She could practically feel the unease in the atmosphere when he stared at her with guarded eyes and retracted his face from her grasp. She watched him as he processed the situation, quietly sitting there for a good two minutes, staring at anything but her.

The caution in his eyes was evident as his guarded gaze examined the living room. She could tell, just by looking at him for a millisecond, he was having trust issues. And why wouldn't he, after all that happened to him. She could never in a thousand years blame him if he attacked her and tried to escape at this moment.

He was a twisted man. And she knew him a bit more elaborately than how the documentaries had described him. She had, much to her pure and unadulterated guilt, peeked into his memories.

She never used her powers unprovoked. Especially her ability to gaze down someone else's memory lane. It sounded like a shameful thing to do so, especially without consent.

Although, it was purely defensive. She was frightened. A menacing metal armed man was collapsed on the entrance of her apartment, completely drenched in rain, covered in mud and bleeding profusely.

If she hadn't helped him and something were to happen to him she could never forgive herself. And if he was a predator or a murderer, she was done for.

So she had to, absolutely had to make sure his intentions were clear before treating his wounds. Glancing at his memories although did answer her questions, and much to her relief he was, as a matter of fact, just a troubled tenant living across the hallway. But along with that, she saw glimpses of memories she never wanted to see, the blood, the brainwashing, the electric shocks spiralling in his nerves, the hatred, an amount of anxiety that had her shivering.

And when she released him, her face was covered in tears and her body was shaking with just carrying a sliver of the amount of sorrow he did. And then, she knew, she could not let this man suffer. No matter what happened, this man deserved saving.

And it broke her as she looked at him. She tried her best to keep and cheerful front, because the pity she felt for him tried to seep through her facade everyone she met his eyes.

Act normal, that was the best strategy to confront him now. To act aloof and bright.

After what seemed like an age of staring blankly at the walls, he finally turned his gaze to her.

"What-- that, what happened t-to me there?" He was trying hard not to stammer but he was shivering lightly.

She felt her insides twist with guilt and empathy, "That was a little panic attack. No big deal, you're okay."

His breathtaking steel blue eyes looked so scared and helpless as he stared at her, "why?"

She hated it, looking at him like this.

Such a beautiful thing, so devastatingly plagued.

She smiled at him, putting every ounce of her energy into making it look genuine,

"Because you carry trauma," she motioned her hand towards his chest but being careful not to touch, "and it plagued you here." She then pointed to his head.

His eyes were red with exhaustion and glossy with hopelessness, "it -this feels like shit-"

Her heart clenched painfully looking at him like this. He thought of himself as a killing machine, and every passing moment made him feel more and more so.

He was a sheer contrast to the golden, gleaming sargeant Barnes she caught a glimpse of in his brain. His brilliance was blinding enough to steal her breath away. And now he was a broken, dark and deeply wounded machine. A tool.

He was slowly losing himself. He needed to be reminded he was human. To be reminded he was capable of rebuilding himself. He was not a machine.

"I know it hurts. Grief hurts, it does." She smiled, tucking a strand of his stray hair behind his ear so she could stare into his eyes, "but it makes us human. It reminds us that we ache and we recover. It makes us feel. And mostly, it makes us terribly human. We are meant to ache. We are meant to ache so that one day when happiness is finally in our reach, we know how to cherish it."

He held her gaze as if he was holding onto every single one of her words for his dear life. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it tightly.

"Now care to explain how you got all those wounds?" She asked with a smile, reaching for the cotton swabs and ointments on the coffee table. She traced the swab on the fresh wound on his arm.

He didn't resist, although his arms were stiff. He shrugged, "don't know."

Wounds like this did not bother him enough to even remember their cause, but the things in his head were haunting him.

As she treated the wounds on his arm and face, she felt his blue eyes staring blankly at her.

She looked away, slightly flustered but she did not let her composure break and quickly treated the wound. His gaze was transfixed on her the whole time and it made the whole ordeal far more difficult than it already was.

And suddenly, thunder cackled outside and the lights went out, luckily the scented candle on the table was keeping enough light for her vision to not go completely obscured.

"Sorry. Power outage. There's quite a storm out there." She said turning her phones flashlight on. She raised her gaze to meet his again and looked at him under the dim lights. And it broke her.

The dark circles, the lines and blemishes, the wounds and the exhaustion, the confusion and the helplessness. She couldn't believe this was the same Bucky Barnes, the one whose slightest glimpse bathed her in his gorgeous light.

Her lips quivered as she finally let her sadness reach her face and break her facade, her hands reached to cup his high angular cheeks, "oh god, what have they done to you?"

He only stared at her, with the same blank reluctance, "You will be happy again, please, please believe me. You have to trust me."

He held her hands in place on his cheeks and momentarily closed his eyes, "Thank you."

And then the lights were back on.