#everything bellow this headshot is covered with scales

[splungecoyote]

I tried drawing myself as an underwater being for my Art Fight card. Thought I might as well make it my new ID! XD

[wkemeup]

Guiding Light (7)

summary: It was supposed to be a simple mission. Get the intel and go home. Until everything goes wrong and you’re taken captive by Hydra and now, Bucky can’t breathe without you. Not until he brings you home. If he even can. pairing: bucky x reader chapter word count: 7.2k warnings: torture, angst™, graphic descriptions of violence,  🖤series masterlist // series playlist

It was unlike anything you could have imagined, even in the worst of your nightmares. The scar upon your forehead from an accident as a child, the identical wounds and swelling you’d sustained in your captivity, the flicker of a softer hue in your irises as the light touched it, the delicate fall of your hair, the curve of your nose. The clothing you had been held in for weeks, the same tear in the top right shoulder, the dirt smudged over your skin.

It was you. Entirely and completely you.

Except that it wasn’t.

The woman, wearing your face, laid upon the ground, still bound and restrained to the chair though her body slumped toward the concrete, lifeless. Her eyes open, unseeing, as a deep red pool surrounded her head from where the bullet had torn through the cavity, blood expanding along the floor and nestling into the cracks of the concrete.

“Freaky, ain’t it?” Cain chuckled, nudging the woman’s body with the toe of his boot, only for her to slump back into place.

You stared up at him, wide eyes, shock paralyzing your ability to speak.

“She’s enhanced,” Cain explained, an amused smirk upon his features. “Shapeshifter. Watch this.”

With the end of his gun, he prodded at a spot behind the woman’s ear, your ear, as the woman’s skin rippled over in scales, like cards bridging in a deck, replaced by an entirely new body. Skin and hair that was not your own, eyes staring far beyond the wall a different hue, scars and wounds that covered her face and arms now clean and replaced with small nicks and scratches of her own.

“Been holding onto this one for a special occasion,” Cain goaded, “so consider yourself special, princess.”

“You’re sick,” you spat, unable to tear your watering eyes away from the body of the woman at your feet. You tugged at the men holding you back. Strong, unforgiving arms wrapped around you; your body too weakened to do any damage. “You murdered this woman for what? To prove a point? That—That the Avengers are human?”

“To keep your fucking brainwashed boyfriend from finding you before we’ve completed what we have planned!” Cain bellowed, rushing at you in one fowl swoop and pressing the barrel of the gun under your chin. The metal was hot on your skin as he pushed it against you enough for you to stretch your neck higher, searching for a relief from the pressure. You struggled to swallow.

“Now, we can get to work in peace without the Avengers breathing down our necks,” Cain barked in your face, split flying onto your cheek and forcing you to wince. He stepped away and let the gun fall from your neck. You coughed to find the air the barrel had suffocated from you and shot him a glare. Cain only seemed to smile wider at that, amused by your pain. “Not going to keep searching for a dead body, now are they?”

You sucked in a harsh breath and the men dropped you from their grasp. Too weak to stand on your own, you hunched over on the floor, eyes darting over at the body of the woman lying just a few feet away.

Cain snapped his fingers and one of the men grabbed a harsh grip of the woman’s arm, hulling her into the air and tossing her body over his shoulders. It was too rough, too cruel for the way he carried her and you parted your lips to say something, but bit down on your cheek. This woman who was killed wearing your body was just that... dead.

She didn’t know the humiliation or the desecration with which these men handled her body. She didn’t know the pain of being hulled over a man’s shoulder with little remorse. She didn’t know anything. She was dead, as you imagined you soon would be as well. 

You crawled over to the mattress at the corner of the room as the door slammed shut, trapping you with the pool of blood staining into the concrete. Body slumping onto the hardened surface, stray springs poking at your skin, and despite Danny’s whispered calls of your name, the urgency and worry in his voice, you closed your eyes and cried until sleep was merciful enough to pull you under.

***

Familiar clicks startled you from your rest just hours later as Cain pushed his way back into your cell, rolling along with him a television from the early 2000’s strapped to a tall, plastic cart. He shot a wink at you as you turned sheepishly upon the mattress to face him, too weakened to goad him or even warp your face into a glare. He was alone, without his lackeys, which was unusual for his daily visits.

“Got something fun to show ya,” he taunted as he pressed a single click to the television. “Hope you enjoy, princess.”

Without another word, he retreated from the room, closing the door behind him.

