "I lost both my parents when I was young. After that, I kind of... bounced around, I guess. From one home to another, never really finding a place where I truly belonged or felt wanted."

You paused for a moment, your fingers absently smoothing out a wrinkle in the towel. "So, I decided to pour myself into school. I worked incredibly hard, determined to make something of myself. Eventually, I earned my medical license, and now...now I feel like I've found my purpose in life."

You realized you had never opened up to any of the others like this before. Talking about yourself, especially your past, wasn't something you typically enjoyed or felt comfortable doing. But there was something about Bucky, his presence, his quiet understanding, the gentle look in his eyes, it made you feel...safe. He was just so easy to talk to, like a calm port in the storm of your memories.

"These days," you added, your voice growing stronger as you carefully began to dab at his wound, preparing to stitch it, "I dedicate myself to helping others reunite with their families. It's my way of...I don't know, maybe making up for what I never had." Your eyes flickered up to meet Bucky's for a brief moment before returning to your work. "I want to make sure that other people don't have to experience the loneliness and uncertainty that I did."

Bucky watched you intently, listening to every word with a deep ache in his heart. The image of a small, vulnerable version of you, shuffled from house to house, unwanted and alone, formed in his mind. The capable, compassionate person before him now was so different from that little girl you once were.

"Well," You cleared your throat, changing the subject. "I'd strongly recommend bed rest, but...I have a sneaking suspicion your superiors won't allow you the luxury of recuperating properly." You let out a weary sigh, your skilled hands meticulously finishing the final sutures.

Bucky struggles to suppress a visible wince as the needle repeatedly pierces his skin, his hand instinctively tightening around your forearm in a reflexive grip. He inhales sharply through clenched teeth, making a concerted effort to maintain steady breathing. While the sutures weren’t necessarily painful, the sensation was enough to elicit a visceral reaction from him. The foreign feeling of the thread weaving through his flesh threatened to induce a wave of nausea.

"You've hit the nail on the head," he grunted, his voice strained with a mix of discomfort and resignation. "I can guarantee they'll have me back in the field at the crack of dawn, injuries be damned." His gaze shifts towards you, catching sight of the subtle frown tugging at the corners of your lips. Noticing your concern, he attempts to reassure you, his tone softening slightly. "But don't worry too much, doll. I've been through worse, and I've got a certain image to maintain, after all. Can't let a few stitches tarnish this soldier's reputation, now can I?"

You exhaled deeply, your fingers carefully finishing the last stitch. You gently dabbed the wound clean, concern and frustration crossed your features. "I wish I had more influence around here," you murmured, your voice tinged with exasperation. "If I did, I'd insist they allow you proper time to rest and recover. At the very least, until the wound begins to knit itself back together and the flesh starts to heal properly."

Bucky observed you intently as you completed the stitching process, his grip on your arm remaining firm and unwavering. "Don't stress about that," he said, his tone gentle and reassuring. His gaze found yours, holding your own steadily. "What's important right now is that I'm patched up and ready to get back into action." He attempted to sit up straighter, his muscles tensing with the effort, but couldn't suppress a sharp wince as the movement pulled at his freshly stitched wound.

"Ah, not so fast, Sergeant..." you frowned, gently placing a hand on his shoulder to keep him from rising. "I still have to dress the wound properly. We can't have you strolling out of here with those fresh stitches exposed to the elements. That's a surefire way to invite an infection, which could lead to complications far worse than your current injury. Let's not undo all my hard work, hm?" You spoke clinically and with a slight firmness, indicating that you were going to finish.

He let out a resigned sigh, his features settling into a familiar downturn. Bucky had always been the type to leap back into the fray at the earliest opportunity, even when his body screamed for rest. But he knew you well enough by now, knew the determined set of your jaw when you were in what he fondly called your 'fixer mode.'

Reluctantly, he eased back onto the bed, his muscles relaxing incrementally. "You're worse than a mother hen sometimes, you know that?" he muttered, but there was a warmth in his eyes that belied the gruffness of his words.

A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you resumed your work. "Is that why some of the soldiers are calling me 'mama'?" The term of endearment, far from being an insult or a source of mockery, was one that never failed to warm your heart.

These soldiers, some barely more than boys, had been wrenched away from their homes and families. Many were as young as 18, thrust into a world of chaos and violence they were ill-prepared for. It was only natural that they might seek out a maternal figure, someone to offer comfort and care in this harsh new reality. And you, with your willingness to tend to their needs, no matter how minor the injury or trivial the concern, had inadvertently stepped into that role. You were the constant, nurturing presence amidst the tumult of war, a reminder of their own mothers who anxiously awaited their return.

You recalled a recent incident involving one of the younger soldiers who had come to the medical tent for something as trivial as a paper cut from a rations wrapper. You tended to his minor wound, providing not just physical care but emotional comfort as well, knowing that was probably more so what he came for than anything.

While you applied the band-aid to his finger, you couldn't help but notice the vulnerability in his eyes, a misty fog of homesickness clouding them. Your heart constricted painfully when his voice, barely above a whisper, uttered the word mama. The raw longing for his mother was etched in every line of his face as he perched on the edge of the cot, looking so young and lost in the stark surroundings of the medical tent.

