A/N: This was a wonderful request from BuckysGirl42! I poured a TON of thought, time, and effort into this one. I wanted to relay a lot of emotion and character development without making the story too long. I hope you like it, and I hope everyone else likes it as well!

The bold italics, which start the story, are a conversation between the reader and her therapist. The rest is her and Bucky's story.

Words: 5.1K

"I have a problem, Doc."

"I assumed you probably did, Sargent Y/N, because it's been quite a long time since you willingly came to see me for a session."

"I know, I know. Sorry about that. But for a while after I came back everything was... everything was fine. Now..."

"Now what?"

"That's exactly the question I've been asking myself since I stepped off of that plane."

"I see. Why don't you tell me where the problem starts and we can work our way back from there, Y/N."

"Start at the beginning of the problem?"

"Yes, so we can try to identify what it is."

"Oh, I know exactly what it is. I can tell you where it started, too. The problem's name is Bucky Barnes."

"I need four units of O-Neg and I needed it yesterday!" you scream over your shoulder into the storm of sand. Stampeding feet have brought the dust up in clouds that settle down onto every visible inch of sweaty flesh you have peeking out of the grey-green military garb.

"Where the hell is my blood?!" you shout again—hoping to hell that one of these imbeciles carrying the body carts around you will listen.

You jog behind your patient as he's wheeled into the medical tent. The Afghan winds howl outside where tires once screamed—bringing these soldiers who'd been mid-mission before the slaughter began.

Coming into the medical tent, carrying a half-dead woman on his shoulder, is someone you've never seen before: not here in Afghanistan, at least. But you're important enough to have received the memo stating Captain America and his sidekick, Sargent Barnes, were going to be on that operation today: the one that ended in five casualties and countless injuries.

"Sargent Barnes," you make an assumption about the man in nearly all black with the dark brown hair and brooding, war-stricken eyes. "There are free beds at the East side of the tent."

"Yes, Ma'am," are the first words he ever speaks to you.

"Call me Doctor or call me Sargent, but never ma'am." Your eyes never move away from the tourniquet you're fastening around a thigh to stop lower leg bleeding. Your hands, bare and chapped, work fast and without thought. "Where the fucking hell is my blood?"

Out of the corner of your vision you watch Barnes deliver the soldier on his arm to one of the few free beds. A couple of assisting medics rush to tend to her wounds. You don't have to look very long to know she won't make it. There's too much damage done to her torso and stomach. It'd take a miracle to save her, and you're not a miracle worker. You're a doctor who has to prioritize the needs of the living and the walking dead.

"Get Lieutenant Martine over there some morphine. Make her comfortable." Your order doesn't fall upon deaf ears this time. One of the assistants nods his head and solemnly heads off to the medical crate—looking for that vial of poppy-drug to put the woman at rest before the eternal sleep.

"Can I help in any way, Doctor?" Barnes is back at your end of the tent.

You waste only half a second to glance up at his face. He doesn't seem injured, not on the outside anyway. There's a terrible darkness behind his eyes and a somber pull to his brow but beyond the common signs of soldier's PTSD there's nothing there to treat.

"Yes. I'm going to need you in a minute." You touch the enflamed skin of the man on your table. He's hardly conscious and slipping farther away every moment. "I'm going to need you to hold him down while I dig out the bullets. But first I need my goddamn units of blood," you turn and direct the second part of the statement into the open room.

Finally, someone replies. It's a woman, probably your age but much shorter, who comes up to you. "We're out of O-Neg, Doctor."

"We're out of our miracle blood?" you want to puke between words. Lists of the men in this room—in this camp—who can only receive O Negative run through your mind. Without it, they may as well be dead. "That's impossible. We just had a new shipment..."

"Being brought in today by the task force: the one they were on."

"Fucking hell," you grunt. You can't resist the temptation to tug on the back of your hair, on that long ponytail, and manage to tread blood through your locks in the process.

"I'm O-Neg."

Barnes' voice, low and dark in a room so full of somber life, speaks to your side. There's a sentence to follow the first. "Get me set up with a bag and an IV and I'll give you as much as you need."

