Chapter Text
Three years ago...
You stirred awake to a soft thud. The soft glow of light from the hallway spilled across the floor. You blinked against the intrusion of light, your hand instinctively reaching across the sheets. The body that had filled the space there hours ago was gone, but his warmth remained.
He was gone.
Again.
You sat up slowly, exhaustion weighing down your limbs as you pushed the covers aside. Slipping your feet into your slippers, you pulled on your robe and cinched it tight around your waist, as if the thin fabric could hold together the frayed edges of your marriage. The living room was empty, the couch untouched. No blanket or pillow either, just the hollow silence that had become far too familiar.
A deep sigh escaped your lips as your shoulders sagged.
He left again.
No warning, no note, no text.
He said he would stop. He said he was feeling better. He promised you he would stop the fighting.
Your chest felt empty. You didn't know how much longer you could do this. You couldn't do the empty beds or the sneaking out or the lying. He'd promised to stop everything and talk to you when things got dark. And he had...
For two months. Two months of peace. Two months of him coming home every night, of soft kisses and whispered I love yous in the dark. He'd said the fighting was all behind him. That the nightmares, the restlessness, and the pull of his old life were all fading.
What good were all his promises if they dissolved the second you fell asleep?
A rustle from the kitchen caught your ear. You padded down the hall and stopped in the doorway. There he was—your husband—kneeling on the floor, tying the laces of his combat boots with familiarity. The same boots he swore he'd retired when he had promised you he was done looking for fights.
You crossed your arms and waited.
He rose, broad shoulders rolling back, and flinched when his eyes met yours.
"You hear everything," you said quietly. "Don't pretend you didn't hear me get up and walk in here."
He straightened, his gaze sliding away from you. "I thought you were just going to the bathroom."
"I'm not in the mood for bullshit, Bucky." Your voice cracked despite your best effort, and your lips turned down. "Where are you going?"
"Out," he said flatly, swallowing hard.
You glanced pointedly at his boots. "Obviously. Are you going to fight?"
He shifted his weight, the muscle in his jaw tightly clenched. "No. I told you I was done with that."
"Then where?" When he didn't answer, the hurt you'd been carrying for years surged forward. "Bucky, talk to me. Please. I've watched you pull away night after night, and I've let it happen because I thought you just needed time. But it's been years. I've given you everything. I've lied and told everyone who asked that you were fine. I've sat in hospital rooms after the fights you swore you'd never seek out again. I've held you through nightmares and flashbacks that left you shaking. And still... you won't let me in."
Silence. The ache in your chest grew colder.
"If you're walking out that door to go looking for trouble, at least have the decency to say it to my face," you demanded.
"I'm not looking for trouble," Bucky repeated, but his eyes wouldn't meet yours. "I just... need fresh air."
"At three in the morning?" you questioned.
"Damn it—yes, at three in the morning. You were asleep," he said, like that was supposed to make it all better.
"I was sleeping because it's three in the morning." You let out a bitter laugh. "You told me you were getting better."
"I am." His voice rose, agitation bleeding through his calm facade. "I swear. But I still have bad nights. Am I not allowed to have fucking bad nights anymore?"
Now he was avoiding most of your questions and not answering directly. It made your heart sink. After so many years together, you didn't want to think your life partner would be lying and sneaking around on you, but you'd just caught him again.
"I never said you couldn't have bad nights," you argued. "But I'm allowed to be a little concerned, if not terrified, when the man I married keeps disappearing into them."
A flash of hurt crossed his face before disappearing. He turned away, running a hand through his hair. "You don't get it."
"Then help me get it!" Your voice cracked, raw with the wound he kept reopening. You sounded louder and more desperate than you'd intended. "I'm your wife. I'm supposed to be the one person you can lean on. But every time I try, you shut me out. You say you're better; you promise you're done fighting, and then I wake up to an empty bed and another half-assed truth. After all these years, you still won't let me see what's really going on inside your head. How many times am I supposed to watch you walk away and pretend it doesn't destroy me?"
"I don't want to argue with you."
"You swore things were changing. Two months of letting me believe we were finally building something real again. And now we're right back where we started. You're still lying to me. Right to my face."
He didn't deny it, and then, to make matters worse, he headed toward the door.
"Bucky."
He didn't stop.
Tears burned hot behind your eyes. He was lying to you. Lying directly to your face and leaving you standing here like an idiot. Or he was telling the truth, but withholding the things that truly mattered from you. You didn't know which one was worse.
The suspicion you'd buried for so long clawed its way to the surface, ugly and nauseating. You'd never let yourself voice it before. Ever. Not even on the worst nights when Bucky didn't come home until dawn, and not even when he came back smelling like smoke and blood.
The door creaked open, and cold night air rushed in.
A tear slipped from the corner of your eye. "Are you cheating on me?"
Your husband's figure went rigid in the doorway. The despair in his eyes was raw and painful to look at when he turned around.