Bucky's warm chuckle broke through your reverie, his lips curving into that familiar, endearing smirk that never failed to lighten the atmosphere.

"Well, with the way you fuss over everyone, I can see why they'd view you that way," he teased, his eyes twinkling with affection and playful amusement.

"Oh, is that so?" you retorted, your tone matching his playful banter. "And what about you, Sergeant Barnes? Are you next in line, hm?" Your eyebrow arched challengingly as you met his gaze, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

"For what, doll? Motherly fussin'?" He quirked back, smirking at you.

"Callin' me mama, silly." You chuckled, securing the gauze over his wound. Bucky's cheeks flushed ever so slightly, his heart fluttering at the words. He swallowed, unable to deny how much he liked the idea of calling you that, he felt that it was a bit strange but...something about it was appealing.

He searched your face, making sure it wasn't just a lighthearted joke, before letting out a soft breath. "That doesn't sound too bad."

"Do you miss your mother?" You inquired gently, your voice laced with empathy. You wondered about the depth of his longing. Most of the soldiers you met harbored a special place in their hearts for their mothers, which always warmed yours. Bucky was such a sweetheart and undoubtedly no exception to this rule. How he treated you was a peek behind the curtain, he must love his mother dearly.

His gaze dropped to his fingers, which were now absently tracing patterns on the sheets. A shadow passed over his features as he responded, "Yeah, I miss her."

The admission came out soft, barely above a whisper, but the wavering pain in his voice was unmistakable. "It's just...it's really tough, you know?" He continued, his voice strained with growing emotion. "My momma, she’s the kindest soul you'd ever meet. And now here I am, thousands of miles away, caught up in this senseless war." He paused, swallowing hard against the lump that had formed in his throat. "The truth is, I was drafted. I...I tried to put on a brave face, make it seem like I was eager to serve, but...I didn't have a choice."

For a moment, Bucky fell silent, his eyes fixed on a distant point, avoiding any eye contact. When he spoke again, his voice was tinged with resignation. "But I knew I had to be strong. For her sake, for Steve's too…before all that super soldier stuff happened to him. And in doing so, I guess...I never really allowed myself the luxury of feeling sad about the whole situation. It was easier to just...keep moving forward, you know?"

"Yeah, I know," you replied softly, your empathetic heart ached listening to him, never having heard him this way. "It's natural for her to be incredibly worried about you. But try to hold onto hope. You're strong, and you'll make it through this. One day you'll walk out of here and return home to her waiting arms."

Bucky exhaled shakily, his eyes lifted and locked onto yours. Something about your reassurance made his heart simultaneously ache with longing.

"Thank you..." he whispered, his voice barely audible, rough with emotion. He shifted slightly in his seat, subconsciously leaning towards you, as if drawn by an invisible force. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that he rarely allowed others to see.

Bucky swallowed hard, fighting an internal battle. That seemed like the norm now.

He didn't want to admit, even to himself, just how desperately he needed this moment of connection...how much he needed you and the comfort you provided.

"Until then...I'll fill in as that nurturing figure in your life, like I have for the others. You just have to let me." Your voice was soft and reassuring as you spoke, your fingers gently brushing away the stray locks of hair that had fallen across his forehead. The longer strand in front had curled slightly, disrupting the careful styling he had done that morning. Your touch was tender, mimicking a maternal touch in its care.

Bucky felt his breath catch in his throat, emotion threatening to overwhelm him. He struggled to maintain eye contact, not wanting to betray just how deeply your offer had touched him, how much your presence alone affected him. The weight of your words, the promise of care and nurture, settled in his chest like a warm, comforting blanket despite the raging environment he had been thrown to.

"You'll be my mama?" He whispered, a hint of playfulness dancing in his voice, even as his heart thundered against his ribcage and a smile began to tug at the corners of his lips.

Despite his initial reluctance to show weakness, he found himself unconsciously leaning into your touch, seeking more of the comfort you offered. The walls he had built around himself seemed to crumble under the gentleness of your gaze. "Then I'm all yours, mama," he murmured, the term of endearment fell from his lips naturally, as if he'd been waiting to say it for longer than he led on.

"Excellent work today, my brave little soldier. You've been such a wonderful patient, sitting still and following instructions like the courageous boy you are," you praised softly, your voice filled with warmth and affection. To an outsider, this might seem like a silly interaction, but it was simply a cherished game of tender make-believe between the two of you. Completely indulgent to their needs.

You enjoyed giving the soldiers a hint of maternal love, reminding them of their boyhood amongst the war and death they endured. Seeing their eyes light up from being dull to shining with tenderness was something you’d never get tired of. "Now, remember to be gentle with yourself and try not to put too much pressure or strain on your left side, alright?"

Bucky nodded obediently, his expression softening into something almost childlike and vulnerable. He was accustomed to following orders, but there was something uniquely comforting about the way you spoke to him, as if he were something precious, something to be protected. He winced slightly as he carefully maneuvered himself off the bed, mindful of his injury. "I promise I'll be careful, mama," he replied, his voice brimming with sincerity and a touch of eagerness to please.

