024.

____________________

He just stood there, watching her disappear down the hall, as the space between them stretched wider—silent, tense, unspoken.
____________________

The smell of eggs and bacon filled the small kitchen, warm and familiar. It reminded Steve of quiet mornings back in Brooklyn—the ones before the war, before everything had changed. But there was no comfort in the nostalgia, not when the man sitting at the table didn't remember those mornings, didn't even remember him.

Bucky was rigid in his seat, unmoving except for the slow, methodical rise and fall of his chest. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers curled slightly as if ready to spring into action at any moment. His posture was too straight, too disciplined, nothing like the way Bucky used to sit—leaned back in a chair, arms crossed behind his head, flashing that easy grin.

This wasn't Bucky.

But Steve had to believe that somewhere, beneath the conditioning, beneath the layers of ice Hydra had wrapped around him, his Bucky was still there.

So, he did what he had done before—with Selene.

He took things slow.

No pressure. No expectations. Just presence.

Steve set a plate of food on the table. Eggs, bacon, toast. Simple. Something easy.

He didn't say anything at first, just sat across from Bucky with his own plate and began eating.

Bucky's eyes flickered to the plate, then to Steve, studying him with that same blank wariness he always had. It wasn't fear—not exactly. It was calculation, like he was assessing every move, every word, waiting for the inevitable threat to reveal itself.

Steve knew that look too well.

Selene had worn it, too, when she first arrived.

She never spoke, barely acknowledged him, staying on high alert at all times, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. The only difference was that with Selene, there had been an awareness between them—an unspoken understanding, he had rescued her and thus a connection that neither of them could explain began.

With Bucky, there was nothing.

Just a cold, unyielding wall between them.

Steve swallowed the ache in his throat and leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table. "Figured you'd be hungry," he said, his voice calm, steady. He kept his tone light, non-threatening. "I'm sure it's been a while since you had a real meal."

Bucky didn't respond.

Didn't move.

Didn't even look at the food again.

Steve exhaled slowly, nodding to himself. Okay. He could work with that.

"You don't have to eat if you don't want to," he continued, keeping his tone even. "But it's there if you change your mind."

A choice.

Selene had thrived on being given choices, made her feel more in control in this new life- a complete contrast to what she suffered in with Hydra.

But Bucky wasn't Selene.

His sharp, unreadable blue eyes watching Steve, calculating, waiting.

Steve resisted the urge to sigh.

It had been nearly three weeks since they brought Bucky in. Three weeks of cautious steps, of walking on eggshells, of trying to break through the conditioning that kept him locked in silence.

This was the first time he had come out of his room for gods sake.

Steve had hoped—prayed—that something would have changed by now.

But Bucky was still guarded.

Still waiting for an attack that wasn't coming.

Steve leaned back slightly, relaxing his posture, trying to make himself seem smaller, less imposing.

"I used to make you breakfast, you know," he said casually, as if they were just two old friends catching up. "Back when we were kids. Not that I was any good at it. You always complained that my eggs were too dry."

Bucky's expression didn't change.

Didn't flicker with recognition.

Didn't soften.

It was like throwing words into a void, hoping for an echo that never came.

Steve's stomach twisted, but he pushed through it.

He had to keep trying.

"You used to eat like a damn horse back then," he went on, forcing a small smile. "Could put away five pancakes like it was nothing." He chuckled, shaking his head. "I swear, you had a bottomless stomach."

Nothing.

The silence between them stretched, heavy and suffocating.

Steve looked down at the table, exhaling through his nose. His fingers tapped absently against the wood, his mind drifting back to those Brooklyn mornings—back when life was simpler, when they were just two kids scraping by, looking out for each other.

Bucky had always looked out for him.

Always been the one to pick him up when he got knocked down, always been the one at his side, through thick and thin.

And now, Steve was the one trying to pull him back.

But how could he, when Bucky didn't even know he needed saving? Didn't even know who he was?

Steve's throat felt tight. He sat up a little straighter, schooling his expression.

He couldn't afford to let this get to him.

Not now.

"I know this is a lot," he said finally, voice quieter this time. "I know you don't trust me- don't know me. And I don't blame you for that." He met Bucky's eyes, searching for something—anything. "But I'm not going anywhere. No matter how long it takes."

Bucky's jaw clenched slightly. A small reaction, but a reaction nonetheless.

Steve held his breath.

For a moment, he thought—hoped—that Bucky might say something.

That maybe, just maybe, a crack had formed in the ice.

But then, Bucky's gaze dropped, his shoulders stiffening again, his walls slamming back into place.

Steve swallowed back his disappointment and nodded slowly.

One step at a time.

He pushed his chair back and stood, gathering the plates.

"You don't have to eat," he said, keeping his voice neutral. "But I'll leave it here, just in case."

Bucky didn't move.

Didn't acknowledge the words.

Steve lingered for a moment, watching him, before finally turning toward the sink.

He started washing the dishes, keeping his movements slow and deliberate.

