Radioactive | Bucky Barnes

RADIOACTIVE: PART ONE

"His memories are intact?"

Phil's expression didn't falter, but there was a softness in his voice. "He's good, Rhiley."

She stared at him, heart thudding against her ribcage like a warning. "Are you sure?"

Phil stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop pacing. "Do you remember when you woke up?"

Rhiley blinked. The past slammed into her all at once—the sterile lights, the smell of antiseptic, the overwhelming silence that clung to her even after the machines stopped beeping. "Yeah," she murmured. "I didn't have anyone, though."

Phil gave a small, knowing nod. "Steve has you."

She glanced over his shoulder, toward the door at the end of the hallway—the one she wasn't sure she could bring herself to walk through. Her chest tightened. The hallway suddenly felt too narrow. The walls are too close.

"He asked for you, Rhiley."

Her breath caught in her throat, jagged and uneven. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

She turned away, one arm bracing against the wall, as if the structure itself could hold her upright while her world tilted on its axis. She wasn't ready. She'd thought she was. But nothing could've prepared her for this.

Then—

"Rhiley?"

The sound of her name froze her mid-step. She turned slowly, like the air around her had turned to molasses.

Steve Rogers stood in the doorway, bathed in pale morning light. His hospital clothes were wrinkled, his blonde hair slightly tousled, but his eyes—the same impossible blue she remembered—were wide with stunned relief.

He looked like her memory of him. Too much like it. Like time had folded in on itself and delivered him to her unchanged, untouched by decades.

He looked alive.

And then he moved.

Phil stepped back without a word as Steve crossed the hallway with purpose. He wrapped his arms around Rhiley before she even realized what was happening.

She let out a strangled breath as she was pulled into his chest, the scent of antiseptic and old memories washing over her.

"You're alive," Steve whispered into her hair, over and over again, his voice breaking. "You're alive."

If she had been anyone else, he might have crushed her in that hug. But she clung to him like he was the only real thing left in the world.

"I'll leave you both to catch up," Phil said, gently. "Rhiley, you know how to contact me."

Rhiley turned, still half-pressed into Steve, and reached out to Phil. She pulled him into a quick, fierce hug. The kind of hug you only gave someone who brought a piece of your heart back to life.

She'd never hugged him before—not like this. She had always kept a distance. Always tried to protect herself. But now? She didn't want to feel that kind of alone again.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"I didn't do anything," Phil replied.

Rhiley pulled back and smiled, tears in her eyes. "Trust me. You did everything."

Behind her, Steve waited—still looking like he'd just walked out of another century.

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Two Hours Later

They sat in a corner booth at the same diner Rhiley had claimed as her sanctuary since her own awakening. The lighting was warm and low, humming with quiet conversation and the clatter of dishes. Steve looked around like every inch of the place was foreign terrain.