You don't have time to consider it. It's your only option. "Done. Take that seat there." You point to a lonely wicker chair tucked in the corner of the humid tent.

Barnes nods and takes the command easily. While he's taking his spot you turn back to your work—never realizing that he's carefully, interestedly watching your every precise move. You've caught Bucky Barnes' eye with your stoicism and fearlessness. Your hands are covered up to your elbows in blood, and your face is set in a straight line as you shout orders at people.

It's a miracle that Barnes can still stand after all the blood you take from him. You attribute that stamina towards his super-human DNA, for when a normal man would be buckled over red-faced he simply shakes out his arm and plucks out the needle effortlessly. A little trickle of blood dripples down his bare skin. He's had to shed his military issued shirt for vein access, and now he's shirtless as he comes up to your side.

"Do you still need a hand, Doctor?" His blue eyes momentarily dart down to the stitches you're fixing up on a soldier's brow.

"I'll take as many hands as I can get," you reply.

Barnes nods. "I've got two." He lifts up the metal one slightly—the silver catching the light that comes in sandy rays through the paneled roof.

"Are you sure it's a good idea for you to get in here?" The sounds of shouting, radio static, and screams of pain are torture to anyone's ears: let alone someone who's been so infamously tortured.

"I want to help." His stoic, bearded face makes direct eye contact with you. Momentarily you freeze—sort of surprised by his directness. "I'll do anything you need me to do to help these soldiers."

And he does. Sargent Barnes spends the next ten hours straight following your every command: holding people down, threading stitches, and carrying bodies—both dead and alive. It's hell, but he does it without a blink.

"He sounds like a good soldier."

"He is."

"And a decent man."

"I assumed so."

"Is he not?"

"He is, but I didn't really know it until later. At that point I'd just seen him as what you said: a good soldier. The man part came later."

Iconic 80s music, meant to pump up spirits, is static and pointless on the tiny stereo in the corner of the camp. You drop onto your ass on a chair—tilting your lukewarm bottle of water up towards the late midnight sky. The stars out here in the desert are much brighter than anything you'd see at home, but you hardly notice anything other than the stench of blood on your hands now. It's washed away but somehow the reek still lingers.

"Thank you for letting me help today, Doctor Y/N."

You don't have to glance over your shoulder to know that it's Sargent Barnes approaching to your right. For some reason, you still feel compelled to look back at him. He's there—hair longer than anyone else's on base, and his clothes snug fitting now that he's put a shirt back on.

"I appreciate it." Your eyes flitter away from his face to where his feet sink into the dry sand. "Wanna take a seat?" Your boot kicks out the chair beside yours to angle it in his direction.

Barnes shoots a look back in the way he came. His friend, Captain Rogers, is chatting up with a few soldiers in need of a good pep talk. "Sure." Barnes turns back to you and says, "I could sit for a minute." Seeming grateful and tired he slowly lowers onto the uncomfortable plastic seat. After letting out a long string of warm air from his lungs, he settles back heavily. His legs are slightly stretched ahead of him and his hands (even the metal one) rest on respective upper thighs.

Barnes, who is clearly paying close attention to you, notices your lingering stare on his metallic fingertips. "You're interested by it," he surmises out loud.

You nod. "I am." Scooting slightly closer, you gesture towards his artificial limb. "May I look closer?"

Barnes shrugs. He doesn't verbally reply, but you get from his slight nod that he doesn't mind. So you take the opportunity to pull up his sleeve and admire the limb. You only allow yourself a few moments before pulling away. "It was always my dream to specialize in veteran prosthetics," you explain.

Barnes, who now pulls back down his sleeve rather self-consciously, tilts his head curiously. "Is that why you're here?"

"No, this is a different dream." You glance around the eerily quiet space—knowing that there are dozens of men and women housed in those dark tents all around, all willing to die tomorrow for their country's sake. "I'm a trauma surgeon. Prosthetics and plastics is my true passion, but it's not as needed. I was living in Tacoma when I heard they were accepting applicants to come out here—sort of a Doctor's Without Borders thing for the troops."