Behind him, he could feel Bucky's eyes on his back, could sense the quiet weight of his presence.

It wasn't much.

But it was something.

And for now, that was enough.

_____

The rhythmic sound of fists striking the heavy bag echoed through the Avengers' training gym. Selene's knuckles collided with the thick canvas, each blow landing with sharp precision. She moved methodically—left jab, right hook, left uppercut—her body operating on autopilot, though her mind was anything but focused.

Beside her, Natasha worked on a speed bag, her movements fluid and effortless. The rapid-fire thwap-thwap-thwap of leather against leather was a sharp contrast to Selene's powerful, slower hits. Despite Natasha's apparent ease, her sharp green eyes flicked toward Selene every so often, assessing, reading.

She always noticed when something was off.

Selene could feel it, too—the restlessness clawing at her insides, the frustration tightening her chest, the storm brewing just beneath her skin. She struck the bag harder, her breath measured but her control slipping.

Natasha finally spoke, her voice casual, though her words were calculated. "You've been quiet today."

Selene exhaled sharply through her nose but didn't stop.

She was always quiet.

Natasha smirked as if she had expected the non-response. "You usually at least glare at me when I say something annoying."

Selene's fist hesitated in the air for half a second before she resumed, her jaw clenching.

Natasha rolled her shoulders before speaking again. "Where's your head at?"

Selene kept her gaze locked on the bag, her hands tightening into fists. She wasn't going to say it. She wasn't going to ask.

But then—

"...Steve."

It was barely a word, but Natasha caught it instantly. She slowed her pace, her sharp gaze honing in on Selene's profile. There was no need to ask what she meant.

Natasha hesitated, debating for a moment before answering carefully, "He's with the Winter Soldier."

Selene's fists stopped mid-motion.

Then—

The heavy bag shot backward, hitting the wall hard enough to make the metal frame groan.

The chains snapped, and the bag exploded, sand bursting into the air like a wave crashing onto shore.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The grains of sand settled around them, the gym now eerily silent except for the distant hum of overhead lights.

Selene stood still, shoulders rising and falling, her fingers curled tightly at her sides.

Natasha arched a brow but didn't flinch, watching her carefully. "...Well, I think it's safe to say you have an opinion about that."

Selene turned away from the wreckage, walking a few paces before stopping. Her head was slightly bowed, her dark hair partially shielding her expression.

Natasha crossed her arms, leaning back slightly against the wall. "You know," she started, choosing her words wisely, "I don't like him either."

Selene's head lifted slightly.

Natasha sighed, glancing toward the remains of the heavy bag. "I don't trust him. But I know what he is." She tilted her head slightly, catching Selene's unreadable gaze. "And so do you."

Selene's jaw tightened.

"You know what it's like to be used," Natasha continued, voice softer now. "To be turned into something you never chose to be."

Selene exhaled sharply through her nose, shaking her head slightly. She didn't want to hear this. She didn't want to understand.

But she did.

And that made it worse.

Natasha pushed off the wall and started wrapping her hands again. "Steve's not going to give up on him. You know that."

Selene swallowed, her throat tight.

She already knew.

It didn't stop it from hurting.

He never gave up. It was an annoying trait that she grew to like, but now she disliked it more than ever.

Finally, she shook herself out of her spiraling thoughts and turned to Natasha. "...Time?"

Natasha glanced at the digital clock on the far wall. "Noon."

Selene nodded, exhaling. "Sam."

Natasha blinked, then nodded in understanding. "Ah. Therapy."

Selene ran a hand through her hair. The thought of therapy—of talking—made her chest feel tight, but she had agreed to it. Sam was patient. Sam understood things in a way most people didn't.

Natasha shifted, then hesitated before asking, "You want me to walk with you?"

Selene paused, considering. Then, she shook her head. "No."

Natasha studied her for a moment before nodding. She didn't push. Didn't press. Just acknowledged the choice.

"Alright," she said simply.

Selene exhaled, her muscles still stiff as she turned to leave the gym.

She needed to be alone.

She needed—

She stopped in her tracks.

At the far end of the hallway, Steve was heading to the gym.

His arms were stiff at his sides, his expression distant, lost in thought. His brows were furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, his shoulders slightly hunched.

She knew that look.

She had seen it before.

He was thinking about him.

Selene's breath hitched.

She shouldn't care.

But she did.

Her feet moved before she could stop them, not toward him, but away.

She turned sharply, her lavender running shoes barely making a sound as she headed in the opposite direction.

But—

"Selene."

She stopped.

Steve's voice was quiet, hesitant. He hadn't moved, but his eyes were now on her, watching, waiting.

Her heart pounded against her ribs, the air suddenly too thick.

She didn't turn around.

Didn't look at him.

Instead, she clenched her fists at her sides and kept walking.

Steve didn't call after her.

Didn't follow.

He just stood there, watching her disappear down the hall, as the space between them stretched wider—silent, tense, unspoken.

_____