It had been a year since Bucky and I got together, and he was still a nervous nelly around me. He tried to hide it, but I knew him too well by now. He thought I couldn't feel him leaving the bed in the middle of the night, afraid he might wake up and hurt me in some half-conscious state. He still walked around the apartment without his metal arm, instinctively lying when I asked if he'd had a nightmare.
It's funny to think this big, macho guy is just a puppy on the inside when it comes to his own heart.
I suppose I should start at the beginning of our story.
We met a few years back in Bucharest. We happened to be next-door neighbors in this shithole of an apartment complex—a place filled with the kind of people you didn't want to know and definitely didn't want to befriend. He had just escaped from Hydra and had begun unraveling his memories. Confused and broken, he was searching for the pieces of himself he'd lost after years of Hydra brainwashing.
He struck me as odd. He never said anything—just snuck in and out of his apartment, occasionally returning with a small bag of groceries. At night, I'd hear him crying out names, phrases like "Stop," "Let me go," and more. It wasn't often that a night went by without hearing him shout something in his sleep. But one night, he was louder than usual. Bang. Then the sound of glass shattering. Followed by a cold, unnatural silence.
My instincts told me to ignore it and go back to sleep. I didn't owe him anything—I didn't even know him.
But before I knew it, I was at his door.
Knock, knock.
"Hey… you alive in there?"
Silence.
I jiggled the knob. The lock was broken. Slowly, I crept inside.
His windows were covered in newspapers, tape, and torn pages from books and magazines—whatever he could get his hands on, it seemed. A single flickering bulb dangled above the kitchen, barely giving off any light. The stench of mildew hung thick in the air. I thought my place was bad, but this made mine look like the Ritz.
"Please kill me," came a weak whimper beside me.
He was curled up on a sheetless mattress on the floor—so old and worn I'd believe it had been passed down for generations. Barely covered by a thin blanket, sweat dripped down his shirtless chest. His long hair clung to his face, and his whole body trembled as he whispered like he was begging to die in his sleep.
I knelt beside him, gently touching his right arm. "Hey… wake up," I whispered.
Suddenly, cold metal clamped around my neck.
I hadn't noticed before—his left arm was metal.
Fun.
His grip tightened, cutting off my air. I smacked at his arm, panic setting in as each curl of his fingers made it harder to breathe. His eyes were empty—no emotion, no hope, no life. For a moment, he looked like he wasn't really there.
Then his eyes widened.
He let go and shoved me backward. I hit the hardwood floor hard, gasping for air, my heart racing. Chills rushed through me like I'd been thrown into a snowbank.
"Who are you?" he asked.