"That's my good boy," you cooed, your eyes crinkling with fondness. The dusting on his cheeks wasn’t hard to miss, but you didn’t comment on it. "Now, off you go, but remember - be cautious and take it easy and if you need anything at all, come right back to mama.”

“I will.”

Things happened with such rapidity that you struggled to react to the unfolding chaos.

The tranquility of the camp after nightfall was abruptly shattered by an influx of unfamiliar soldiers, their presence bringing devastation and death to those you had come to know. Your eyes, wide with terror, took in the horrific sight of fallen comrades strewn across the blood-stained earth. The amount of gore you saw would be permanently etched into your eyelids, you were sure you’d never be able to un-see such disgusting sights. Unmarked soldiers rushed, killing brutally, starting fires, grenades exploding in the dirt and splattering the earth and guts everywhere.

In a moment of panic-driven self-preservation, you attempted to flee, only to have your escape halted by the heart-wrenching cry of the youngest soldier in the unit.

The anguished plea emanated from his prone form, his life essence seeping into the unforgiving soil beneath him. The weight of the situation bore down upon you with crushing force, threatening to overwhelm both your emotional fortitude and mental resilience.

Suppressing your own fear and anguish, you found yourself kneeling beside the fallen soldier, gently cradling his head in your lap. As his life ebbed away, you summoned every ounce of strength to maintain a façade of calm and comfort, though you knew you were doing a poor job. The young man's quiet sobs, born of terror and agony, pierced the air around you, louder than any of the gunfire. “Ma…ma.” The poor soldier rasped at you, his shaky, bloodied hand rasping around your wrist. It was only after his final breath had passed that you allowed your own tears to fall, having shielded him from the depths of your own fear in his final moments.

He still wore the brightly colored band-aid you had applied to him earlier contrasted against his dirt-smeared skin. The blood somehow washing right off as if to mock you.

God, your heart couldn't take this. Neither could your mind.

He was barely eighteen.

You stood, your eyes wide with terror as you frantically scanned your surroundings as things only proceeded to get worse by the second. Without another thought, you bolted off in a random direction, your only instinct being to put as much distance as possible between yourself and the chaos of the battle raging behind you. You were overwhelmed by panic and fear, only being able to focus on escaping. The lack of any combat training or experience left you feeling utterly helpless, knowing full well that you stood no chance against the well-armed and battle-hardened soldiers.

You plunged headlong into the dense forest to at least seek some cover, your feet pounding against the uneven, damp ground. Ferns slapping your bare legs as you ran, the dew from them helping wash away the blood staining your skin. Your blind rush left your sense of sight helpless and you collided with something solid. The impact was jarring, sending you sprawling backwards onto the forest floor with a resounding thud from the force.

Before you could scramble to your feet, a vice-like grip encircled your wrist, your heart sank as you realized it was one of the attackers who had caught you. As if materializing from the shadows, several more emerged from the cover of the dark ferns, their piercing gazes fixed upon your uniform as they silently deliberated your fate.

The air around them was thick with the acrid stench of gunpowder and the metallic tang of blood. Carried on the wind was the unmistakable smell of burning flesh, the destruction wrought by grenades and the inferno consuming the camp's tents.

You finally saw a single emblem that you had all but recognized, causing a wave of panic and nausea to intensify. It was red amongst their black uniforms, making out the shape of tentacles and a skull.

HYDRA had methodically and ruthlessly stripped away every last shred of your humanity, leaving you a hollow shell of your former self. Their relentless assault on your psyche knew no bounds, pushing you far beyond what you ever thought possible for a human to endure.

When they first approached you in that tiny cell they stored you in, their request seemed simple enough - they were in need of a skilled nurse to care for their injured soldiers. However, your initial refusal to comply with their demands almost made you wish you had agreed at the beginning of your capture.

Almost.

If there was one thing HYDRA excelled at, it was the systematic destruction of an individual's will. Their techniques were refined, honed over years of practice, designed to break even the strongest of spirits.

The facility was designed to erode your sense of self until you finally shattered under the immense pressure. Like a relentless tide, they wore away at your resolve, bit by bit, until you crumbled like a fragile twig beneath their unyielding boot. The speed at which you broke filled you with a deep sense of shame, feeling like you were incredibly weak minded, but after enduring weeks of near-starvation, psychological torment, and unrelenting physical abuse, you simply couldn't withstand it any longer.

You weren’t meant for this. You weren’t a trained soldier. You were just a nurse who wanted to help people.

A paralyzing fear had taken root in your very core. This hellish existence was so far removed from the life you once knew, from everything you had ever prepared for. You were adrift in a sea of terror, desperately clinging to the last remnants of your sanity.

They had curiously allowed their lead scientist to conduct experiments on you, though the exact nature of his work remained a mystery. It wasn’t like he was going to sit down and explain to you what he was going to do.

The HYDRA scientist was a man of undeniable brilliance and questionable ethics. He bestowed upon you a myriad of gifts, each more terrifying than the last. His demeanor was characteristically cruel and rough, embodying the very essence of someone who thrived in such a morally bankrupt environment.

