' ' Perfect Enough To Break ' '

Missing Memories

Bucky

The gravel dug into my knees, but I barely felt it over the throbbing in my ribs. Every breath came in a little too sharp, a little too shallow. The sword had carved through more than just skin — it left something heavier, something that didn't bleed out as easily.

Even though I was on my knees and at a disadvantage, I looked up at her — defiantly. Or at least, I tried to. She looked gorgeous, in that dangerous, goddess-like way that made it hard to tell if you should stare or look away before you burned for it. Not that I'd admit that. I forced the hint of a smile threatening my face to disappear, grinding my teeth until it did.

Her calm was worse than anger. It was deliberate — cold, sharpened, like every flick of her gaze was a test I was already failing.

"I don't care," I managed, the words scraping out of my throat rougher than I intended. "You shouldn't be doing this."

She stepped closer, slow and precise, like a predator that already knew the outcome.

"I don't take orders from you, James."
The sound of my actual name in her mouth hit hard. almost surprised me, not many people called me that anymore.

Then she laughed. A dry, humorless sound that cracked through the air and made my stomach twist. "When were you going to tell me?"

The words hit me before I could brace for them. My pulse jumped. Did she—
"Tell you what?" I muttered, voice gravel-low, one hand pressed against my ribs. I could feel the slick warmth of blood through my hands.

Her eyes searched mine, sharp and unrelenting, looking for a lie — or maybe for the version of me she used to know.

"The fact that you had the decision to wipe my memory."

The air left my lungs in a dull, stuttering breath. I didn't say anything. I couldn't.

She kept going, her voice steady but shaking underneath — like she'd rehearsed it a thousand times just to stop it from breaking. "Pierce—he—"

"No," she snapped, fast, angry.

"I knew something along the lines of that he had killed my parents." She said it like she was stating the weather. Detached. Familiar. As if the horror of it had long since been absorbed into her bones.

I pressed my lips together, the sting in my chest flaring hotter than the wounds ever could.

"But I didn't think you'd  be the one to suggest wiping my memory."

The silence that followed hit harder than any blow that was impressed on my skin.

Her eyes softened — not with mercy, but disappointment. That look made me break. She bit her lip, a small, trembling smile ghosting her face, like she was trying not to let the pain win. I could see.

"I should've known," she whispered.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. I wanted to tell her the truth — the real truth — that it wasn't like that, that I'd thought it would save her, save her the pain. But the words stayed buried under the weight of everything I'd already done wrong.

"You had no right to do that." she says her eyes now colds she stepped closer

A tear slipped down her cheek before she wiped it away. When she looked back up, the soldier was there again — the mask, the walls, the training.

"You know they're not going to stop bleeding until you tell me a truth," she said. Her voice was guarded, but softer than before. It hurt worse that she cared enough to warn me.

I could feel the team's static on the comms — their breaths held, the silence heavy. No one stepped in. They were waiting for the word, the signal that I'd had enough.

But I didn't say it. I couldn't.

"I know," I finally said.

And I did.
God help me, I did.

The pain didn't scare me half as much as the thought of what I'd have to admit.

Because the sword wanted the truth, and I wasn't sure if I could do that.