Barnes is quiet as he listens to you speak. And then, after you've finished, he's a thoughtful sort of silent. Eventually he comes to the conclusion, "Your dad was in the military?"

A sort of smile tugs at your lip. "How'd you know?"

Barnes shrugs yet again. "Good guess, I suppose." There's no mention of his history being a military grade tracker, assailant, and assassin for nearly seventy years to amount to such a level of assumption skill.

"My dad and his dad both," you answer.

Before anything else of real importance can be said, Captain America is waltzing over. At first it looks like he doesn't notice you, but then he's saluting you with a tight-lipped smile of respect. You stand and offer to shake his hand instead.

"Pleasure to meet you, Captain."

Barnes twirls a toothpick around his teeth while he sits behind Rogers. "No, Doctor. Pleasure is all mine. I've heard wonderful things about your work from everyone here." He pauses to gesture back at Barnes. "Bucky told me what went down in that medical tent today. We were lucky to have you on location after that attack."

"Really, it's my luck to be here."

Barnes steps between you and Rogers. "How about we skip the back and forth compliments and skip to the part where we take a seat?"

Steve chuckles. "Well, you two should. I've got a few more people to speak to before turning in for the night." He claps Barnes' back rather firmly before smiling back at you one last time. "Good night, Doctor."

After Captain America leaves you find yourself staring off at his receding figure rather wistfully. When you look back to Barnes, he's got a raised brow. Nothing is said of your ogling but your cheeks are much warmer than they were before. Instead, Barnes chooses to ask more about your work. He asks about the city where you live and the hospital where you work. That leads to you turning some questions back on him, some he's not entirely comfortable with at first, but by two in the morning he seems more at ease with talking to you.

"So the two of you really bonded that night?"

"Yes, we did."

"What do you think it was that drove you two together?"

"Shared trauma, first of all. That was the first most obvious thing we had in common. But the longer we talked, it was... it was something much deeper."

"And what do you mean by that, Y/N?"

"I mean that it was only a week later and I'd caught feelings for him."

"Ah, there she is: Doctor Hard-Ass."

You slide into the passenger seat of the rig and huff—all while trying to hide a smile. "Shut up and drive, Barnes."

"Are you gonna yell at me like you did yesterday?"

"I yelled at you because you were standing around in my way." You flick a piece of sand off of your pant leg. It almost blends in with the camo.

"My apologies, Doc." Barnes, more commonly known as Bucky outside of the warzone, bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking a small smile. You've actually yet to see him fully smile in the week since he arrived here on location in Afghanistan. Now, it's July 3rd—the third day of month is set up for a supplies run by you and a few armed guards. Even with the uniform and stitched military name, you don't have the rights to bare one of those huge machine guns. Today, Sargent Barnes has volunteered along with two others to drive you into the nearest city for random necessities that didn't come in the last shipment.

"Alright, alright. We're on a schedule here, Barnes." Into the radio, you ask, "Are we all here?"

"All here, over," the voice from one of the men in the very back of the rig replies.

"We're out." Barnes' voice sounds slightly greyer over the speaker. With automatic motions he pulls the rig through the sandy path. For a while it's silent as the blurry skyline flies by. But then, amongst the static noise from outside, Bucky speaks. "You never told me you were married."

The shock must be apparent on your face so you try to turn away. "I—I'm not."

"But you were," Barnes replies flippantly. He switches gears and glances to you with blue eyes the same vibrant color of the sky outside. "I heard some of the guys talking about your late husband. He was a sniper?"

"We were never married." You wring your hands in your lap—not realizing that Bucky's watching you carefully. "We were engaged. I was eighteen. He was twenty. It was—it was rash."

"What was? The engagement or his choice to enlist?"

"The engagement," you let out in a breath. "He always knew he wanted to die for his country. Deep down I know he knew he wouldn't spend the rest of his life with me..." You shake your head and let out a breath. "That was a long time ago, and I don't see why anyone should be talking about it. Who was it?" you ask defensively.