You swallowed, the bile painful in your throat as you starred over at the television as it warmed up, the picture on the screen slowly fading from a dark black to reveal the picture beneath.

“What was that about?” Danny asked cautiously through the wall.

“Not sure yet,” you mumbled back, pushing yourself to your feet despite the aching cries in your muscles.

Upon the screen, a blonde woman came into view, wearing a navy blue blazer as she handled a stack of papers in her hand, tapping the edge of a pen on the desk she sat behind.

“It has been five hours since footage airing the assassination of renowned Avenger Agent Y/n Y/l/n of SHIELD was streamed live to every screen in Times Square,” the woman reported and an image of your headshot from your early days in the academy appeared on the top left corner of the screen. With a bright smile, skin free of oozing scars, and a light behind your eyes, you hardly recognized yourself.

“This comes following almost two months held as a prisoner in Hydra’s captivity. While the Avengers have been tirelessly searching to rescue their fallen teammate, it appears all roads have led to this fateful moment.”

You heard Danny curse under his breath, having heard the reporter through the speakers. The woman pressed her lips into a thin line, a heavy breath exhaled before she spoke again.

“We have obtained footage from the scene in Times Square where the Avengers were subjected to watch Agent Y/l/n’s murder live in real time, along with the civilian population.”

The screen filtered away from the newsroom to show a young man and woman standing in the middle of Times Square, posing in front of the series of colorful billboards, holding up a peace sign with wide smiles brimming on their cheeks. The film was in a vertical angle, with thick black bars filling the rest of the screen, filmed on a phone’s camera.

“Oh, my bad... it’s a video,” a voice chuckled nervously from behind the phone to which the subjects of the intended photo rolled their eyes and began to laugh along with him.

Then, over the man’s shoulder a silver van shot into frame, electric sparks flying from metal scraping the concrete, tires long gone. A horrible screeching sound had the couple pressing their palms to their ears. It crashed into a parked car and drew the attention of every pedestrian within the frame.

“Holy crap is that the Avengers!?” the voice shouted, zooming the camera in on Tony as he flew above the van in his Iron Man suit. The camera followed Sam as he touched down on the other end of the van, winds folding into his suit.

It was strange, to watch your friends from the point of view of civilians. It had a certain kind of theatric to it and you understood why the people adorned your friends as heroes.

Heart in your throat, you collapsed into the chair used to torture you as Bucky suddenly came into view, sprinting towards the SUV, not stopping until he ripped the door from its hinges and tossed it several yards down the street. The man recording the film was shouting, cheering him on, as the lens flashed to his friends’ excited faces.

The camera zoomed in closer as Bucky dragged someone from inside the van. Too far away to hear what they were saying, but Steve walked into the frame, shoulders stiff enough for you to recognize that he was advising Bucky to stand down, carefully reaching for his friend’s shoulder, only to be shrugged away.

Hair shielding his face, Bucky began to beat the man until blood splattered over his hands. The recorder of the video only egged him on, like he was watching some kind of fight in the halls of a high school. He couldn’t have been any older than sixteen.

You heart was in your stomach.

“Oh-- Oh my God. M-Miles, look!” the young woman to the recorder’s left gasped, the lens now aimed at the dozens of screens lining the street with your face, the shapeshifter’s face, upon it.

You pressed your hand to your chest in an attempt to ease the race of your heart, but it did nothing to aid you. The film followed Bucky as he rushed forward and you could see how violently his hands were shaking, even at this distance. A lump in the back of your throat and tears welled in your eyes, watching as he turned in a slow circle, taking in the hundreds of screens surrounding him.

The blonde woman appeared back behind the news desk, a solemn look upon her face. “We have cut the video as it displays the violent and graphic image of Agent Y/l/n’s death. The recording will pick up again after the Hydra stream cuts out.”

As she stated, the feed cut straight back to Times Square, only this time you could make out the faint sound of people crying in the streets, the couple who had posed for the picture just moments ago, now huddled together, reaching for their friend behind the camera. He shook them off, aiming the lens back at Bucky as he was lowering a gun that had been aimed at one of the screens.

The video was shaking, the hand of the teenager capturing it trembling, as Bucky stumbled on his feet, grasping at his chest before he collapsed to his knees. The scream that fell from his lips shook you to your core, goosebumps trailing over your skin, and a puncture so sharp in your chest, you wondered if you would survive it. Your hand pressed against your lips to keep the sob from escaping you as tears blurred your vision, a lump in your throat threatening to choke you.