He subjected you to a barrage of experiments, each more harrowing than the last. Serum after serum was mercilessly pumped into your veins, their effects causing you to writhe in agony on the cold, unforgiving table. Your screams were his favorite symphony, echoing through the sterile laboratory walls as the bastard actually hummed along.

The scientist's excitement was disturbing, his eyes gleaming with a twisted fascination. It was evident that having a female subject at his disposal was a novel experience for him, one that he relished with disturbing enthusiasm, devoid of basic human empathy and consumed by his perverse scientific pursuits.

Sick freak.

But you were consumed by shame, feeling that you had succumbed far too quickly to their demands. The pain was unbearable, the excruciating torment they put you through felt never-ending. You were unable to withstand the relentless torture and psychological conditioning for long, and you loathe to acknowledge just how swiftly they managed to break your resolve.

You thought you were better than that, if not physically, mentally.

The ease with which you submitted left a bitter taste in your mouth. While the scientist overseeing your case expressed disappointment at your rapid surrender, viewing it as a setback in their research, the director of the facility was elated.

They now possessed a somewhat compliant and skilled nurse for their own soldiers, one whose will had been thoroughly crushed and who lacked the ability to refuse any command, no matter how unethical or dangerous. Your newfound obedience was seen as a valuable asset, and they made good use of that without hesitation or remorse.

However, your status a caretaker did not save you from everything.

It did not grant your safety or autonomy.

You vividly recalled being guided towards a strange looking chamber, its cold metallic surface gleaming under harsh fluorescent lights. As you were carefully placed inside, the last sensations you remembered were the gradual drop in temperature and an overwhelming drowsiness before consciousness slipped away entirely, leaving you in a void of nothingness.

The cryogenic process proved to be unreliable in your case.

The facility frequently used you as a test subject for their cryo chambers, ostensibly to ensure their proper functioning. Their decision of subjecting you, their only nurse, to potential risks seemed counterintuitive. The reasoning behind their actions remained unknown, leaving you with more questions than answers. You were used to this reality, your mind fogged with an array of questions that were never answered.

Your days were a blur of tending to injured agents and wounded soldiers, with scarcely a moment to think of your situation or the facility's cryptic motivations. As time wore on, the once-distinct uniforms began to blend into an indistinguishable mass. You noticed a gradual change in yourself as well; the spark that once animated your eyes had dimmed, replaced by a weary, almost vacant gaze - you didn’t recognize yourself in the mirror.

The director issued an order for you to tend to another soldier, prompting you to make your way towards the designated room for your work. The room's layout was standard for medical procedures and treatments, devoid of any personal touches or unique features. Such personalization was strictly forbidden in this sterile environment, no photos or even a tiny plant was allowed, they didn’t allow you any individuality. The space was equipped solely with the essential supplies required for you to carry out your duties efficiently and effectively.

Upon entering the room reeking of alcohol and plaster, your eyes were immediately drawn to the soldier restrained on the bed. Thick, unyielding straps securely held him in place, allowing not an inch of movement. Even with the evident effects of sedation to ensure a drowsy state, you couldn't miss the all too familiar look of fear in his eyes. It was a look you had seen countless times before, confusion and helplessness overriding any other sense. The soldier's drugged expression did little to mask the underlying panic that seemed to radiate from his body.

"Get to work," the guard commanded, his voice gruff and authoritative as he stepped aside to provide you with access. "The subject's performance was subpar today, resulting in numerous injuries. Address these wounds and restore it to full health. The director has made it clear that a complete recovery is expected by morning, without exception."

It?

You hesitated, your eyes widening in disbelief at the unreasonable demand. "Complete recovery? But sir, the extent of his injuries is too severe for that. The sheer number of wounds on him, it’s impossible to-"

Before you could finish voicing your concerns, the guard's hand struck your face with a resounding slap, the force of the impact causing your head to snap to the side. The sting of the blow had barely registered when his fingers roughly grasped your jaw, forcing you to meet his cold, unforgiving gaze. His grip tightened painfully as he leaned in close, his retched breath hot against your skin as he growled, "I said get to work, now. Your objections are irrelevant, do what is ordered of you or you will be pulled to the corrections room again. Do you understand?"

You emitted a soft whimper, forcing every muscle in your body to remain perfectly still as he seized you roughly. This was behavior you had painfully learned over time, a survival mechanism to avoid provoking additional blows. Somehow you managed to stutter out a response, your eyes reluctantly meeting the guard's harsh gaze. "I... I understand," you rasped, your voice barely above a whisper. Immediately after speaking, you lowered your gaze submissively, another gesture that had been ingrained in you through harsh conditioning.

The guard abruptly shoved you away, satisfied with your compliance. He took a step back, silently commanding you to proceed with your assigned task. Your limbs trembled and your heart was rapidly beating against your ribcage, but you obediently gathered the necessary supplies to tend to the wounded soldier. You approached cautiously, your eyes were drawn to the gleaming metal arm that caused your brow to furrow with curiosity.

Whispered rumors and hushed conversations had taught you about this particular soldier. He was described as a lethal asset, a relentless force that pursued its targets with unwavering determination. The way the agents spoke of him was chilling - more like discussing a piece of equipment or a weapon than a living, breathing human being.

That’s where the it came from.

