The training room was dead quiet.

A far cry from its usual self, with the clang of weights and movement and the occasional grunt. Now, there was just the silence, heavy and thick. Bucky and I sat on the cold floor, our breaths the only sound, his shaky and mind shallow. I hardly moved, save for the hand idly stroking his hair. The strands that had once been damp with sweat had since dried, a slight curl to them now. Hours had passed, though I barely noticed until the clock on the wall showed it was rapidly approaching midnight. My foot had nearly gone numb from the awkward angle my leg was bent underneath me. Despite the discomfort, I didn't want to move. Didn't want to disturb Bucky now that his sobs had given way to these quiet, shuddering breaths. Especially since the alternative would be to march him back through the compound, through people who would see him and ask questions and wonder. So I kept still. I waited for the world to go to sleep. I kept my hand moving against his hair, his cheek. I felt my foot prickle and go numb. Another hour passed.

Eventually, I nudged him gently, not entirely sure if he was awake or asleep. "Let's get you up," I murmured, more to fill the silence than anything else. He moved like a robot, his eyes not really seeing, staring off into some distance I couldn't reach. I kept a hand on his back as I tugged him to his feet. He obliged, thankfully. I knew I could carry him, but this journey would be a lot simpler with him walking under his own volition.

We walked slowly across the gym, out into the cool night air. There wasn't a soul to be found. I knew there were night agents scattered at their posts around the compound, but I prayed they'd mind their business tonight. We trudged down the path, Bucky's eyes still clouded and distant, my hands holding tightly to his left arm. We got to our building, into the elevator, and eventually out the doors to our residential floor, where our friends had long since gone to sleep. A single lamp had been left on in the living area, I noticed. Probably Steve or Natasha's doing. I had a feeling if I looked in the fridge, I'd find two plates set aside for us as well. Unfortunately, I hadn't had much of an appetite since finding Bucky's file. God, that felt like a lifetime ago. We crossed the living room to his door, his silence weighing down on me. It was a heavy kind of quiet, filled with the echoes of the horrors those files had dragged back into the light. I turned the knob and let us into his room. I'd never crossed the threshold before, but I'd be lying if I said I never wondered what it was like. The space was clean, simple, but I didn't allow myself to look around. Now wasn't the time to see if I'd been right in my assumptions. I'd be nosy on some future visit, maybe when he actually invited me in. For now, I was doing what he needed. Or at least, what I would have needed if it had been my file we stumbled upon.

He stood numbly in the center of the room, still clad in his training clothes. Slowly, tenderly, I lifted his shirt over his head. I removed his clothing piece by piece, trying not to spook him. It felt important, being allowed to do this, like I was being trusted with something fragile. Under any other circumstances, having him stripped down to his underwear in front of me would have my cheeks bright red and my skin on fire…but not now. My heart ached for him. I wished I could follow that blank stare to whatever nightmare he was back in, just so I could fight it off and bring him back to me, back to this moment. Somehow it was even more unnerving to see someone so strong, so stoic, like this. He was raw and exposed and vulnerable, standing here, nearly naked in his room. I'd seen him shirtless before, but not this close. His body was defined, he looked like he was carved from stone. I lifted my hands to his chest, my fingers brushing over the ridge of scar tissue where his vibranium arm had been fused to his body. The skin was red, jagged, angry. Like they'd haphazardly put him back together. I wondered if it still hurt him. Hot tears stung my eyes as I fought back thoughts of what he'd seen, survived. I tore myself back to the moment, pushing my white-hot rage aside for the moment.

Gently, I pushed him to sit on the edge of his bed, kneeling before him. His head hung, his eyes fixed on the floor. One by one, I put his shoes on my lap, undoing the laces and slipping them off. "I'll be right back." I promised, unsure if he could even hear me, wherever he'd gone in his mind.

I got the shower running, making sure it was nice and warm, before stepping back out. Looping my arm through his, I pulled him to his feet, ushering him into the already steamy bathroom. I debated whether to give him some privacy or stay, and once again –– his unseeing look kept me rooted to his side. Gently, I slid my fingertips inside the waistband of his boxers and tugged them down his legs. Thankfully, these luxurious bathrooms we each had in our rooms didn't have shower doors, you simply walked in. Yet another feature that reminded me of my stint in Las Vegas.

