This had been the longest Bucky had been away and at the moment I was wearing a path in the carpet of my living room trying to decide if I was going to use the plane ticket in my hand. It's been six months since I've seen him and the night he left had been bad—flashbacks of being created into a killing machine for HYDRA and the people he had murdered. I tried to comfort him but any trace of the Bucky I had come to know and love was gone—instead of a soldier had taken his place, eyes and face blank, I briefly wondered if the "Winter" part of his title came from his demeanor or where he was created. Then the arm crushing my windpipe caused my vision to begin to blur.
"Bucky?" I hoped to see a flicker of recognition but there was nothing. On instinct I aimed my knee upward, directly coming into contact with his groin, causing him to yelp in pain, dropping the arm that had me pinned to the wall, another breath and I slammed his head into the wall. I ran into my bedroom and locked the door behind me, praying that the door could hold him at bay. I could hear Bucky pick himself up off the floor, then the noise of various doors and drawers being opened and closed—ending with the front door opening and closing.
I crept from the bedroom, my throat still on fire, and trembling a bit more than I would like-to see the closet door still hanging open. I didn't need to look inside to see that his go bag would be missing. Sitting down heavily at the table we had eaten breakfast at earlier that day I saw the note he had scribbled for me.
Callie,
I'm sorry, I thought I had control of what they put into my head, but it's obvious I am never going to escape it. The best thing I can do for you now is to leave until I can get a grip on this.
I am so sorry Callie.
-Bucky
My eyes were burning, while the feminist in me was declaring that his leaving was a good thing, that there is no excuse for what Bucky had done to me.
Only, I know what they had done to him.