𝑾𝑰𝑪𝑲𝑬𝑫 𝑫𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑴𝑺 ━━ 𝚂𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚁𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜

33 Ma Meilleure Ennemie

The abandoned warehouse was cloaked in shadows, the faint flicker of the overhead chopper's light slicing through the grime-encrusted windows like fleeting memories. Dust motes swirled in the air, caught in the beam before disappearing into the darkness. The atmosphere was tense, every sound amplified—the dull hum of the helicopter above, the creak of the aged metal frame, and the faint rasp of Bucky's uneven breathing.

Steve stood near a jagged gap in the warehouse wall, the cool breeze from outside ruffling his hair as he peered toward the sky. His face was etched with a mixture of worry and resolve, his broad shoulders tense beneath the weight of the moment. He had faced countless enemies on the battlefield, yet the man sitting restrained behind him was not just an enemy. He was a ghost from the past—a brother who had been ripped away, reshaped, and weaponized.

Across the room, Sam leaned against a rusting support beam, his eyes never straying far from Bucky. His stance was casual, but his arms were crossed tightly, his distrust evident. Bucky sat in a chair that was bolted to the ground, his vibranium arm clamped in an industrial vice. The sharp edges of the mechanism pressed into the metallic surface, holding him in place. His hair hung in loose strands over his face, concealing his expression. The dim light reflected off his metal arm, its sheen an unsettling reminder of the atrocities tied to it.

A few steps away, Edda stood apart from the rest, her arms wrapped around herself like armor. The chill of the warehouse seeped through her thin jacket, but it wasn't the cold that made her shiver. Her breath hitched in her throat as she stared at Bucky. The memories of the man she once knew—a man who had been her protector, her confidant, and so much more—clashed violently with the image of the Winter Soldier. The assassin who had nearly destroyed her.

Her hands gripped her arms tightly as if trying to hold herself together. The sight of him like this, restrained, vulnerable, and yet still so dangerous, filled her with conflicting emotions. She wanted to step forward, to reach out to the man she believed still lingered beneath the conditioning. But fear—fear of the assassin, fear of the memories he stirred, and fear of what she might find—held her rooted in place.

Steve turned from the gap in the wall, his boots scuffing against the gritty floor. The sound drew Bucky's attention, and for the first time, he raised his head. His gaze met Steve's, a flicker of recognition passing through the storm of his expression.

"Steve," Bucky said, his voice hoarse, almost hesitant, as if he wasn't sure he deserved to say the name.

Steve paused, studying him with wary eyes. He stepped closer, his movements deliberate and slow, the weight of their shared history bearing down on him. "Which Bucky am I talking to?" he asked, his voice firm but tinged with an edge of hope.

The question hung in the air like a challenge. Bucky's brows furrowed, his eyes narrowing as he struggled against the fragmented pieces of his mind. "Your mom's name was Sarah," he began slowly, the words tumbling out like they had been buried for decades. "You used to wear newspapers in your shoes."

Steve's jaw tightened, the familiar details piercing through his guarded exterior. His lips pressed into a thin line as he replied, his tone quieter now. "You can't read that in a museum."

Sam, who had been silent until now, scoffed, his skepticism cutting through the fragile moment. "Just like that, we're supposed to be cool?" he said, gesturing toward Bucky with a dry laugh.

Bucky flinched as if the words had physically struck him. "What did I do?" he asked, his voice cracking under the weight of his guilt.

Steve's expression hardened, his eyes like ice. "Enough," he said simply, the word a sharp blade slicing through the tension.