It was sometime after midnight when Bucky stirred awake to the sound of a whimper.
At first, he thought it might be the city—just another strange groan of pipes or traffic. But then he heard it again. A broken gasp, barely contained.
"Charlie?"
He sat up instantly, heart already pounding.
She thrashed beside him in the bed, face twisted in agony, legs tangled in the sheets. Her breath came in ragged bursts, almost like she was choking on it.
"No—no, please—*papa, no—*don't let them—don't make me—"
Bucky was on her side in a heartbeat, gently gripping her shoulders. "Charlie. Hey, hey—wake up, sweetheart. You're dreaming. I've got you. You're safe."
But she didn't wake—not all the way. Her eyes flew open, but they were glassy, wild, unseeing. Her hands clawed at him until she registered his voice, his eyes.
Then everything shattered.
Charlie made a soft, broken sound—a wounded whimper from deep in her chest—and suddenly she collapsed against him, full body shuddering. She clung to him with a desperation that made his chest ache, sobs wracking her frame.
"I couldn't stop it," she gasped. "I—I was there—I saw him—he was screaming and I couldn't move—I couldn't do anything."
Her nails dug into his back as if she thought he might disappear too.
Bucky wrapped both arms around her, pulling her into his lap, not caring that they were twisted in the sheets or that she was shaking so hard it made him tremble with her. He pressed his mouth to her hair, his vibranium arm curved protectively along her spine, the flesh one cradling her neck.
"You're not there anymore," he murmured. "You're here. You're safe. With me."
"But it felt real," she sobbed. "They had me on a table, Bucky—I could feel the straps—I could hear the screaming—I think it was me—"
He closed his eyes, holding her tighter.
"I don't know what they did to me," she choked out. "I don't know who I am. What if I hurt someone? What if—what if I'm not me at all—what if I'm just some thing they built to be used—just like you were—"
"Stop." His voice was low and firm, even though his heart was breaking. "You are not them. You never were."
She buried her face in his chest, sobbing freely now, no longer trying to hold any of it back. Every tear felt like a storm finally let loose. A lifetime of confusion and fear and grief. It poured out in wave after wave, soaking his skin, soaking her soul.
And Bucky held her through it all.
He rocked her slowly, gently, whispering to her over and over.
"You're not alone anymore."
"You're not a weapon."
"You're mine."
The last one slipped out before he could stop it—but when her hand curled into his shirt and she didn't pull away, he knew she'd heard it. And maybe even needed it.
Eventually, the sobs slowed. Her breath evened out in hiccuping gasps, her arms still looped around him like a lifeline.
"I didn't want you to see that," she whispered into the silence.
"I'm glad I did," he replied, brushing his thumb under her damp cheek. "You don't have to be strong all the time. Not with me."
She leaned back just enough to look at him. Her eyes were red, lashes clumped with tears, but in that moment she looked more real to him than ever before.
"I don't know what's happening to me."
"I don't either," he said softly. "But I'm not going anywhere."
They lay back down together slowly, Bucky holding her from behind, keeping her wrapped tightly against his chest like a shield against the darkness.
And this time, when she drifted off again, it was in his arms. Her breathing evened out. And for the first time in weeks, the nightmares left her alone.
The stolen car hummed down the highway, a dusty old Dodge Charger that Bucky had hotwired with ease, grumbling under its breath like it resented being woken up from retirement. Charlie had raised an eyebrow but hadn't protested—not when he'd murmured, "Too risky to fly," in that gravel-and-steel voice of his.
Now she sat in the passenger seat with her bare feet propped on the dash, one knee bent, one hand wrapped around a lukewarm gas station coffee. Her sunglasses were pushed up in her hair, her tank top wrinkled from sleep, and she looked like chaos kissed by sunlight.
"You know," she said, sipping the bitter brew, "this technically makes me an accomplice. You could've at least picked a car with heated seats."
Bucky shot her a glance over the rims of his sunglasses, smirking. "You're in a stolen car with a hundred-year-old assassin. And your biggest complaint is the heat seats?"
"Well, I'm just saying, if I'm gonna live a life of crime, I'd like to be comfortable."
He chuckled under his breath, adjusting his grip on the wheel. His vibranium fingers tapped the leather idly. "You don't seem too shaken up about it."
She shrugged. "I've already blown up part of a club, been chased through Manhattan, and tackled in an alley. Might as well lean into the chaos."
"I like this version of you."
"Oh, this isn't new. This is just the caffeinated version."
He shook his head, smiling despite everything, then reached for the burner phone tucked between the seats. "We need to check in with Sam. I'm not taking you back to that house until I know it's safe."
Charlie lowered her coffee and turned more serious. "I don't want to go back there either. It doesn't feel like home anymore."
Bucky nodded, his jaw tightening slightly. He dialed the number and put the phone on speaker.
Sam answered on the second ring. "Barnes. Please tell me you're not calling from a TSA holding cell."
"Not yet," Bucky said, glancing sideways at Charlie. "I need a safehouse in Louisiana. Somewhere off-grid."
There was a pause. "You didn't go back to the mansion?"
"Can't risk it."
Sam exhaled. "Okay. There's an old field office near the Atchafalaya Basin. It hasn't been used in a couple years, but it's secure. I'll text you the coordinates."
"Appreciate it."
Sam's tone softened. "How's she holding up?"
Bucky glanced at Charlie again. She smiled faintly at him, like she knew she was the subject. "She's tougher than she looks."
Charlie leaned over the center console. "Hi Sam. I'm tougher than I look."
Sam laughed through the speaker. "Yeah, I'm starting to believe that. You keep him out of trouble, alright?"
