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Percy, as the man insisted on being called, wasn’t so bad after all. He was still guarded, still careful around Bucky in a way that made it clear he didn’t quite know what to do with him. But he talked more now, sat across from him at meals, shared snippets about the camp where Bucky had his sessions.
It was almost nice.
Sometimes, when Percy rambled about some obscure history fact, voice animated and eyes flickering with something resembling excitement, Bucky could almost pretend he was normal. That he wasn’t this—wasn’t some shattered piece of a person barely stitched back together. That he wasn’t the Winter Soldier.
But the in-between moments were harder.
The stretches of silence that sat between them, thick and suffocating, heavy with all the things neither of them said. In those moments, the small hope Bucky had—the fragile, flickering thing—snuffed itself out, replaced by the sharp, familiar edge of tension creeping back in.
Percy’s eyes would dart around the room, never landing on Bucky for more than a second. His control, so effortlessly held, would falter for just a moment, and underneath it, that restraint would return. Bucky saw it then. Saw the quiet, well-hidden fear slip back in.
He hated those moments.
Sitting at the kitchen counter, Bucky watched as Percy moved fluidly around his kitchen. He was graceful without meaning to be, movements effortless in a way that felt almost too natural. Bucky had never seen someone so at home in a kitchen, and he had said as much once, the first time he had gathered the courage to leave his room and watch the other man cook.
Percy had just grinned over his shoulder at him, all teeth, voice light. “You should see my mom.”
Bucky hadn’t responded at the time. He had just tucked the thought away, filed it under the ever-growing list of things he didn’t know about Percy Jackson.
Now, as he sat there, watching Percy work, another thought twisted uncomfortably at the back of his mind.
What if the trigger words never go away?
It had been three months since he started his biweekly sessions with Dionysus, and so far, the progress felt nonexistent.
Bucky swallowed hard, staring down at his hands, one scarred, calloused, familiar yet wrong, the other dark blue metal, and wondered if he would ever be just Bucky Barnes again.
Or if the Winter Soldier would always be waiting just beneath the surface
Steve was kind every time he called, voice steady with the same unwavering faith he had always had in Bucky. “You’ll get through this,” he said, reassuring as ever. “You just need to give yourself time.”
So, Bucky forced himself to nod, to smile, a hollow, practiced thing, something he had mastered long before now. It wasn’t real, but it was enough to keep Steve from worrying too much. Enough to let the conversation continue without pressing deeper into places Bucky didn’t want touched.
But then the call would end, Percy or Sam cutting off the Iris Message with a casual flick of their fingers, and the moment the screen blinked away, the guilt would settle in again.
Thick. Heavy. Unshakeable.
Steve had so much faith in him. Too much faith.
And Bucky had none.
He should have figured it out sooner. Should have realized the truth long before now.
The Wakandans had spent nearly a year trying to help him, trying to rewrite the damage, trying to undo what Hydra had buried so deep in his brain that he could barely call it his anymore. And even they hadn’t been able to fix him completely.
And now, a god was trying, and somehow, even that wasn’t enough.
So what did that mean?
It meant there was no hope.
It meant that Bucky wasn’t fixable.
That no matter how much time passed, no matter how much effort was poured into him, he would always be a puppet. A mindless killer, waiting for someone to speak the right words, waiting for the switch to flip, waiting for the moment he lost himself again. Waiting for the inevitable.
And that thought, that unrelenting certainty, was more suffocating than anything else.
The words leave his mouth before he even realizes they’re forming, raw and unfiltered.
"What if the trigger words never leave me?"
As soon as he says it, the weight crashes down, crushing, suffocating. Like his world is caving in around him, pressing in from all sides, leaving no room to breathe. He can play pretend here, in this quiet kitchen, in this strange pocket of normalcy, but some things don’t change. Some things never will.
The words are stuck to him, buried deep in his bones, tangled in his mind like shackles he’ll never be free from. No matter how much time passes, no matter how many sessions he sits through, no matter how desperately he wants them gone.
They are part of him now. Forever.
His breath hitches in his throat, refusing to come properly, his arms going heavy at his sides, useless, limp. His body goes still, frozen in place, as he watches Percy’s reaction.
The demigod stills mid-motion. His back is turned, his head bowed as he stares into the boiling water like it holds all the answer. The quiet stretch between them is deafening.
Then Percy takes a deep breath, long, steady, almost forced, and lets it out painfully slow.
When he finally turns, there’s a look in his eyes that Bucky doesn’t recognize. It isn’t pity. Not the kind Bucky is used to, not the kind that makes his stomach churn, that feels like someone looking at him as something broken beyond repair.
It’s something else. Something heavier. Something that makes Bucky’s chest feel even tighter.
Because Percy, someone who never hesitated, who carried himself like he owned the space around him, who had faced horrors beyond Bucky’s understanding, looked at him with an expression that was too knowing.
“They will,” Percy reassures, his voice soft, steady, but not delicate.
Bucky shakes his head, the motion stiff and abrupt. His throat tightens around his next words, voice cracking as he speaks. “How could you know that?”