I gently nudged his back, muscles taut and tense as he stepped into the stream of water. "This should help," I murmured as it soaked his hair, running down his chest. The room had completely filled up with steam, making everything else seem even further away. Slowly, I washed his hair, taking my time and making sure the sweat and the trauma and the nightmare of a day all washed down the drain. When I was finished, I turned the water off and towel dried his hair, wiping the droplets off of his body. I kept my eyes to myself as much as possible as I worked. I didn't exist as someone he knew, someone he'd almost kissed. I didn't exist as someone with feelings for him or someone who hoped he felt the same way. In this moment, I existed only to keep his demons from swallowing him whole.

After finding a clean t-shirt and fresh pair of boxers and coaxing him back onto his bed, I looked over him one more time. He was massive, his muscled back showing through his shirt, nearly as tall as I was standing up while he was seated. Yet, he looked so small.

Fuck. I hated HYDRA for what they'd done to him. For the horrors he'd seen and been forced to relive. For the monster he believed himself to be. For the brutality he'd been forced to live and now live with. For how small and fragile he looked in front of me right now. I leaned forward, my hand brushing his cheek as I pressed a gentle kiss to his brow. I prayed he didn't see the tight fist my other hand was clenched into, tight with rage and a promise to the empire I would personally bring down.

"Goodnight, Buck. I'm only a few doors down. Call me if you need anything."

A hand gripped my wrist as I turned to leave. Looking over my shoulder, his blue eyes met mine for the first time all night.

"Will you stay?" His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. I hated the shame that flooded his eyes, that knit his brow together. This was the second time in twelve hours he'd asked me not to leave him. Whatever remained of my frozen heart melted into nothingness. Crawling onto his bed, I touched his cheek again.

"Of course," I breathed. "I'm not going anywhere."

Two weeks later

The room was bristling with a focused energy, screens aglow and papers shuffling as Maria Hill stood at the front, flicking through slides on the projector. The usual suspects—Steve, Natasha, Tony, Charlotte, and Bucky—were scattered around the table.

Maria's voice was crisp as she addressed them. "The sale of stolen Stark Industries tech is scheduled to occur at the Sanctuary Resort this weekend. The mission is simple, to head off the sale, obtain evidence of the transaction, and retrieve the tech. We aren't anticipating a need for violent intervention."

Charlotte leaned back in her chair, raising an eyebrow. "I'm honestly surprised, Tony, that your tech doesn't have a self-destruct feature."

"He saves the self-destruction for himself." Nat winked.

Tony smirked, glancing over at her. "It does have a self-destruct feature, actually. And this one happens to have an audio transmitting feature, which is how we know exactly where they'll be. But rather than just disarm the tech and render it useless, I thought we'd add a little flare. I want to publicly humiliate these clowns by having the sale busted wide open. I want the good name of Hammer Industries to be besmirched beyond salvation."

Steve and Bucky locked eyes as Steve raised an eyebrow and mouthed 'besmirched?' Furrowing her brow, Charlotte leaned forward onto her elbows. "Let me get this straight." She pointed at Tony. "You installed safeguards against this very situation in the tech in question. However, rather than use the safeguard for the exact reason it was created, you'd rather use SHIELD time and resources and deploy a team of the most powerful and deadly individuals on the planet to go and do that for you? All for the sake of embarrassing your competitor?"

Tony paused, pretending to think. "Yeah, that about sums it up."

Charlotte rolled her eyes, chuckling with the rest of the group.

"As the primary benefactor of both SHIELD and the Avengers," Tony continued. "Well, and all of you personally. For the most part, not talking to you, Moneybags," he winked at Charlotte. "I feel entitled to using these resources for personal gain every now and again."

Maria continued, ignoring him, as usual. "We need two of you to go undercover at the resort to ensure the tech is secured and the buyers and sellers are apprehended. This is delicate; we can't just storm in or we risk them aborting the mission entirely."

Steve looked over at Bucky, then at Charlotte. "I think Charlotte should go," he said quickly. "She needs more field experience."

Natasha nodded in agreement. "And Bucky's great undercover. His poker face is unparalleled. Plus," She shrugged. "Steve and I are too recognizable."