The camera panned to the rest of your team, your family. Tony was punching holes into the silver SUV before he took off into the sky. Natasha was hulled against Steve’s chest, her shoulders shaking as Steve ran his large hands down her back, nervous glances back in Bucky’s direction. Sam was kneeling just a few feet away, head bowed, like he was praying.

Slowly, the camera returned to Bucky and his hands were horribly shaking, trying to grab onto fabric, something, anything, to ground himself how you taught him but nothing was working. His whole body shook.

You pushed yourself from the chair, wobbling legs carrying you to the television and you skimmed your fingers over the static of the screen, touching the pixelized image of Bucky as if it could reach him in some way, as if it could tell him that you were alive, but it was useless. A suppressed cry hitched at your breath and you wrapped your arms around your chest.

“Memorial services are being arranged all over the country to honor the fallen Avenger,” the reporter stated soberly as the image of Bucky faded away. “For more information, please visit our website at—"

The screen went black and you fell back into the chair. The first time you saw Bucky in nearly two months, just the blurry outline of his figure in the distance, the movements seen from fifty feet away, and it was worse than you could have imagined.

You’d never heard his voice like that before, not even when he woke up screaming in the dead of night with the horrors of his part flashing through his dreams in twisted memories.

This, was something else entirely; the crack of his voice, the desolation, the hopelessness, the worst of his fears coming true in front of his eyes, on display for the entire world to see, and he had no way of knowing it was a trick. A horrible, cruel illusion by Hydra to persuade the Avengers to stand down, to keep them from finding you as Cain put whatever his plan was into action.

They had proof that you were dead, watched the bullet tear through your skull on live television. They had no reason to believe it was orchestrated. If you had any doubts your family would find you, this newsreel only confirmed it.

You were never going to see the outside of this cell again.

***

Days later, as Cain continued to come for you each morning with a tray of knifes at his disposal, he was displeased to find you hadn’t submitted to him completely.

While you had lost your hope, you still held onto your anger with every ounce of your will. Anger for what they did to you, what they’ve done to Danny, for murdering that woman for no reason other than theatrics, for putting Bucky and your team through hell and subjecting them to a trauma they would never recover from.

Anger that festered and burned aflame each time Cain walked into the room and it only urged him on as he ripped and tore at your flesh until he chipped at the very edge of your sanity.

Soon, Cain grew tired of your unwillingness to submit and he began to bring you to a different room, one that you had only heard stories about, described through panicked breaths in the dead of night from the man who was all too familiar with the horrors that lied inside.

The room was dark, and cold, and surrounded by lab equipment and monitors. The unsettling high-pitched beeping of machines as they ran through their intended algorithm. Men and women in white lab coats stared at you with intrigue, dehumanizing you to your very core.

You fought them every time they led you to the chair, knowing what it would do to you, to your free will, but your body was weaker than your mind and they strapped you down with ease. Metal clamps snapped over your wrists and a lab tech shoved a mouth guard between your teeth as the machine roared to life, electric sparks jumping from the ends of paddles they soon would affix to the side of your face.

A scientist by the name of Dmitry Petrov hovered over you as he tapped at the edge of his clipboard, observing intently before they brought the paddles down to you. You had spat the mouth guard out at him as he dared to touch the side of your face, studying the wounds you had sustained from your time with Cain.

“You should learn some respect, princess,” Cain seethed from the side of the room, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall, watching.

“You’re a fool if you think you can restart the winter soldier program and get away with it,” you shot back, voice cold, unattached, like you had become.

Cain laughed at that, shaking his head as he exchanged amused glances with the men in the room. “Seems like you’ve missed the point, princess. We’re not making an army. We don’t need a whole team of soldiers to accomplish our task. Just you and you will serve your purpose.”

You gritted your teeth. “Which is what exactly?”

“Not your concern,” Cain smirked and Petrov shoved the guard back into your mouth. He pulled a lever and in one shift motion, the machine clamped down on the side of your face, electricity pulsing through you, singeing your skin, your hair, and with a pain so unimaginable, you blacked out after your voice had gone hoarse from screaming.

***

Nearly two weeks following your supposed execution on live broadcast, you were dragged back to the room with the machine on a daily basis. You tried to keep Danny in the dark about what they were doing to you because you didn’t want to scare him, make him question if there would be a day you didn’t come back to the cell, because each day you wondered it yourself; if today would be the day the machine fried your brain or rendered you permanently unconscious.