"No. God, no." He crossed the room in three long strides, cradling your face with both hands. "Why would you even think that?"
"Because you're either lying to me," you choked out, "or you're telling the truth but still shutting me out. I don't know which is worse anymore. Where else would you go at this hour? Who else would you go to? I've sacrificed everything for you, and you can't even give me the truth."
Bucky leaned down and kissed you. Desperate. Pleading. You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers curling into his shirt like that would keep him here and stop him from slipping away again. For one fragile moment, it felt like enough, but even now, you were losing him.
He pulled back, his forehead resting against yours. You kept your eyes closed because you already knew. He was still leaving.
"I love you," he murmured, voice rough. "I'm trying. I swear I'm trying."
You stepped out of his arms, wiping your cheeks with the sleeve of your robe. "I don't know how much longer I can keep waiting for you to actually try."
Silence stretched between you.
"Just go," you whispered.
He lingered only a moment longer before slipping out into the night. The door clicked shut behind him, and the house felt colder immediately. Suffocatingly empty.
You stood there for a long time, staring at the empty space where he'd been, the tears now dried on your cheeks.
You moved on autopilot as you walked back to the bedroom. You pulled out the duffel bag from the top shelf of the closet. You filled it with clothes, toiletries, the few things you couldn't leave behind. You didn't let yourself think too hard about what you were doing. If you did, you might crumble.
You didn't write a note or leave an explanation on the table. Words had failed you both for too long.
You placed your house keys and ring on his nightstand, locked the main door behind you, and walked into the cold without looking back.
⛓️💥⛓️💥⛓️💥
The sky was still dark when you pulled up outside Sam's place, the duffel bag sitting in the passenger seat. Your hands trembled on the steering wheel as you sat there for a long minute, staring at the familiar porch. Sam had been a steady presence through all the ups and downs of your marriage—the quiet mediator, the one who saw the cracks long before either of you admitted they existed. Showing up on his doorstep at five in the morning felt like one more fracture in your already shattered life.
You got out of your car and grabbed the duffel bag. You knocked softly, then a little louder when no one answered right away. A light flicked on inside. Soft footsteps approached the door, finally opening to reveal Sam, bleary-eyed and rumpled in an old tee and sweatpants, squinting against the light.
"Hey... are you okay?" His voice was thick with sleep until his gaze dropped to the duffel bag clutched in your hand. His expression shifted instantly. "Wait, you—"
"I'm done, Sam," you croaked, the words scraping raw out of your throat. Tears burned at the corners of your eyes again, threatening to spill over. "I can't do it anymore. The sneaking out, the promises that mean nothing as soon as a bad night comes... Because they always come. Lying to me is one thing, but looking me in the eye and doing it anyway? I just... I can't."
A tear slipped down your cheek, and you swiped at it angrily, as if that could stop the flood. Sam stepped forward, the sleep fully gone from his face now, replaced by anguish and sorrow.
"I came to say goodbye," you continued, voice cracking. "I need to leave. Get out of here for a while. Maybe forever. I don't know if I'll ever be back."
The words wrapped around your neck like a noose in the cold morning air. Saying them out loud made it feel terrifyingly real.
Sam pulled you into a warm, solid hug, arms wrapping around you like the shield he had always been for you. The moment you settled into his embrace, the last thread of your composure snapped. You broke against his chest—sobs wracking your body as all the exhaustion, the betrayal, and the years of quiet sacrifices poured out. He held you tighter, one hand rubbing circles on your back.
"I'm sorry," he murmured into your hair, voice low and steady. "I'm so sorry, sweetie. I don't... You've fought harder for him than anyone should have to."
You clung to him for what felt like forever, letting the tears soak into his shirt. When they finally slowed, you pulled back just enough to look up at him. Sam's eyes were glassy, jaw tight, and in them was the restrained emotion that came from watching two people he cared about slowly unravel to the end of their line.
"Please take care of him," you whispered, the request bitter on your tongue. "I couldn't help him. I can't anymore."
Sam nodded, swallowing hard around the knot in his throat. His hand lingered on your shoulder. "You know I will. After I kick his fucking ass. But that doesn't mean I'm not worried about you." He paused, searching your face. "Call me if you need anything. I mean anything—a place to crash, someone to yell at, money, whatever. You'll always have a place here even if you think you can't come back. Don't you dare disappear on me completely, okay?"
You managed a small nod, squeezing his hand one last time before stepping back. The duffel in your hands felt a little lighter now, or maybe you were just too numb to notice the weight anymore.
"Take care of yourself," Sam called after you as you neared your car. "And for what it's worth... I think you're doing the right thing. I just hate that it's going to hurt you both."
You didn't trust your voice enough to answer. You simply offered him a faint, broken smile before climbing back into the car. The engine hummed to life, and as you pulled away, you caught Sam's silhouette in the rearview mirror—still standing on the porch, watching until you disappeared down the road.