Charlotte shot them both a narrow look, catching the hint of a setup, but she stayed silent, waiting to see how Bucky would react. He simply raised his eyebrows and looked at Maria, waiting for instructions. Her stomach turned. Things around them had been…fine. Suspiciously so. After the night she'd spent with him, they never spoke of it again. She'd woken up to a mug of coffee on the nightstand and a note that simply read, 'thank you.' Sensing he didn't want to talk about it, she followed his lead. Now, two weeks later, they'd simply gone back to their normal shit-talking, borderline flirtatious dynamic.

Maria looked between them. "Alright. Bucky, Charlotte, you're on this. I'll arrange for you to stay at a safe house nearby."

Natasha quickly chimed in, "Actually, Maria, I was thinking we should book them a suite at the resort itself. It's crucial they stay close, maintain a visual on the targets at all times. A successful mission could depend on proximity and their ability to act quickly, so having them on property would be prudent."

Maria raised an eyebrow but nodded. "Very well, that makes sense. I'll make the arrangements."

Tony, gathering his things, couldn't help but add, "Just remember, the mission is to catch the bad guys, not spa treatments and room service. Keep your eyes on the prize, kids."

Charlotte chuckled, shaking her head. "No promises, Tony."

As the others began to disperse, Natasha leaned over to Charlotte, whispering with a conspiratorial grin, "You can thank me later for the suite. Just make sure to keep the noise down, yeah?"

Charlotte rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a smirk. "Subtle, Nat. Very subtle."

I'm running. My heart hammers against my ribcage so fiercely I fear it might break through. The trees are a blur of green and brown, the ground beneath my feet cold and uneven. My breath forms ragged clouds in the air, mingling with the whispered German commands crackling through the earpiece:

"Verfolgen. Töten." Track. Kill.

I want to rip the earpiece out, scream into the silence of the woods, but my body isn't mine. It moves with mechanical precision, every step, every breath choreographed by someone else. My hands are steady, too steady for someone supposed to be human.

There's a figure ahead, darting between the trees. I know nothing about them—age, gender, reasons for being here—only that they are my target. My mission. And like a well-oiled machine, I follow. The chase is methodical, a grotesque dance I've performed too many times. The programming is flawless; not once do my steps falter.

But inside, I am screaming.

I'm close now, so close I can hear their panicked breaths, see the mist they exhale. The commands in my ear grow louder, more insistent.

"Schnell! Erledige es!" Quick! Finish it!

I raise my gun. My hand doesn't tremble. It should tremble. Why doesn't it tremble?

"Please," the figure begs, turning around. Their face is blurry, indistinct, but their eyes are clear, wide with terror. They see me, truly see me, and in their eyes, I'm a monster.

I am a monster.

I squeeze the trigger. The sound is deafening, a brutal punctuation to the nightmare I'm trapped in. The figure falls, and suddenly the woods are silent, oppressively silent. I stand over them, my breaths shallow, the gun heavy in my hand.

The German commands praise me, cold and emotionless. "Gut gemacht." Well done.

But it's not well done. It's horrific. I drop to my knees, the gun slipping from my grasp. I'm shaking, tears streaming down my face, mingled with sweat and dirt. My heart aches, not from the exertion, but from the sheer terror of what I've become. What they made me.

And then, suddenly, I'm awake, gasping for air in the darkness of my room, the remnants of the woods and the cold eyes fading into the shadows of my bedroom. My body is slick with sweat, my sheets tangled around my legs as if they too know of my guilt, my horror.

I remember everything. Every command, every mission, every life taken. And it haunts me, every single night.

The morning sun was bright, warming the hangar through the open bay doors as Bucky and I deposited our bags at the foot of the Quinjet ramp. Since this mission was in the United States, we didn't have to leave at the ass crack of dawn like the previous mission, which I much preferred. Our attire was a little different, too. I adjusted the tennis dress I was wearing, a light, neutral thing that seemed more suited for a country club than a mission, but it was perfect for our cover. Bucky, in his turn, looked unexpectedly dashing in casual khaki pants and a crisp white shirt, the very picture of a man ready for a luxurious vacation and escape from his corporate empire. He'd let his facial hair grow out and slicked his hair back, a few slight changes to keep him from being recognized. The watch he wore on his right wrist had been equipped with holographic technology, the same used for the Quinjet when it went into stealth mode. While he wore it, Bucky's metal hand appeared normal and flesh.