Desperation claws at his ribs, wrapping itself around his lungs like an iron restraint. His hands tremble where they rest at his sides, fingers curling slightly, as if trying to grasp onto something solid. He wants to believe it. Gods, he wants the hope so badly it hurts. But he knows where hope has gotten him before—nowhere. Nothing but pain.
Hope has failed him. Left him in the wreckage, abandoned him at the edge of something sharp and endless. He has learned not to trust it, not to lean on it. He only trusts logic now. The facts. The cold, hard reality of what is true, what is undeniable. That is how he keeps himself safe. Because the facts are all he has left.
Percy exhales, slow and measured, leaning back against the counter with a heaviness that says this conversation is something he feels. His arms cross over his chest, his thumb tracing something under his shirt, pressing against the center of his sternum like it’s an anchor.
“Because it worked for me,” he says finally, voice almost casual.
The world stutters to a halt around Bucky. His breath catches in his throat. “…What?”
Percy chews his lip, his mouth opening and closing as he struggles for the right words, choosing them carefully. “A while ago,” he starts, then winces slightly. “Well—I guess not a while. Just over a year ago, actually. I was kidnapped by Hydra. I was with them for months, and they—” He takes a slow, deliberate breath, steadying himself before continuing. “They placed trigger words on me.”
Bucky feels his pulse pound violently in his ears.
Percy’s voice doesn’t waver, but it dips just slightly as he goes on. “I killed a lot of people in a very short amount of time,” he says. He doesn’t dress it up, doesn’t try to soften it. He just states it. Fact. Cold. Undeniable. “Later, I found out Hydra decided to call me their Hound.”
Percy watches him then, sharp but patient. Like he’s waiting, like he’s looking for something in Bucky’s expression.
But Bucky isn’t processing. His mind reels, caught in something twisting, unraveling, rewiring itself to accommodate information that doesn’t fit, that shouldn’t exist. He stares, unable to form words, unable to grasp at anything coherent.
Then, Percy speaks again, this time softer.
“Dio helped me get rid of the words.” He pauses. Then, steadily:
“He can help you too, Bucky.”
Bucky swallows thickly, his chest tightening in ways he can’t control. His vision blurs, burning slightly.
And suddenly, he understands what was in Percy’s expression. It wasn’t pity. It was understanding. For the first time, Bucky realizes he might not be completely alone in his reality. And that truth terrifies him.
The silence between them stretched, as Bucky tried to process what Percy had just said. His mind reeled, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope. Percy, the unshakable, larger-than-life demigod, had been through this. The same nightmare. The same chains. And somehow, he had come out the other side. Sure, it seemed like he was a little worse for wear, but he still managed to do it.
Percy didn’t push him to respond. He just stood there, leaning against the counter, his arms still crossed over his chest. His gaze was steady, patient, but not prying. It was like he understood that Bucky needed time to let the words settle, to find his footing again.
Finally, Bucky managed to speak, his voice hoarse. “How… how did you do it? How did you get rid of them?”
Percy’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he looked older than he was, like the weight of what he’d been through had aged him in ways time couldn’t. “It wasn’t easy,” he admitted. “Dio helped, but it wasn’t just him. It was… a lot of things. Coming to terms with who I was and what I’d been through. Letting myself believe it could be undone.”
Bucky’s chest tightened. “What if I can’t?”
Percy’s gaze softened, and he pushed off the counter, stepping closer, not too close, but enough to make his presence feel grounding. “You can,” he said firmly. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you can. You’re not the first person Hydra tried to break, and you won’t be the last—At least until I fucking destroy them. But you’re still here, Bucky. That means something.”
Bucky swallowed hard, his throat burning. He wanted to believe him. Wanted to cling to the possibility that Percy was right. But the doubt was still there, gnawing at the edges of his mind.
Percy seemed to sense it. “Look,” he said, his tone softening again and so, so kind. More kind than Bucky believed he deserved. “I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. It’s not. But you’ve got people who care about you. People who want to help. You don’t have to do this alone.”
Bucky looked away, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know if I can trust myself around them.”
Percy tilted his head slightly, considering him. “Then trust them to trust you,” he said simply. “Sometimes, that’s all you can do. It’s basically all I do anymore.”
The words hung in the air, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky felt something shift. It wasn’t hope, not yet. But it was something close. Something that felt like the faintest flicker of light in the darkness.
Percy stepped back, giving him space, and turned his attention back to the stove. “Lunch is almost ready,” he said, his tone casual, like they hadn’t just had a conversation that was earth shattering and more deep than any they’ve ever had. “You should eat. You’ll need your strength for your next session with Dio today.”
Bucky huffed a quiet, almost bitter laugh. “Yeah. Can’t wait for that.”
Percy smirked over his shoulder, the faintest hint of mischief in his expression. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he doesn’t call you Bongos again.”
For the first time in a long time, Bucky felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward. It wasn’t much. But it was something. And for now, that was enough.