' ' Perfect Enough To Break ' '

Potential Weaknesses

Bucky

The door behind me thuds shut, the echo still rattling in my chest.

My knuckles are white. Jaw locked. Her words — my words — still ringing in my head like a gunshot that won't stop echoing. God, I shouldn't have said that. But she shouldn't have said what she did either. It doesn't matter. It's out now. The damage is done.

Then — knock knock knock.

Sharp. Impatient.

"I need a word, Barnes."

Fury. Always showing up when I'm at my worst.

I pull the door open, not bothering to hide the glare in my eyes. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't wait. Just turns and starts walking down the hallway. I follow.

We step into one of the briefing rooms — one of those sterile, quiet SHIELD spaces that always smell like steel and judgment. There's a file on the table. Fury nods toward it like it's a grenade.

"We managed to retrieve some data from HYDRA's mainframe before they torched it. Most of it's trash," he says. "Except this."

He picks up the file and flicks through the pages with that same calm detachment he always has when he's about to drop a bomb on someone.

"It's about her."

I freeze.

He holds it out.

I take it.

The paper's cold in my hands, like it knows what it carries. The cover is stamped with HYDRA's insignia. Cold. Precise. Her real name. Her designation. A code name beneath it — Ace.

I open it.

Pages and pages. Tight, clinical handwriting. Photos — some of them I wish I could unsee. Reports. Charts. Video stills. There's a list of known kills. Missions where she completed objectives ahead of schedule. Targets neutralized with unapproved methods — creative, effective, brutal. 

Weapon grade: optimal.
Adaptability: exceptional.
Psych profile: unstable but effective.
Codename: "Ace" – due to unpredictability and guaranteed mission success under adverse conditions. HYDRA's wild card.

HYDRA didn't just use her. They relied on her. Counted on her chaos.

Then there's a section titled: "Observed Patterns / Mannerisms".

Subject shows high sensory awareness. Always notes exits, even in secure environments. Watches reflections instead of directly looking at threats.

Has a habit of  tapping her fingers against surfaces

Avoids mirrors.

Prone to sharp changes in tone — moments of stillness before aggression. Smiles before violence. Doesn't always speak before acting.

My breath catches.

They watched her. Not just her stats — her tells. Her nerves. Her damage. They mapped her cracks like architects of her undoing. but that's not the part that makes a chill go down my spine.

"Section 7: Potential Weaknesses"

I pause.

My thumb hesitates at the corner of the page, like it already knows I shouldn't turn it. I turn it anyway.

One line.

Just. one. line:

Winter Soldier, James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes – Asset 56898. Assessed as primary emotional vulnerability.

I blink.

Read it again.

And again.

What the hell does that even mean? I—

I laugh. A short, bitter breath. "That's bullshit," I spat before I even know I'm speaking.

Fury doesn't say a word.

"She just told me I'm no different from them. From HYDRA." My voice is rough, low. "She stayed. I ran. She chose them."

But my voice wavers at the end. Because it's not that simple. It's never been that simple.

Weakness?

That doesn't make any sense.

She fought tooth and nail just now, refused to back down. She was furious, venomous. She spat those words like she hated me. So how the hell could I be her weakness?

Unless...

Unless that rage wasn't about hate at all. Unless it was something deeper. Something I didn't want to see.

No. No. I clench the file tighter. I can't go there.

Because if I'm her weakness... what the hell does that make her to me?

"I thought I was done with this shit," I whisper to myself, flipping the file closed.

Fury finally speaks. "You're not. Not with her. That much is obvious."

I glance at him, jaw tight.

He doesn't push further. Just turns and leaves me there with a goddamn file, a head full of noise, and a weight in my chest that feels like it might collapse in on itself.

I look down at the folder one more time.

Winter Soldier — emotional vulnerability.

I press my finger over the words, like I can smudge them out.

But I can't.

And worst of all?

There's a part of me that longs. That wishes it to be true.

Before Fury leaves he stops in his tracks and adds, "Oh, we also recovered a deleted audio file. You can't hear much — static's heavy, the recording's rough. But there's something there. It's on that green USB."

He nods toward a small terminal in the corner, screen glowing softly. A computer hooked up for playback.

Fury's eyes meet mine. "Might give you some answers. Or more questions."

Then he turns and leaves — leaving me alone with the weight of the file and the haunting possibility in that corrupted audio.

I stare at the USB for a long moment. It feels wrong — like I'm invading something private, something I shouldn't have access to. But the pull is too strong. I slip the small drive into my pocket.

Just in case.

I don't need to hear it now. Maybe I won't ever. But it's there. Waiting.