On the third week of the machine, Cain shoved you back into the chair with a grunt and though you tried to fight him, he clasped the restraints around your boney wrists.

“You need to start feeding her better,” Petrov commented, examining the bones protruding from your chest. The way his eyes trailed over your body made your stomach twist; clinical, unkind, and with a disgust that made you sink into yourself. He turned to Cain. “If she is to do what she is meant for, she will need her full strength.”

Cain rolled his eyes, thought he eventually relented.

***

It was the fourth week of being hulled into that room when they attempted to use the trigger words for the first time.

They were unfamiliar to you, words that were not a part of Bucky’s list, and in a language you didn’t understand, but eventually as they paired each shock of the machine with the words in a small, red book, Petrov explained that they must carry personal meaning for it to be effective.

You decided that the translation of the words didn’t matter, not with the electricity coursing in your veins and pain so excruciating you relished the moments your body gave out, lulling you to the safety of your unconscious and the cool blanket of darkness.

Petrov was infuriated each time you blacked out, like it was an affront to him in some way. He’d start the process over again after they injected you with some kind of serum that swept through your veins like fire. Your body didn’t allow you your sanctuary after that.

“Tell her what the triggers mean, doc,” Cain taunted one day from the side of the room. He sat upon the edge of the counter, gripping at the lip. He wore that same grin on his face that made you sick to your stomach.

“It is not necessary,” Petrov replied flatly as he gripped the side of your face to get a better look at the burn marks on your skin.

Cain jumped down from the counter. “Maybe not, but it’ll be fun. She’ll know their meaning and I want to see the look on her face when she realizes. Get her all emotional. See if it helps.”

He stared at you, lips curving in that sickening smirk and you gritted your teeth. He was always trying to find new ways to torture you, to break you down to nothing. Your upper lip twitched as you struggled to contain yourself; a staring contest of wills.

“If you must,” Petrov replied offhandedly, thick Russian accent as he adjusted the settings on the machine. He pulled out his book, flipped on a switch and a surge of energy ran through your veins. You tried to bare it, to grit your teeth and push through the pain because you knew Bucky had once been subjected to this chair and maybe you could tether yourself to him in some one, hold onto him enough to guide you through this.

“Марафон,” Petrov recited, pacing down the room, watching your vitals.

“Marathon,” Cain spat, a translation you could barely hear over the roar of the machine and then, a flash of Bucky running at your side swept through your vision.

Even as you screamed out in pain, as voltage ran through your bloodstream, you thought of Bucky’s light breaths as he jogged beside you, slowing down in pace when your muscles started to ache and he thought you didn’t notice.

“горький,” Petrov continued, sending a watchful eye in Cain’s direction.

“Bitter,” Cain sneered the translation at you and you could only think of coffee at five in the morning, hunched over the counter; a watchful eye as you stretched in the corner for weeks before you heard his voice for the first time.

“Бруклинский,” Brooklyn. The first time you took Bucky to New York. You screamed out; the pain unbearable as it pulsed through your head, like a damn about to break.

“скаут,” Scout. The little girl in To Kill a Mockingbird. Bucky’s favorite character in the first book in a series of novels you had put together for him. His catch-up list. The stench of burnt hair filled the room.

“боевой,” Combat. Sparing in the ring. Fighting alongside him in the battlefield. You couldn’t breathe. The heel of Petrov’s boot clicked as he paced down the room.

“возлюбленная,” Sweetheart. You let out a guttural cry as the translation hung through Cain’s vicious voice. A name so loving, so revealing, that hearing it come from a man so cruel, so opposite to Bucky in every way, was an act of violence in itself.

“мелодия,” Melody. Tears streaming down the sides of your face as you thought of sitting at the end of your bed, curled up on the floor, laptop between you as the soft strum of a guitar filled the room and Bucky’s sweet voice asking you to play it again.

“вена,” Vienna. Your first mission together. Cain was laughing out of view. Petrov tapped his pen against the clipboard.

“шестнадцать,” Sixteen; of twenty-sixteen. The year you met. You were teetering on the edge of consciousness, pain too excruciating to hold onto.

“страсть,” Petrov called out, one last jolt of electricity through your veins and slowly, the machine released from the sides of your face and your body slumped in relief. Breaths heavy in your chest, jaw locked around the mouth guard and hands clenched so tightly around the armrests you weren’t sure if you’d ever be able to pry them away.