HYDRA held little regard for anyone outside their upper echelons. In their eyes, guards and agents were as disposable as common household items, easily replaced and forgotten.

The soldier wore a muzzle-like mask, obscuring most of his face. It left only a small opening for breathing and barely enough room to moisten his lips with his tongue. You could hear his labored breaths, raspy and wet, indicating the presence of blood in his mouth. You reached out to remove the mask, wanting to allow him more room to breathe and to see what was going on beneath it. Your fingers trembled slightly as you gently pulled it away from his face, setting it aside carefully. As you did so, you noticed thick, viscous strands of blood clinging to the inside of the mask, stretching like grotesque spider webs before finally breaking.

The moment his face was revealed, your heart felt like it had stopped beating entirely. The shock of recognition hit you like a physical blow, leaving you momentarily breathless.

What you saw before you felt... impossible.

Your mind reeled, trying to make sense of it all.

You realized with a start that you had no concept of how much time had passed since your capture. In this place, this Hell on earth, you had been cut off from all natural rhythms. The sky, its comforting cycle of sun and moon, had become a distant memory. There were no clocks, no way to mark the passage of hours or days. Time had become a fluid, disorienting concept, sometimes crawling by with agonizing slowness, other times rushing past in a blur of monotony and fear.

You almost felt like you had been driven mad by the mere concept of time itself.

Your world had shrunk to the confines of your prison. The stark, featureless walls that surrounded you had become your entire universe since the moment of your capture. They were constant, unchanging, a blank canvas for your fears and dwindling hopes. And now, faced with this unexpected revelation, you felt those walls closing in even tighter, your sense of reality shifting once again.

This soldier...his vibrant blue eyes dulled with pain and exhaustion, his once-pouty lips now chapped and drawn tight with tension and crusted with blood. You felt your throat constrict and your eyes begin to burn with unshed tears as you took in his haggard appearance.

Sergeant Barnes, James, Bucky. The name echoed in your mind, the memory of the charming soldier was nothing like the broken man before you.

He was barely recognizable.

His frame appeared gaunt and frail, even under the thick layers of the clothes he wore, you could tell this was not his ideal weight. His hair, previously neatly trimmed, now hung long and unkempt around his face. But it was the obvious new appendage that truly drove home the extent of his transformation. The metallic arm shone coldly under the harsh lights, the red star on his shoulder like a goddamn brand.

He wore what could only be described as a perverse fusion of a straight jacket and a uniform. The black material bound him tightly and restricted his breathing, a reminder to him, and blatant display, of control. Yet, it also seemed designed to showcase their improvements to his body, as if he were nothing but a prized experiment.

Surely, there were wounds hidden beneath the uniform judging by his clear uncomfortable grimace, but removing the garment to assess his condition was out of the question. The guards would never allow it; unbinding him from the table was too great a risk in their eyes.

Bucky's eyes slowly lifted to meet yours, no longer staring blankly at the ceiling and following the many cracks in it, or possibly counting the tiny dots on the paint to stay sane. His gaze was almost unbearable to meet. His eyes were always so full of warmth, now blinked with nervousness, glossing over with a sheen of unshed tears. The man before you looked so utterly unlike the Bucky you once knew. He appeared caged, not just physically, radiating an aura of defeat that broke your heart.

"Bucky...oh my god, what have they done to you?" The words escaped your lips in a trembling whisper, your hands quivering as you gently placed them on his chest. Your fingers nervously traced the unfamiliar straps of his new uniform.

At the sound of his name, a flicker of confusion crossed his features. His brow furrowed deeply, as if trying to grasp at a memory just out of reach. The sight of his fearful memory loss sent a chill down your spine, realizing that even his own name now seemed alien to him.

The soldier lying motionless on the bed regarded you with an unsettling blankness. It was as if you were looking at a stranger wearing Bucky's face - the familiar contours were there, but the essence of the man you knew had vanished.

Your mind reeled, desperately trying to comprehend the transformation before you. The Bucky you remembered - with his easy smile and unwavering loyalty - seemed to have been erased, replaced by this hollow shell. The man you once knew, the one whose eyes used to light up at the sight of you, was gone.

In his place sat this new entity, molded by HYDRA's cruel machinations into something entirely foreign.

They had systematically dismantled him and rebuilt him from the ground up. The organization had taken the brave, compassionate soldier and twisted him into a weapon forged in the fires of their ruthless ambition.

You gazed into those vacant eyes, wondering if any trace of the old Bucky remained beneath the surface, but there was nothing.

The guard spat venomously at you, his words dripping with malice as he demanded that you immediately attend to the injured soldier. His harsh voice sliced through your thoughts like a razor, and the menacing threats he uttered were more than enough to spur you into action. You managed to carefully remove the top of the soldier's uniform with trembling hands, revealing his bare chest and the horrifying extent of his hidden injuries.

His skin was a canvas of violent bruising, ranging from deep purples to sickly yellows, creating a grotesque patchwork across his torso. A jagged stabbing injury that looked raw and angry, and an active gunshot wound in his lower abdomen that was still oozing blood at an alarming rate.

