Bucky had thought he was the last. Zemo had made sure of that—or so he believed. But here she was. Another HYDRA experiment. Another super soldier. Older than him, even. Frozen before Steve ever picked up the shield.

The realization sat heavy in his chest, pressing like a weight he couldn't shrug off. His mind kept circling back to Siberia—dark corridors, cold steel, the smell of oil and frost. Had they ever crossed paths, brushing shoulders in the same nightmare without knowing? He'd never know. What he did know was how damn hard it was to come back. To shake HYDRA's chains and live like a person again. To crawl out of the dark and relearn what it meant to be human.

That's why he couldn't just leave her alone.

Steve gave him a second chance. So did T'Challa, Shuri, and Sam. People who had believed in him when he hadn't deserved it—when he hadn't believed in himself. Now it was his turn to pay it forward. If she was going to claw her way out of the shadows, someone had to stand at her side.

He rubbed his thumb across the edge of his jaw, glancing down at the phone in his other hand.

She said she'd be here in ten minutes.

His pulse was steady on the surface, soldier-trained, but beneath that rhythm was a gnawing anticipation. The kind he used to feel before a mission—except this wasn't war. This was something scarier: hope.

He stood leaning against the kitchen counter in the Thunderbolts' tower, the faint hum of the dishwasher cycling down beside him. He'd chosen a muted green Henley and black jeans—nothing tactical, nothing that screamed "Hydra's weapon." Nothing that might make her flinch. He didn't want to remind her of cages and handlers. He just wanted to be... Bucky.

"I can't believe there's a super soldier out there older than you. Still alive." Yelena's voice sliced through his thoughts. She perched on the island, swinging her legs, apple in hand. "Aren't you, like... two hundred?"

Bucky huffed, narrowing his eyes. "One-twenty. Something." He waved a dismissive hand, like the number didn't matter.

"Mmhm. And I am still sixteen." Yelena grinned around another bite, juice catching the corner of her lip.

He muttered, "Whatever. Just—be nice, alright?"

He crouched, opening the dishwasher with a hiss of steam. With practiced ease, he retrieved the vibranium arm from within, the metal still beading with condensation. The plates clinked faintly as he locked it into place, shoulder rolling to test the fit. There's faint hiss of his arm when locking it into place—almost like a sigh. The sound echoes the way Bucky feels: trying to fit himself back together, smoothly on the outside, strained beneath.

"When am I not nice? I'm the nicest person on this team!" Yelena jabbed the apple at him like a pointer. "Bob! Tell him!"

Bob, lounging on the couch with a paperback in hand, blinked up. His voice was quiet, shy. "She's nice."

"See?!" Yelena threw her arms up like a gymnast nailing the landing.

Alexei chose that moment to stomp out of the private quarters, voice booming, "Of course my little girl is nice! Who says otherwise?"

"Bucky did!" Yelena shot a finger toward him like she was cross-examining in court.

"I did not—" Bucky straightened, exasperation flickering in his tone. "I just asked her to be nice when she comes. That goes for all of you. This is serious."

"Alright, alright. No need for the dad voice." Yelena tossed her apple core into the sink, hands up in mock surrender.

Alexei's chest swelled with pride as he strode over, clapping Bucky on the back with a force that nearly jolted him forward. "Do not worry, my friend! No one understands more than we. Super soldiers must stick together, eh? We will welcome her with big, open arms—"

Before Bucky could sidestep, Alexei demonstrated with an actual bear hug, squeezing until his ribs protested. Bucky instinctively stiffens like he's bracing for a handler's grip before catching himself.

"...Okay. Okay. Thanks." Bucky grunted, managing an awkward half-smile as he finally wiggled free.

"Now go! Bring your friend. Another soldier in the family, eh? The Thunderbolts grows stronger!" Alexei roared, arms spread wide in triumph.

"Not yet," Bucky muttered, pressing the elevator button. "Maybe one day."

The doors slid shut, muffling their voices. Silence wrapped around him like an old coat. He let out a long breath, running his tongue across his teeth, squaring his shoulders. The tightness in his chest hadn't gone anywhere. His gaze caught on his reflection in the metal elevator doors—a soldier's face in civilian clothes, carrying ghosts he was still trying to set down. An intrusive thought came unbidden, sharp and merciless: "You don't deserve to be the one waiting for her." He closed his eyes and forced it back down, shoving it where it belonged. The doubt lingered, but it only sharpened the fierce hope pulsing beneath his ribs.

When the elevator chimed open on the main floor, the air felt different—colder, sharper, as if the whole Tower was holding its breath. He spotted her instantly. Stiff-backed, eyes sharp and darting, every muscle coiled like a spring. The sounds of the lobby blur out for him, tunnel vision until there's just her.

The sight was like looking in a mirror of himself, decades ago. That same suspicion, that same raw edge of someone who'd survived too much and trusted too little.

Bucky's throat went dry. He swallowed. And when he spoke, his voice was low, steady, careful. Soft.

"Hey."

The words were simple, but his chest was heavy with unspoken promise: You're not alone. Not anymore.