Cain stood from his seat at the corner of the room, strolling over you to and grabbed a firm hold of your jaw, forcing you to meet his eye as he spoke the last translation, his breath hot on your skin.

“Desire,” he purred the final translation before he leaned in closer, lips pressed as if he were to kiss you and you spat at him, a growl in your throat and daggers in your eyes.

Cain stepped back with a fury over his face you hadn’t even seen in the months he’d been torturing you and he slapped you hard across the face.

You barely felt it from the lingering ache of the machine.

“It’s not working,” he spat at Petrov, wiping his face with his sleeve. “I thought this was supposed to make her compliant! Does she look compliant to you!?”

“It takes time, Cain. You must be patient,” Petrov sighed, scribbling on his clipboard as he examined the monitors displaying your vitals. “Our fathers’ generation had years to perfect the winter soldier and I have been given months. Even knowing that the Avengers will not come for her, her will is too strong. That is the difference between her and the asset. She still has something keeping her from giving in to the conditioning; something to live for.”

Cain nodded, turning to glare at you over his shoulder. The curve of a knowing smile that etched against his lips was enough to make your stomach sink.

“Then we’ll destroy it."

***

That night, you curled up on your side, thinking of the words they used on you, words that were meant to be personal, words they shouldn’t have been able to know about you, about Bucky. His favorite fictional character wasn’t something they’d be able to find in a newspaper. None of it made sense, but your head now had a constant unpleasant ringing at the base of your skull that made it difficult to focus on much of anything.

“What are you going to do when you get out of here?”

You stared up at the ceiling, struggling to keep your eyes awake as Danny’s tired voice carried through the small crack in the wall. Slowly, you turned to face the hole, the blurry figure of ginger hair and tan camouflage barely in view.

“I think I’d go back home, apologize to my ma,” Danny continued, answering his own question with a careful nod of his head. “I wasn’t always a good kid growing up. Caused a bit of trouble. It was a small town, you know? What else were a bunch of idiot teenage boys gonna do? She... she didn’t deserve the stress I put on her. I think she should know that I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure she does,” you said softly, your voice raspy and raw from the machine. Danny hummed in response, thankful.

“I’m gonna see a Yankees game, too. Think your pal Stark will help me out?” he asked with a slight chuckle in his voice though it sat against a deep unease that settled uncomfortably in your chest.

“Of course,” you replied as tears welled in your eyes.

Danny wasn’t naïve, not anymore. He knew he had as good a chance of getting out of here as you did, but this was how he hung on, how he kept himself from falling into the darkness. He imagined something better.

“Maybe I’d give college another shot,” he sighed. “I think I could do better this time. Maybe I could go for criminal justice or something. I’d have a pretty high up contact at SHIELD now.”

A laugh escaped you, broken, but the faint burn in the crack of your lips went unnoticed.

“What are you gonna do?” Danny asked, as he always did.

You usually gave him some short, convenient answer so you wouldn’t have to really think about, so you didn’t have to imagine what could happen, knowing that it wasn’t in your future. It was too painful and you needed every ounce of strength you could muster.

But you’d been put through the chair more times than you could count. Pain had become second nature and you had stopped seeing Bucky even in your dreams. You were losing him, details fading from your memory. He had a freckle on his forehead, something no sane person would notice, but it was something you caught onto in the moments he allowed you to be that close, to notice something so small and faint between the lines of his brow. It was a privilege to live in his details.

Only now you couldn’t remember if it was above his left or right eye. You couldn’t remember if his eyes were more blue or grey or if they were somewhere in between. You were losing pieces of him and it wasn’t the chair that was taking him away. It was time. Soon, you’d lose him entirely. You’d lose the sound of his voice, the crinkles by his eyes when he smiled, the curve of his lips. You’d lose him, more and more each day until he was gone from you.

“I’d tell Bucky he’s the best parts of me,” you confessed suddenly, surprising yourself as you brushed aside tears that had formed in your eyes. “I’d make sure he knew that none of this was his fault. If it took months or years, I’d remind him every day that what happened here wasn’t because of him. I’d tell him that he is so immensely loved and I’d spend the rest of my days convincing him if he’d let me because I know he’d have a hard time believing it. I’d get away from all this for a while, take Bucky to Alaska or New Zealand and just be with him like I always wanted... like I think maybe he has, too.”