Your medical training kicked in, overriding your initial shock. "How long has he been in this condition?" You demanded of the guard, urgency in your tone as your hands moved swiftly, pressing a thick wad of gauze firmly over the bleeding gunshot wound. The sudden pressure elicited a sharp hiss of pain from the soldier, a momentary crack in his composure. However, almost immediately, his features smoothed back into a mask of stoicism. You couldn't help but notice the flicker of terror in his eyes. The potential consequences of displaying weakness in this hostile environment rushed through his expression.

"Just patch it up, we don't have all day. It's due for cryo." The guard replied coldly, "Damn thing's malfunctioning too often, can't get it to obey a single fuckin' thing."

"HE." You retorted with a frown, glaring up at the guard. "This is a person! Not a machine, he is a he. Not an it." You insistence on Bucky's person only seemed to piss the guard off even more.

There wasn't much you could do to avoid the baton colliding into your face.

You were so careful, your hands steady despite the cruel denial of numbing medication as you carefully stitched his wounds. The deliberate withholding of pain relief was something they commonly did to their assets, to increase their pain resistance. Though, whether or not it was punishment for you or him, you had no idea.

The soldier lay motionless on the bed, his stoic demeanor betrayed only by the occasional twitch and curl of his lip with each precise poke of the needle. Your voice broke the heavy silence as you looked at him, "I'm sorry, soldier, I...I am, I promise...I don't meant to hurt you." The words tumbled out, a desperate attempt to convey that your actions were not born of malice, like every other action he had been used to dealing with. It pained you to think that he might perceive you as just another source of suffering in a world that seemed intent on causing him harm.

The fog of pain and confusion was thickly clouding his mind, but something about your demeanor resonated with the soldier.

A faint glimmer of recognition flickered in his eyes, as if some deep-seated instinct was trying to tell him that you were different from the others he had encountered. Yet, his thoughts remained fragmented, like scattered pieces of a puzzle he couldn't quite assemble. It was almost something instinctual, rather than logical, like his core was telling him different from his mind.

You were safe. You were a safe person.

He couldn't afford to trust the people here; that was a lesson hard-learned and deeply ingrained. The facility was a maze of deception, where even the smallest gesture of kindness could be a carefully orchestrated ploy.

They were manipulative in their methods, planting agents who acted nicer, their false warmth a siren song designed to lure him into a false sense of security. They waited patiently, hoping he'd lower his guard, crack under the pressure, or attempt any form of rebellion. And when he did, the whip came down, harder each time to break his trust.

But you...you were different. Your actions, your words, your very presence was completely different to the calculated manipulations he'd grown accustomed to. You weren't hurting him.

You were a fragile thread of hope.

That was...good.

His icy gaze seemed to be cataloging every minor detail of your appearance. The soldier's eyes traced the contours of your face, lingering on the hues of your eyes and the curve of your lips, noting with particular interest the way you furrowed your brow in concentration. His attention was drawn to the surprisingly dark, angry bruise that marred half of your face from the guard’s baton.

A soft sound escaped the soldier's lips, drawing your focus away from your task. Your gaze lifted to meet his, noticing the intensity in how he stared at your throbbing cheek. You weren’t sure why he looked so concerned, considering he had been so silent and emotionless the entire time but part of you hoped that maybe a bit of himself was actually coming to front.

"Oh... it's nothing to worry about, soldier," you murmured softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you continued to tend to his wound, carefully cleaning it before preparing to apply the next stitch. “Doesn’t hurt that bad…”

The soldier appeared far from satisfied with your response. His body tensed, muscles coiling beneath his skin as he shifted slightly in his restraints. His metal arm tore free from the binding that held it in place. The unexpected action caught you off guard, and you instinctively took a cautious step backward, your heart rate quickening. You were unsure of his actions, and you’d much rather keep yourself out of reach in case he retaliated.

He remained motionless after freeing his arm. He made no attempt to rise or to reach out towards you.

The lack of reaction gave you some confidence, and you came back to his side. "Easy..." You spoke cautiously, his behavior had been docile so far, but he could flip on a dime.

He simply stared, his hand lifting to your face slowly, the plates in his arm realigning and whirring quietly. You gave a soft flinch when his fingertips grazed the bruise, the skin throbbing and raw from recent injuries.

The metal of his prosthetic hand felt surprisingly pleasant against your skin. It was cool against your skin, soothing the warmth of your flushed face. His touch was unexpectedly delicate for a prosthetic limb, each subtle shift of his fingers executed with a finesse that seemed almost impossible for an artificial limb. Your mind thought about the potential intricacies of the arm's design. The details of its construction and capabilities were closely guarded, known only to its creator and the select group of scientists who worked tirelessly to refine and maintain it.

The feather-light quality of his caress was so lifelike, so nuanced, you wondered if his nerves had been intertwined with wires. You remembered the science fair before you were brought to the camps, the magnificent tales of the future of science. Maybe HYDRA had somehow made flying cars.

It wouldn't surprise you.

Letting him lower his arm, you carefully finished stitching the gunshot wound and the deep laceration on his abdomen, your brow furrowed in concentration. You tried to ignore the faded scar on his side from your previous work on him, remembering that exact wound was it reminded you this stoic, hurt soldier was in fact your Bucky. Well, yours might be taking it far but…to you, he was.

