Bucky's Anchor

Chapter 50 - Unspoken Truths

Bucky's brow is furrowed, his fingers tracing the edges of the worn notebook on the table in front of him. He flips it open, revealing page after page of names—reminders of a past that weighs him down more than anything. I sit beside him, my hand resting on his back, feeling the tension radiating from him as he writes.

One more name.

One more person he needs to face.

"It never gets easier, does it?" I ask softly, though I already know the answer. His shoulders slump, and he lets out a long, shaky breath.

"No," he mutters, his voice low. "Every name is a reminder of what I did. Who I was."

I shift closer to him, leaning my head against his shoulder. "But it's also a reminder of who you're choosing to be now," I say, my voice steady. "You're not that person anymore, Bucky."

He doesn't respond immediately, just stares down at the notebook. I know he believes me, or at least part of him does, but the weight of his guilt is still too heavy to let go of entirely.

"I know this isn't easy," I whisper, squeezing his hand. "But every step you take, every name you face... it's one step closer to healing."

He nods, but there's still a shadow in his eyes. He flips the notebook closed and rubs a hand over his face, exhausted by the burden he's carried for so long.

"Yori's next," he says, barely a whisper.

My heart clenches at the thought. Yori is different. Yori is more than just a name in his book. He's a friend, and Bucky hasn't told him the truth yet—the truth about what happened to his son. I reach out and take his hand in mine, squeezing it gently.

"You don't have to do it alone," I remind him softly. "I'm here. I'll always be here."

---

We spend the next few days visiting people on his list. Every encounter feels like stepping into the past, reliving the mistakes, the pain, and the destruction that his actions—HYDRA's actions—left behind. Bucky is quiet during most of these visits, his jaw tight, his words few. But I see the determination in his eyes, the resolve that drives him to keep moving forward, even when it feels impossible.

Sometimes, all he can do is leave something small behind—a gesture of help or protection, something to ease the guilt gnawing at him. In other cases, he faces the people he's wronged directly, standing before them with an openness and vulnerability that makes my heart swell with pride, even as it breaks for him.

One afternoon, we visit a man whose family was torn apart because of HYDRA's involvement. The man doesn't recognize Bucky, of course—he was just a ghost then, a shadow in the night. But as Bucky speaks, his voice filled with quiet remorse, I can see the man's face shift, his confusion melting into a kind of wary understanding.

"I can't undo what I did," Bucky says, his voice hoarse. "But I'm here now, and I want to help."

The man doesn't say much, just nods and thanks him, but there's a glimmer of something in his eyes—maybe not forgiveness, not yet, but a kind of recognition. Acknowledgment.

I stand beside Bucky, my hand resting on his arm, feeling the tension ease just slightly as we leave.

"He's fighting for the man he wants to become, every day," I whisper to myself, watching him, my heart swelling with love.

---

The visit to Yori is different. It's heavier.

Bucky has spent time with Yori, shared meals with him, listened to his stories. He's more than just someone on his list. He's a friend. And it's killing Bucky that he hasn't told Yori the truth yet.

"You need to tell him," I say gently one night as we sit on the couch, the weight of the day settling over us. Bucky's shoulders are slumped, his fingers rubbing his temples. He doesn't look at me, just stares blankly at the wall.

"I know," he whispers after a long pause. His voice is filled with so much pain, it nearly breaks me.

I reach for his hand, intertwining our fingers. "It'll hurt," I say softly, "but it'll hurt worse if you keep it from him."

He turns to look at me, his eyes filled with anguish. "It'll destroy him," he says, his voice barely audible.

I nod, my heart aching for him, for Yori, for all the pain this will cause. "But he deserves the truth, Bucky. He deserves to know what happened. It's not about you—it's about giving him that."

Bucky leans back, closing his eyes as if he's trying to block out the truth of my words. I wish I could take the pain from him, ease the burden, but I know this is something only he can do.

"I'll be with you," I whisper, resting my head on his shoulder. "When you're ready to tell him, I'll be right there."

He nods, his hand tightening around mine.

---

And then there's my secret.

Every day, I feel the weight of it growing, both literally and figuratively. I place a hand on my stomach, feeling the slight curve that's starting to show. The baby is a small, steady presence, a constant reminder of the future we're building together.

But I haven't told Bucky yet.

I keep telling myself it's because he's not ready. That with everything he's carrying right now, I don't want to add more weight to his shoulders. But every time I feel that flutter in my belly, every time I think about our future, I know that it's not just about him—it's about me, too.

I want to share this with him. I want him to know that despite everything, we're building something beautiful together. But the words stick in my throat, held back by fear, by uncertainty.

What if he's not ready? What if the news of the baby only adds to his guilt, his fear that he'll never be enough?

But I can't keep this secret forever. Soon, I'll have to tell him.

I look over at Bucky, watching the way he runs a hand through his hair, his eyes distant and filled with pain. And I know I need to wait just a little longer. Just until the time is right.

For now, I keep the secret to myself, waiting for the moment when I know he'll be ready to hear it.

Because when I do tell him, it needs to be the right moment—one filled with hope, not fear.