“We’d come back home when we’re ready,” you continued, desperately trying to picture it all in your mind. “We’d come back and I’d spend time with the team; the only real family I ever had. We’d watch movies for hours and order pizza from Chicago and lobster rolls from Boston just to put Tony’s money to good use. I’d go back to that stupid hipster bookshop in Brooklyn and buy a thousand more books and sit in the grass down by the lake at the compound and read until I fall asleep. I’d finally convince Nat to teach hand-to-hand to the rookies with me and help Sam down at the VA. I’d thank Steve for taking care of the love of my life in the times I couldn’t. I’d... I’d find a way to forget this place.”

“That sounds really nice,” Danny said softly, and you closed your eyes, tears sliding down your temple as you laid upon the mattress.

Danny’s hand pressed to the wall, the lines of his palm barely visible through the tiny opening and casting shadows into your cell. You mirrored his gestured, your palm resting and the cool sensation of the concrete.

A silent acknowledgement of the fantasies neither of you would ever see.

Then, the sharp clicking of locks. Only, it wasn’t coming from your cell.

“Danny?” you called carefully as he pulled away from the wall in a sharp motion, scrambling into the corner. The door slammed open and hit the adjacent wall loud enough for it to send a jolt through your spine. You listened carefully, hands pressed to the wall now, sitting up on your knees as you tried to decipher what was going on.

“No, no, please,” Danny begged, his voice breaking and you clamped your hand over your mouth. “Please, no more--”

“Let’s go, kid,” Cain’s voice chuckled, muffled, through the wall.

Danny was scrambling away, instinctively fighting back. “Get off of me!”

A muted punch and Danny grunted, falling silent, and what was left of your nails dug into your cheeks to keep silent. Feet scrapped along the floor as footsteps retreated from the room and you could only picture them dragging Danny behind them. It wasn’t the first time it happened, that they took him off to some unknown room only to return hours later, bloodied and beaten, but it was never any easier.

You sat back against the wall, tapping on your knee anxiously and waited for the hours to pass before he came back. You counted cracks in the ceiling, wrung at your hands, fidgeted with the ends of your worn clothing to pass the time.

He’d be back. They always brought him back, you reminded yourself on an endless loop.

Hours passed and still nothing. You stood to your feet; body stronger now that they had graced you with meals again and you began to pace. Your legs had grown sore and tired and you lost track of how long you had been shuffling your feet.

Suddenly, clicks run out beyond the door of your cell and you narrowed your eyes, freezing into place as the door swung open. Cain strolled in, pleasantly surprised to find you standing, watching him suspiciously. His knuckles were broken and red with blood.

“Hey there, princess.”

“Where is he?” you spat, convinced now that Cain had discovered your friendship with Danny long ago. He’d been waiting for the right moment to strike, to do something about it. This was it.

“Who?” he grinned, feigning innocence.

“You know damn well who!” you shouted back at him, red faced and arms flailing out to the side, taking a step in his direction, only for Cain to pull out a gun and aim it right at your chest.

“Better watch your step, princess.”

“You won’t kill me.” You shook your head. Defiant. Confident. “You need me for something. Wouldn’t waste all that time trying to mess with my head for nothing, would ya?”

Cain shrugged, chuckling under his breath as he holstered his weapon, “you caught me. We need to keep your body preserved, healthy even, but your will to live, to fight what we will make of you, has been... irritating to say the least. Lucky for me, I think I’ve found a way to break you. Would you like to see?”

“Fuck off, Cain,” you rolled your eyes, arms folding over your chest. Hardened features against the burn marks on the side of your face from the machine and Cain only grinned at you. He gestured for someone beyond the door and the sound of rustling footsteps came from down the hall.

A man appeared in the doorway, in his right hand something that made your stomach drop below your feet. Ginger hair wrapped between dirty fingers, clenched in this man’s fist. Danny was on the floor, grasping at the man’s hand to find relief, blood pouring down from his nose and eyes widening in fear when he caught sight of you.

Your arms fell to your sides, lips parting in shock as you watched the man drag Danny further into the room, shoving him down by Cain’s feet. Danny groaned, curling up on his side as he nursed an injury under the fabric of his shirt.

“Danny,” you whispered his name, fear laced in your voice that only egged Cain on. Danny lifted his eyes, nodding subtly at you, enough to tell you he was okay.

“Danny boy and I have been catching up, haven’t we?” Cain taunted, nudging Danny with his shoe. “He has been so incredibly helpful. Ain’t that right?”

Danny grimaced, shutting his eyes as he turned his face to the concrete. You furrowed your brow, watching as he so intently avoided your eyes.