The guards' refusal to allow the use of site-numbing medicine only added to your efforts to make things quicker, knowing it was hurting him. Their callous disregard left a bitter taste in your mouth. Heartless bastards.

With the stitching done, your hand moved gently to assess the area around the wound to ensure everything was ready for bandaging. As your fingers lightly grazed his side, you noticed the soldier flinching under your touch. His body tensing as he struggled to stifle a shudder that rippled through his chest. You observed as he swallowed hard, his neck muscles visibly straining as he fought to keep silent. The familiar response triggered a memory in your brain, though they hadn’t brainwashed you like most of their assets, some things faded over time.

Not this. You remembered the sensitivity in his side.

It seemed that some things remained constant, despite the circumstances.

"Ticklish?" you inquired softly, your lips curving into a gentle, reassuring smile. The soldier continued to maintain his stoic façade, but you could see the cracks in his armor. His eyes briefly met yours before quickly darting away, unable to hold your gaze for more than a fleeting moment.

Curious, you repeated the motion, your fingers ghosting over the same spot. This time, you caught the unmistakable twitch at the corner of his mouth, a smile threatening to break through his stern expression. The subtle huff of air from his nostrils and the sharp upward jerk of his chest confirmed your suspicion.

Yes, it definitely tickled.

"It's okay, Soldier," you reassured him, your voice warm and understanding. "I know it probably feels a bit strange, but don't worry, I'm almost finished. Then I’ll wrap you up."

The soldier responded with a curt nod, maintaining his silence.

After bandaging his severe injuries and applying dressings to the lacerations on his face, you leaned back to assess him one more time. Your eyes scanned over your handiwork, ensuring every wound was properly tended to. With a sense of accomplishment, you let out a breath, "Alright, there we go...all done." A look of satisfaction crossed your face as you offered him a reassuring smile, your demeanor calm to try to put him at ease.

However, the guards didn’t make it easy.

They removed him from his restraints, the fleeting sense of relief that had begun to wash over him was abruptly crushed as they mercilessly jabbed him with their batons. The soldier let out a pained hiss through clenched teeth, his body instinctively scrambling to escape the source of agony. His movements were uncoordinated and shaky as he stumbled off the table, somehow still having enough strength to stand. You felt a surge of protective instincts rush through your veins.

"What are you doing?!" Your voice cut through the tense atmosphere as you stayed by his side, "He needs to stay still for at least 24 hours to allow the stitches to begin the healing process!" Your eyes darted between the guards and the soldier, you had taken a lot from this place, but you knew he had it much worse than you did.

You could only imagine what they did when no one else was around.

The guards fixed you with a menacing glare, their faces contorted with disapproval at your unexpected display of compassion. The lead guard's voice was cold and threatening as he spoke, "Your sole responsibility here is to tend to injuries, not to coddle. You will stand aside immediately, or face severe consequences for your insubordinate behavior."

As he issued this ultimatum, he raised his baton, pointing it directly at you. The weapon sparked ominously to life, its head illuminated by a dance of blue and white electricity that crackled erratically between the prongs.

"Move! This is your final warning!" The guard's voice rose to a shout, the baton still poised threateningly in your direction. The fear of feeling the weapon's cruel bite didn’t deter you. You remained rooted to the spot, standing firm between the guards and the injured soldier. Your eyes darted briefly to the hunched figure behind you, noting how he clutched at his side, his face a mask of pain.

This was The Winter Soldier, a man whose reputation preceded him, yet seeing him in such a vulnerable state stirred something within you. Your heart ached at the sight, especially knowing that beneath the fearsome moniker was Bucky - not the faceless monster so often portrayed, but a man who had endured unimaginable suffering.

A deep breath was exhaled through your nose, and you squared your shoulders and met the guard's gaze unflinchingly. "No," you declared firmly, your voice steady despite the rapid beating of your heart. "I will not move. You can inflict whatever punishment you deem necessary on me later, but this man will remain on that bed for the next 24 hours. He needs time to recover, and I will make sure he gets it." Your words hung in the air, the tense room quiet besides the occasional sharp breaths of the soldier behind you.

The guards remained silent for several seconds, it might’ve been the longest few seconds in your life.

They exchanged glances with one another, their eyes darting from face to face, before finally settling on their superior. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. Not wanting to prolong the situation or potentially escalate it into something more serious, the lead guard slowly lowered his baton. His shoulders slumped slightly as he let out a deep breath through his nose. You watched as they yielded so readily, your mind racing with anxiety and preparing for a potential false sense of security. However, you quickly pushed aside your surprise, knowing that dwelling on it now could be dangerous.

"Fine," the lead growled, his voice laced with barely contained frustration and a hint of defeat. He paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he fixed you with a stern glare. "You will answer to the director when this little game of caretaker is over." The way he emphasized 'caretaker' dripped with sarcasm and disdain.

With a final scowl, he spun on his heel, his movements sharp and angry. The other guards fell in line behind him, their boots echoing off the walls as they filed out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the lingering tension in the air.

You exhaled deeply, releasing a breath you hadn't even realized you were holding and turned your attention back to the soldier. Gently but firmly, you assisted him in returning to the bed, carefully laying him down as he writhed and let out pained hisses of discomfort. Your heart ached at the sight of his suffering.