"Trying my best," she said.
After hanging up, Bucky slid the phone back into its hiding place and reached for Charlie's coffee, stealing a sip.
"Hey!" she protested, swatting his arm. "You didn't want your own!"
"I changed my mind," he said, unrepentant.
"You're such a menace."
"Better than being boring."
She grinned. "You've never been boring, Bucky Barnes."
The Dodge hummed steadily beneath them, tires eating up the stretch of Louisiana highway. They'd left the city behind hours ago, trading skyscrapers for trees and horns for the chirring of cicadas. Charlie sat sideways in the passenger seat, one bare foot propped on the dashboard, humming softly to herself as the late morning light streaked golden through the trees.
Bucky glanced over, smiling faintly. "You gonna sing the whole playlist or just tease me with the humming?"
Charlie didn't open her eyes. "Mmm, depends. You gonna act like you don't love it?"
He chuckled. "Never said I didn't. Just didn't expect a full concert when I stole a car."
"Well," she said, voice playful, "you should've stolen one with a better sound system."
"I stole one with a sunroof and leather. Count your blessings."
That earned a grin. She finally opened her eyes and sat up, stretching. "Fine. You win."
Bucky didn't interrupt. He just drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting where she'd looped her fingers through his.
She sang through the song and halfway through the next before trailing off. Her gaze drifted out the window.
"You're quiet," she said.
"I like hearing you sing."
"I mean, more than usual."
He didn't answer right away. The road curved, dipping into shade. "Just thinking."
"About?"
"Home. This safehouse. Everything."
Her voice softened. "You worried we made the wrong call?"
"No," he said immediately. "No. Getting you out of there—that was the right move. I'd do it again in a heartbeat."
She looked at him then. Really looked. "But?"
He sighed. "But I don't like running. And I hate that you're in the middle of this."
"I'm not running," she said. "I'm with you. That's different."
It was a simple thing. But it hit him like a blow to the chest.
She saw it, too. Reached over and touched his jaw with her fingertips. "You're not alone in this, Bucky. Not anymore."
He covered her hand with his. "I know."
They fell into silence again, but it was warm now. Easy. Somewhere near Baton Rouge, they passed a gas station with a flashing roadside diner sign, and she sat up straight.
"Pull over."
"What, you hungry?"
"Always," she said. "Plus, I want a Coke in a glass bottle and the greasiest fries in Louisiana."
He smirked. "You're a menace."
"And you're in love with me."
He didn't deny it. Just turned off the highway with a shake of his head and that rare, soft smile he only seemed to give her.
By the time the sun began to dip, casting long amber streaks through the moss-draped trees, the world had grown quiet. That slow, syrupy quiet of the South that settled deep in your bones. Charlie had drifted off to sleep for a while, curled toward Bucky with her head against the seat and her hand loosely clasped in his. When she stirred, the light had changed and so had the road—they were far off the main highways now, winding through forested backroads few people used unless they knew exactly where they were going.
"You sure we're not lost?" she murmured, voice rough from sleep.
Bucky glanced at her, his expression amused. "I don't get lost. Not when Sam's guiding me through the back channels of the state like a damn GPS."
She blinked at the thick trees lining the road, tangled and wild. "It looks like a murder documentary out here."
"You watch too many crime shows."
She yawned, stretching, the hem of her tank top lifting just enough to distract him before he forced his eyes back to the road. "Can you blame me? The woods are creepy, Barnes."
"They're also great cover. And this place is safe—remote, out of Hydra's grid, barely anyone even knows it's here."
"Except us."
"And Sam."
"And whoever's been watching me," she said, her voice quieter now. Not afraid exactly—but careful.
Bucky reached over and squeezed her hand. "They won't find us here."
"Is it weird that I believe you?"
He smiled faintly. "A little."
The sun was just starting to kiss the tops of the trees when they pulled up to the cabin. It wasn't much from the outside—small, weathered wood siding, a sloped tin roof, and a porch shaded by thick oaks. But the place had a lived-in feel, quiet and tucked into the trees like it had grown there over time. Private. Safe.
Charlie stepped out of the car and stretched, blinking at the chirping cicadas and the cool hush of the woods.
Bucky popped the trunk and grabbed their bags. "Not bad, huh?"
"Ah…"
He chuckled behind her. "You're impossible to scare."
"I just haven't seen a spider yet."
Inside, the safehouse was small but clean. A main room with a couch and old fireplace, a galley kitchen with enough space to cook if they needed to, and a bedroom with faded curtains and surprisingly soft sheets. Someone—probably Sam—had left fresh linens, a few basic groceries, new clothes, and some supplies in the cabinets.
Bucky shut the door behind them and bolted it. "We'll stay here until we know what's next."
Charlie wandered into the bedroom, running a hand over the worn quilt on the bed. "Feels like a hideout."
"It is."
She turned toward him slowly. "You've done this before, haven't you? Hidden out like this."
He nodded once. "More times than I can count."
The evening settled into quiet. They unpacked a few things, changed into comfortable clothes, and opened the windows to let in the cross-breeze. The sound of tree frogs filled the space, joined by the low hum of insects and the distant call of a whip-poor-will. Charlie threw together something quick from the supplies Sam had left—just grilled cheese sandwiches and canned tomato soup—and they ate it sitting on the floor, backs to the couch, her legs draped across his lap.
"You ever think," she said between bites, "about just disappearing somewhere like this? Leaving the rest behind?"
"I have," he admitted. "More than once."
"And?"
"I always figured if I did it, I'd be alone."
She leaned her head against his shoulder. "Not anymore."