"I brought it up," Barnes admits. You're surprised, and only more so as he adds, "I asked your friend Sargent Lohr if you were seeing anyone."

You blink. Then you cross your arms. "And you didn't think to ask me?"

Barnes swallows heavily. You watch the knot in his thick throat fall. "I saw the ring on the chain you wore. I didn't know if you were married, or if it was your mother's, or... I just didn't know, okay? I didn't want to upset you."

"So you decide to just verbally vomit all over the cab of this truck about my dead fiancé from nearly a decade ago?"

Barnes' eyes close for a just a fraction of a second in remorse. "Shit, shit. You're—you're right. I'm sorry, Doc. I just—I don't know what I'm doing."

"Clearly," you huff irritably. You glare out your window, hardened by years of grief, until spotting Bucky's reflection in the glass. A sigh leaves your mouth along with a question. "What was it that you were trying to do, anyhow?"

Barnes takes a moment to reply. Finally, he admits, "I was trying to tell you that I think you're something real special, Doc. And, after we're all done here, ask if you'd let me take you out."

"What did you say?"

"I didn't have much time to say anything, actually. Because it was right then—right when I was going to tell him that I liked him, too—that the rig a half mile ahead of us was blown up by an IED. It was chaos after that."

"That must've been quite the scene."

"It was. Bucky pulled us off to the side of the road. Snipers appeared out of the trees. He pulled me into his side by the leg, and shoved me down under him while he dragged us out of the cab. We had a bit of a screaming match while I tried to run off towards the wreckage ahead of us and he tried to get us out. He said it was too dangerous, I said I wouldn't leave any of our soldiers behind..."

"Who won that fight?"

"Me, of course. Turns out he's got a soft spot for me or something. He does whatever I tell him to. So he covered my back all the way to the mess."

"Did you save anyone?"

"...No. It was too late."

"There was nothing you could've done, Y/N." Bucky sits on the corner of your bed and watches you pace the floor of the tent.

"If I'd been closer to the front..." You pull at your hair and mutter to yourself. "Or if I'd pushed you off of me and ran up there alone..."

"You'd probably be dead right now, too." Bucky's face is set in a firm line as he watches you pace. Finally, as if he's had enough, he stands abruptly. His long legs are like thundering stalks of trees against the dry dirt as he comes closer. He grabs you by the arms. "Stop it, Doc. You need to knock it off."

"Don't tell me what to do!" you nearly scream.

"I'll keep telling you what to do as long as it means you don't drive yourself to the brink of insanity!" He pauses to gather himself, therefore leveling his tone. "Listen, Y/N, I know what you're going through. Believe me: I really do. But replaying it over in your head a thousand times is only going to kill you."

Your eyes drop from Barnes' face to his name on the chest of his uniform. Then, with limp limbs, your forehead presses into the fabric there just above his heart. The man is stiff as he still holds your arms with tight knuckles. But then he loosens and relaxes as he feels you take a stuttering breath against his breast. He moves your arms around his waist, encompassing his body in your embrace, and gently combs warm fingers through your loosened ponytail. "It's gonna be okay, darling. It's all gonna be okay."

"Would you say that was a pivotal point in your relationship with Sargent Barnes?"

"It was the defining point. It was the night I fell in love with him."

"And at this point you'd known him for just over a week?"

"It sounds crazy, I know. But things over there... it's different. Time feels different. A week feels like a thousand years and an hour feels like the blink of an eye. Nothing makes sense. But suddenly, with Bucky around, everything felt so right."

"He was your stability when you felt fragile?"

"No. Turns out he was the fragile one. I was his stability."

"Then what was he for you?"

"He was... he was the soulmate I'd been looking for my whole life. I just met him at the worst possible time."

"You're leaving?"

"I was only supposed to be here for a month. It's already been two." Bucky stands outside of your tent in the middle of the night with his packed bag. When a few curious eyes walk by he curses and takes a few steps a part from you to keep from drawing suspicions. No one knows that the two of you have been together—sleeping together, falling in love together, and healing together—behind their backs.