“Oh, she hasn’t figured it out yet, has she?” Cain snickered, laughing with the men behind him. He reached down and grabbed a fist full of orange curls and yanked Danny to his knees. Your heart lurched as Danny let out a whimper, wobbling and unsteady as Cain released him. “Go on. Tell her what you did.”

Heart beating wildly in your chest, you slowly sank to your knees, trying to find his eye, but Danny wouldn’t look at you. Seeing him now, in full view, only made your stomach twist further. He was so young, practically a child; hands quaking and tears in his eyes. Skinny and baby faced.

“Danny,” you soothed. “Danny, it’s okay. You can tell me. What happened?”

He shook his head, gritting his teeth. Cain, growing impatient, kicked him hard in the shoulder and he fell forward, barely catching himself on his hands before his nose hit the concrete. He pushed himself back up to his knees, arms shaking violently.

“I-- I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he muttered, his voice thick with tears.

Cain rolled his eyes, stepping forward and knocking his fist to the side of Danny’s face, sending him spiraling to the ground. On instinct, you lunged forward at him, only for the barrel of Cain’s gun to return its aim on you. You froze, glancing between Danny and Cain.

“If he’s too much of a coward to tell you, then I’ll do it,” Cain grunted. “This punk’s been selling you out from the beginning; every time we dragged the little traitor from his cell, he’d let us know all the new fun facts you told him. Feeding us information you wouldn’t even give under the threat of a knife.”

Your breath hitched, a dread settling deep in your stomach.

It was how they got the trigger words; words they intended to use to rip your will from you and replace it with something dark, something evil and sinister and render you a witness to your own crimes. They learned these words from the kid who so innocently acted as your sounding board, who you confessed your memories and pieces of your heart to. They beat him and tortured him until he gave them up, unwillingly.

“It was his only purpose here, though he didn’t know that for quite some time,” Cain continued, pleased by the devastation on your face. “We knew that you’d never give up those details to me or anyone who tortured you long enough for ‘em, but we knew you’d tell some pathetic little army brat just to hold on to some kind of misguided hope. So yes, we brought in a naïve kid for you to bond with and eventually, he gave up all of the stories you told him. Didn’t you, Danny boy?”

Danny let out a cry, arms folding around his chest protectively and you leaned forward on your hands, outstretched as if to reach him though you knew you could go no further. He shook his head, fat tears rolling down his cheeks, face flushed and red with a shame he didn’t deserve to bare.

“Danny, look at me,” you urged, voice as gentle as calm as you could manage despite the rage boiling under the surface. Before Danny’s eyes could meet yours, you shot a glare at Cain, fury in your veins for the torment he put this kid through.

“I’m s-so sorry, Y/n,” he whimpered out, his youth and innocence on full display. Bright green eyes hooded under freckled, bruised skin, looked up at you, though his jaw was quivering. “They-- they made me tell ‘em and I—I tried not to. You have to b-believe me, I t-tried.”

“I know you did, honey,” you reassured him, tears welling in your own eyes. “Danny, it’s okay. It’s not your fault, you hear me?”

Danny shook his head, unconvinced.

“Not that this isn’t thoroughly entertaining,” Cain grumbled, “but we’re all gathered here for a reason and this little love fest ain’t it.”

“Just let him go, Cain!” you implored, slamming your hands against the concrete. “He’s practically a child! He’s done what you wanted! You don’t need him here!”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he shot back, seething. “He was old enough to foolishly sign his life away to fly overseas and kill people for his government, maybe even get killed himself. I don’t consider that a child, do you?”

You were fuming, panting. It only made Cain smile wider.

“But you are right about one thing,” Cain shrugged, “I don’t need him. Not anymore.”

In one swift motion, Cain pointed the barrel of his gun at the back of Danny’s head. Your eyes went wide, breath caught in your lungs.

“Just so we’re clear, this is me destroying your last reason to live,” Cain smirked, pushing the gun against Danny’s head enough for his whole body to move in an attempt to relieve the pressure. Danny’s eyes were clamped shut; his trembling hands curled into fists.

You were frozen as Cain released the safety on the gun, the click of it echoing through the cell, deafening to your ears as time seemed to fall still. Heart pounding painfully, the thumping of it pulsing loud enough to hear, and your breaths coming out in shaky, uneven exhales.

Danny turned to look back at Cain and it kicked your adrenaline back into gear.