They'd drawn up a loose picture of who we were supposed to be this weekend –– Mr. and Mrs. Van Damme, a childless couple from Vermont who lived off of his stock market prowess. We'd decided to end tax season with a trip out to Scottsdale, Arizona. Maria had booked the trip over email, posing as Mr. Van Damme's office secretary and personal assistant. She'd made it clear that privacy and discretion was very important to our stay, making it clear that housekeeping services would not be required at all this weekend. I supposed it wouldn't bode well for our 'undercover' shtick if some poor, unassuming housekeeper walked into our room to see the small arsenal of spyware and handguns that we'd laden our bags with.

Natasha and Steve came striding towards us, their expressions a mask barely-concealed amusement. They stopped, giving us the once-over, nodding approvingly at our transformation.

"Look at you two," Natasha teased, her eyes twinkling. "America's most glamorous power couple."

Bucky shot her a look, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Don't start, Nat."

Steve clapped Bucky on the shoulder, leaning in to whisper something that made Bucky's eyes widen momentarily before he glanced over at me, his cheeks tinged with pink. I was dying to know what was said, but Natasha grabbed my arm, pulling me a few steps away before I could pry.

"Alright, Char," she began, her voice low and mischievous, "you've got the perfect set up here. Beautiful resort, romantic dinners under the stars… If you're planning to make a move, I'd say the universe is handing you a golden ticket."

I felt my face heat up at her insinuation. "Nat, we're there to work," I murmured, although a part of me fluttered at the thought.

"Work and play don't have to be mutually exclusive," she winked, giving me a gentle shove back towards Bucky.

The agents around us gave a thumbs up, indicating they'd loaded our bags and completed final pre-flight checks. Walking up the ramp, I caught Bucky's eye. He looked annoyed and slightly embarrassed, likely still processing whatever Steve had told him. I ignored it, focusing on my own jitters.

"Ready for this?" I asked, my voice steady despite the butterflies rioting in my stomach.

Bucky nodded, his gaze intense. "Always."

We climbed into the jet, the doors closing behind us with a soft hiss. As the engines roared to life, I settled in the co-pilot's seat next to Bucky, our arms brushing. I tried to ignore the burning on my skin from the contact, twisting the diamond ring on my finger to distract myself.

"That'll take some getting used to, huh?" He nodded at my hands before continuing to set us up for flight.

"Yeah," I chuckled. "But there are worse aspects to the job." I held my left hand out and admired the massive stone twinkling in the sunlight. I'd intentionally not asked if the ring was real or fake, not wanting to give myself undue pressure not to lose it. In my mind, like the marriage, this ring was all for show.

"Yeah, this shouldn't suck." He met my eyes and gave a half smile as we lifted off the ground.

As the Quinjet ascended into the sky, the landscape below shrinking to miniature proportions, I wasn't sure if the flipping in my gut was from the look or from our departure. Bucky's casual remark about the ring only added to the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me.

"Personally, I hate sunshine and relaxation," I drawled, attempting to lighten the mood. "Spending a few days in one of the most gorgeous places in the world? Shitty. We should be getting hazard pay for this."

Bucky chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. "I'd agree with the hazard pay if you were flying us," he admitted, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "But I can think of worse ways to spend this week."

I shot him a playful glare, my heart fluttering at the sight of his smile. "First of all, fuck off," I teased, my voice betraying the nervous flutter in my chest. "Second of all, you don't strike me as the type to sit by the pool and sip Mai Tais."

"I prefer margaritas." His face was stoic.

I paused, still not entirely sure when he was joking. "I…have to agree with you on that one."

"I like the warm weather." He shifted us into autopilot and switched off stealth mode as we soared outside the compound's shields. "The sun, the breeze. Anything but the cold."

A chill ran through me as I flashed back to the snow, the bases in Germany and Siberia. The freezing air on my cheeks, the woods, the bleak gray skies. Shaking my head, I fumbled over my words despite myself. "Yeah, I –– uh…I don't like it either. I was kidding…before."