"I..." you clear your throat between words here. "I understand."

"I have to go back or I'd stay longer." There's a look of longing in his eyes that speaks volumes more than his words could say out here in the open. "Or you could always come back with me."

"I—I can't." You shake your head firmly. "I signed a contract."

"We could get you out of it. You know we could get T'Challa to come up with a reason to bring you to Wakanda with me."

While tempting, you know it's not the right thing to do. Bucky knows this, too. He doesn't push it any further. "I'm sorry." He looks to the ground at his feet.

"I know you are." You let out a soft sigh. "But I have a job to do here, Bucky. I... I have a duty to these people."

A sort of smile tugs at his handsome upper lip. "I love you, you know that?"

You swallow stiffly. "No. You've never said it before."

Bucky chuckles. "Well, there you go." He readjusts the pack that is strung up over his broad shoulder. "Now you know, Doc."

You take a few steps closer—wanting nothing more than to kiss him—before sensing the eyes of the people not too far away. Not being brave enough to confront the truth you've been hiding from your superiors and colleagues for so long you drop the notion and remain rooted in place just outside your tent doors.

"Bucky, I—" you start to speak before Bucky stops you.

"Don't say it. It's going to make this harder." He looks down at your face solemnly. His fingers itch to reach out and tuck the hair over your ears like he's done lying in bed so many times already. His heart aches with the realization that he'll most likely never get the chance to do that sweet little thing tomorrow at sunrise.

"I'm not going to see you again, am I?" you speak the truth quietly as if saying it louder could make it truer.

Bucky's too quiet for your liking. "It's... it's complicated." He glances back behind where Steve is loading up into the rig that'll take them away forever from this awful place that was made much less awful by the combination of the two of you. He looks back at you. "T'Challa is offering you this one chance. If you don't come now, it's..."

"I understand." You don't exactly want to hear him repeat what you know to be the inevitable truth. You're never going to see Bucky Barnes again, all because you're trying to stay true to your mission here. Why can't your duties and your heart align?

Bucky's blue eyes drop to the sandy floor. "Don't be too hard on yourself."

"As long as you promise me you'll do the same." You bite down on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying.

Bucky sees the tears gathering in your eyes and takes a staggering breath to level his wavering sanity. "I promise."

You nod in the direction of the humming rig. "You should probably..."

Bucky's head almost vibrates with the awful thing he's about to do: walk away. "Yeah, I should." Then, with the eyes of the whole camp upon him, he sticks out his right hand for you to shake. "It was a pleasure getting to work alongside you, Doctor." His own eyes shine with palpable sadness.

"The pleasure was mine, Sargent Barnes." Your touch is soft against his rough palm. The feel of your warm skin against his is a sensation neither of you wants to forget. And when your fingers slide apart, each holds desperately onto the sensation that lingers—grasping tightly to the ghost of the feeling in attempt to pocket for daydreams to come.

You watch him leave. His bags stuffed full of dirty clothes are nothing compared to the piles of memories you have cataloged in your mind. The thoughts reel through like pictures in a slideshow while the rig drives away into the peaceful sunset and tears your heart in two. For the second time in your life the war has taken your love away from you. This time, thought, it was you that it pulled into its grasp and away from the happy ending.

"When was the last time you saw Sargent Barnes?"

"It was that day."

"And how long ago was that?"

"Thirteen months."

"Your contract is up, then."

"It is."

"And you're back in Tacoma."

"I am. And I'm alone."

"Have you tried to find him?"

"I have. It's impossible. And there's not a day that goes by that I don't consider what my life would be like now if I had climbed into that rig with him. If I had gone to Wakanda with him. If I'd kissed him in front of all those people. If I'd told him I loved him."

"Do you have regrets?"

"I saved too many lives to regret anything I've done. But I miss him. I won't deny that."

"Do you still believe he's your soul mate?"

"With every ounce of me."

You step out of the therapist's office with your purse strung up over your shoulder and your phone out of your pocket. Checking the time you see it's just past noon. There's still time for lunch before you have to go back to the hospital for your shift. Spilling out your deepest, darkest secrets—especially ones about Bucky Barnes—leave you hungry and empty.