“Danny, no! Look at me!” you begged, urgency in your voice and you were met with the most stunning shade of green, hidden under layers of wet tears and red strain within the whites of his eyes. “Don’t look at him, Danny. Look at me, okay? I’m right here. I’m here with you.”

Danny nodded; his cheeks wet though a sudden calm washed over him. His hands fell still in his lap as he focused on you, on your breaths and your words, though they were breaking through your cries.

“Just keep your eyes on me, okay?” you urged desperately, not daring to spare a glance at Cain’s direction. “I’m right here. I’m here.”

You knew what was coming. You’d seen it weeks earlier as it happened to a woman wearing your face, but nothing could prepare you for the soft, impossibly kind smile that Danny gave you, the world around you stilling and moving in slow motion, a whisper of a ‘thank you’ on his lips.

“Danny,” you cried, voice breaking, “I’m here, I’m right--”

Deafening sound. Blood on your face. Copper on your tongue and the echo of a gunshot pierced your eardrums. Ringing and muffled voices as you swayed on your knees, staring ahead to the space Danny had been.

Paralyzed. Every movement of your arms felt like you were running through water, resistance against you. You didn’t hear Cain talking with the men in the room, barking next orders, not as you crawled along the hard surface of the concrete towards the body of the boy who had kept you sane for nearly three months.

Your hands, shaking violently, grabbed onto his shirt, turning him onto his back and a sob broke through you at the sight of his eyes, staring far off and in-between, glossed over, unseeing. You brushed your hand over his lids, closing them softly, and for a moment you could pretend he was sleeping. This sweet, kind, and gentle kid who deserved far more than this world gave him, lying in your arms, blood soaking through your clothes.

A hand gripped onto your bicep and you could barely feel it as you were dragged away, Danny ripped away from your gasp as your body skidding along the ground. You watched Danny’s figure fade from view as you were pulled out of the cell. You kept your eyes on him as long as you could, the most you could offer him, until he was gone.

Barely able to string your thoughts together, unable to feel anything other than the cold, numb ache that sat in your chest, consuming and expanding through your body, and you were strapped into the chair.

Staring off to the end of the room, body numbed and outside of yourself, you hardly registered the panels clamp down to the side of your face; didn’t care when the jolts of electricity burned through your veins and metal singed your skin. The words spoken in Russian, cold and detached, held no meaning, no memories to hold onto.

The faint sound of a man’s voice, dark and deep, a scar upon his face, taunted, “if we cannot control the soldier, we will destroy him with what he loves.”

You didn’t know who the man was referring to.

When the machine released and the pain drained from your body, you felt no relief. Only a cold emptiness.

Then, a man in a lab coat asked you a question. Words in a language other than your own slipped from your lips.

“готов соблюдать”

Ready to comply.

---

so to those who were suspicious of Danny... you were half-right? I actually wrote him as a full blown double agent in my first draft but I wanted the reveal and his ultimate death to have more of an emotional impact on Y/n so she’d be numb enough to succumb to the triggers...... sorry yall 

but I will say the next chapter is one of my favorites. Get ready for Bucky perspective in the months he still believes Y/n to be dead 😬

also! if anyone’s interested, the official playlist for the Witness is available now, too! ✨

tags 👯‍♀️ @musiclover1263 / @pies-wands-and-more / @buckygrantbarnes / @mywinterwolf / @breatheeagainnnn / @jewelofwinter / @panic-naran / @fairislesheets / @kaliforniacoastalteens / @captain-hammer-of-asgard / @daydreamsquad / @deanssweetheart / @maybesomedaytho / @montypythonsholysnail / @saharzek / @jillybeaner13 / @chubby-dumplin / @searchingforbucky / @alohafromhell1 / @tabalugax / @shesalatesh / @whyamidoingthistomyselfhelp / @aliensbecameourstyle / @bucksgoat / @serpensortiaaa / @trash-rats-unite / @hungry-pasta / @nervosaa / @lbuck121/ @get0verit / @obama-mia / @imsoft-barnes / @this-broken-band-girl / @michelehansel / @itz-kira / @forever157 / @grey-water-colors / @sebastianstan-posts / @sarcastic-and-cool / @no-clue-whats-happenin / @capsgrl / @happyeyesandsunshine / @slithredn / @13sunken-ships13 / @thefandomplace / @wxstedhexrt /  @jennmurawski13 / @galaxkay / @moonlessnight14 / @kittybritty7 / @sweetheartbarnes