"I figured." He shot a half smile and a sidelong look my way.

As the minutes ticked by, the tension in the air thickened, the weight of our unspoken thoughts hanging between us like a heavy fog. I stole a glance at Bucky, his profile illuminated by the soft glow of the control panel, and felt a pang of guilt twist in my chest.

The memory of his breakdown in the training room haunted me, a stark reminder of the darkness lurking beneath our surface level conversations. The only kind we seemed to be able to have these days. I wanted to reach out, to offer him some semblance of comfort, but the words lodged in my throat, suffocated by the weight of my own uncertainty. He knew I was here for him, surely. He'd talk to me when he was ready. If he was ever ready.

I knew I'd be here either way.

–––––––––

The desert sun dipped below the horizon, casting a fiery glow that lit the expansive balcony of the resort. Bucky and I sat at a secluded table near the edge, our attire blending perfectly with the affluent crowd. I had chosen a sleek black dress that toed the line between classy and slutty, while Bucky was in a dark suit that made him look like stepped out of some mafia movie. His hair was slicked back, making him look every bit the business mogul he was pretending to be.

Our target, a middle-aged man with a cropped hairstyle, nursed a drink at the bar. His casual glances around the room didn't betray his purpose here, but we knew better. We observed him discreetly, taking note of every interaction he had.

A waitress approached, her smile bright. "Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Van Damme. Can I start you off with some champagne?"

"Please," Bucky replied with a charming smile, sliding into his role with ease. He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye, playing the part of the doting husband.

As she walked away, I swirled the stem of the glass in my fingers, the ambiance of the resort making this feel almost too real. "You know," I started, a shy smile playing on my lips, "I've never actually been on a date before. This—even though it's all a cover—is kind of a first for me."

Bucky's expression softened. "Really? Well, I'm honored to be your first. Even if it's just pretend."

I laughed, the sound more nervous than I intended. "It's weird, right? After everything... I mean, how do you even start to think about dating or... connecting with anyone who doesn't know how twisted and fucked up your life has been?" I took a sip of the champagne, feeling it ignite my stomach in the best way. The air had cooled off significantly as the sun sank below the mountains in the distance.

"It's not easy," Bucky admitted, his gaze lingering on the desert view before us. "Feels like nobody could really understand unless they've been through something similar. All that stuff doesn't just go away. It's not really something you feel like catching someone up on over dinner."

I chuckled, although it really wasn't funny. "Yeah. In some ways, it's nice to pretend to be someone else." I gestured at myself, him, the table between us. "I actually enjoy it. This is what I did for months, back in Vegas. I didn't feel like I had to explain myself or hide something, I just…became someone else. I changed my hair all the time. It felt safer, the anonymity. The lack of anyone really knowing or caring about me. I wasn't special…and I think that's why I loved it so much."

Bucky gave me a half smile, sipping his champagne before leaning forward. "I hate to tell you this, but I don't think there's ever been a moment where you haven't been special." His unwavering eye contact was unnerving. My stomach flipped. Lifting my champagne to my lips, I did what I do best –– deflected.

"See, I heard you were quite the ladies' man back in the day, and now I'm starting to believe it." I teased. "For a while, I thought Steve was losing his mind in his old age."

Bucky chuckled, rolling his eyes as he sat back in his seat. "That was a long time ago, Charlotte. I was a different person then. It all came naturally. Now..." He shrugged, looking away. "I'm far from that guy. Everything now feels like I'm learning it all over again."

"What is it they say…it's like riding a bike?" I mused.

"I never learned to ride a bike." He met my eyes again.

"Me either."

The moment hung between us, filled with unspoken understanding. Our eyes remained locked, and there was a depth to his gaze that made me feel like anything but his coworker.

"It's strange," I looked off across the resort grounds, the incredible scenery, "to be here, after everything. Pretending to be normal –– married, no less. You and I, having dinner like this. It's a little ironic, no?"

He laughed, so much so that his eyes crinkled in the corners. "Yeah, it is pretty fucking ironic." He lifted his half-empty champagne glass. "To irony, and to my wife."

I raised mine and grinned as we clinked them together. "To irony…and to my husband."