"Now, imagine seeing you here, Doctor."

You freeze mid-step out into the hall. Leaning against the wall, a cap on his head, is Steve Rogers. He's grinning slyly.

"Rogers?" your mouth is dry. Immediately your head tilts left and right. Steve notices your moving stare and chuckles.

"He's not here," Steve tells you. "But nice to know you missed me, too."

You laugh—walking up to wrap your arms around your friend in an embrace. Pulling him back, you say, "What are you doing in the states? I thought you weren't allowed to be back here yet?"

"Well, technically, I'm not." Steve reiterates this point by tilting his head away from two people who walk by. When they're gone he lifts his eyes to your face once more. "But I thought that bringing you back to Bucky would be well worth the risk."

You blink dazedly. "You—you're doing what now?"

"I came to ask you to come back to Wakanda with me. I've done some negotiating with T'Challa. His sister agreed to take you on as her apprentice. I told her about your knowledge and interests in your fields and she wants to learn what you know as well as teach you what she knows—which is everything, actually." He shakes his head to bring himself back to the point. "T'Challa will let you stay in Wakanda."

"Bucky's there?"

Steve nods. "He is."

"And is he...? Does he still...? I mean, it's been over a year..."

Steve shakes his head as if to argue silently. "He hasn't stopped talking about you. There's not a day that goes by where he doesn't say your name."

You take in a disbelieving breath. There's not a lot to consider after you hear this. "Take me to him, Steve."

It takes ten hours on the most advanced jet you've ever seen to get to Wakanda—the kingdom of a thousand lifetimes. In your eyes it's shiny and new, but yet you can hardly think of anything other than your restlessness in seeing Bucky again. Steve assures you that it's smooth sailing from here. It's going to be the happily ever after you both deserve.

It all feels so unreal to you, though. It's not until you're in a strange room, surrounded by big glass windows and a view overlooking the most magnificent city in the world, does it dawn on you that Bucky will be standing in front of you soon and all these lights will disappear. It'll be just like it was before: nothing else will matter as long as he's settled in your arms.

"He's coming!" the young princess hisses from her hiding place. She's instigated this whole operation to bring you and Bucky back together. She's supposedly a big fan of his and has wanted to meet you for months now. She was the one to convince her brother to allow you a room in his castle and a place in his country.

You wring your hands together nervously. You look down at yourself. Bucky's never seen you in jeans before. This will surely be a sight—after a year apart, here you'll be with lipstick and skinny jeans. But if you know Bucky, it's that he'll see nothing but you: not what you wear, not your freshly cut hair, or your makeup. He'll walk into the room and his eyes will find you. And then, if you're lucky, he'll say...

"Y/N?"

You turn away from the window. Standing in the doorway, interrupting your train of thought, stands Bucky. He's in dark clothes that make him stand out against the light walls. He seems frozen in place almost as he stares disbelievingly in your direction. From the shrubbery you hear Princess Shuri giggle happily.

"What... what are... you're... how are you...?"

You can't help but smile at his blubbering. "You never let me finish what I was going to say." You watch as a tear stumbles down his cheek from the other side of the room. "I love you too, Bucky Barnes."

And then, with the eyes of every hidden audience member drawn upon you, Sargent Barnes runs towards you with all that he has. Then, to make it all so much better, he kisses you.

At the back of your mind you think to the start of your session just earlier today when you had no clue where life would take you by the time the sun set.

"...Why don't you tell me where the problem starts and we can work our way back from there, Y/N."

"Start at the beginning of the problem?"

"Yes, so we can try to identify what it is."

"Oh, I know exactly what it is. I can tell you where it started, too. The problem's name is Bucky Barnes."

You smile into the kiss—threading your fingers through Bucky's hair. Now, what had once been your biggest heartache heals you completely. It's the light at the end of the tunnel, the day that starts after the longest day, and the warm welcome home after too long away.

And his name is Sargent Bucky Barnes.