"Shh, I know...I know it hurts. I can't even begin to imagine the pain you're feeling right now," you murmured softly, your voice taking on the same gentle, soothing tone you'd use when comforting scared soldiers on the battlefield. Your words were meant to ease his distress and provide a semblance of comfort.

It seemed to work.

His eyes were wide and filled with an innocence that seemed so out of place in this Hell, reminded you starkly of the way Bucky used to look. This supposed heartless soldier, the boogeyman of so many stories, wasn’t real. The person before you was Bucky, trapped within a persona that had been forced on him. Fresh from brainwashing, he might exhibit that emotionless soldier, one with no humanity or heart, but the persona was already beginning to crack, revealing the scared, confused, and utterly lost man underneath.

"It's okay," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath as you tried to reassure him. "You're going to lay here and rest now. That's all you need to do." Your words were simple but laden with compassion, an attempt to provide him with a clear, manageable directive in the midst of what must be overwhelming chaos in his mind. The soldier did well with orders, while you didn’t want to order him, you wanted him to be somewhat familiar with what was going on.

You hadn't spent time around him in this state before, and the unpredictability that others had warned you about lingered at the back of your mind. Your eyes never left his face, watching for any sign of comprehension or compliance, all the while steeling yourself for any sudden changes in his demeanor.

He obeyed, thank god.

You carefully positioned him on the worn, uncomfortable bed in the makeshift operating room, ensuring he was as comfortable as possible given the circumstances. Once he was settled, you dimmed the harsh overhead lights to create a more soothing environment conducive to rest. He was usually drugged, but like hell you were going to inject him with anything. A drugged sleep feels like a wink, and you wanted him to feel more rested, having the freedom of falling asleep on his own and all.

The unfamiliar surroundings clearly unsettled him, his eyes darting around nervously before finally settling on you as you bustled about, tidying up the room and preparing to leave. His mind was in a fog, thoughts jumbled and unclear, like static on an old television set. Only brief flashes of blurred memories began to shine through the static, albeit only for a split second. Regardless of his confusion, he felt an urge to prevent you from leaving, sitting up despite his weakened state.

"Ma...mama," he stuttered, his voice barely above a whisper, cracked and hoarse, yet somehow managing to carry across the room to where you stood.

You halted abruptly, spinning around to face him as he struggled to leave the bed. "No, no, soldier, you need to lie back down," you urged, quickly returning to his side to gently guide him back onto the mattress. "Please, you must stay put. Any sudden movements could jostle your stitches." Your brow furrowed with concern as you observed his face, noting the strange mixture of bewilderment and childlike innocence in his expression. It was a disturbing contrast to the hardened soldier, and it tugged at your heartstrings.

It was like his brain couldn't even function or understand what was happening.

It had been fried too much. When he wasn't the Winter Soldier, he was just...a confused blend of it all.

His metal arm grabbed your wrist with an unyielding grip, causing you to wince at the unexpected force. He looked up at you, it was clear he hadn't meant to hurt you, but something deep within him refused to let go.

"Stay. Mama, stay." The soldier's voice was barely above a whisper, rough and pleading. His eyes lacked their signature sharp and alert glaze, now sported glossy neediness. You could tell the difference immediately.

The sterile room around you, with its clinical smell of antiseptic and tacky gauze, seemed to close in around him and give him an increased awareness of the room and its possibilities. He didn't want to be left alone in this unsettling environment, one where he had suffered enough. His cell, though barren and cold, had become a twisted area of sanctuary for him.

This room was not, even if he was in a warm bed with a blanket and pillow. How sickening it must be to see, actual comforting items were so foreign to the soldier, almost outright rejected because of the unfamiliarity.

The pleading look in his eyes began to consume you while his rough voice wavered with barely contained emotion. The thought of leaving him here, alone and exposed, was becoming increasingly unbearable. It wasn't just the isolation that concerned you, the underlying threat of potential nightly visits from the guards loomed ominously in your mind. His gentle, almost childlike request for you to stay, coupled with the threat of overwhelming fear in his demeanor, ate you alive.

"Okay," you whispered back gently, your trembling hand delicately gliding over his forehead and into his hair. You noticed how tangled and unkempt it was, frowning a bit. The least HYDRA could do is let him brush his own damned hair, if they were gonna make him keep it long.

While your fingers carefully worked through the knots, you were struck by how vulnerable he appeared in this moment. How he leaned into your hand so subtly, like a beaten dog being given its first gentle pet. His features had softened, revealing a glimpse of the man you remembered from before. He looked so...harmless.

It was hard to reconcile this image with the stories you'd heard, the warnings you'd been given about this deadly asset. In the quiet moment, he seemed incapable of hurting a fly. Your heart ached, recognizing fragments of the Bucky you knew and loved, hidden beneath layers this forsaken place buried him in.

Goddamn the universe for never being able to tell him.

"I'll stay."

Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Cover images from Pinterest

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#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x you #the winter soldier #the winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier x you #captain america the winter soldier #catws #james buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes x you #bucky barnes angst #blythewrites⛓

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