The Bell Over The Door Chimed Softly As He Stepped Inside. The City Noise Vanished Behind Him And He

HEADCANON : relationship with violence .

Bucky Barnes experiences his most vivid sense of self when engaged in combat. Fighting provides him with clarity—free from guilt, doubt, or horror, he exists solely in the moment, absorbed in the simplicity of violence. Unlike the intricate moral dilemmas that plague his daily existence, combat offers a straightforward equation: him versus his opponent. It is within these moments that he is most open, most expressive, and paradoxically, most talkative. The physicality of battle is a release, a channel for emotions too tangled to unravel through words alone. He grins, laughs, and embraces the fight with a raw, unfiltered intensity. Yet, this momentary freedom comes at a cost.

The aftermath of combat is where the exhaustion sets in, not just physically but emotionally. The clarity that violence provides fades into the murky waters of introspection. Bucky is left questioning himself: Does he enjoy fighting because it is inherently satisfying, or has he been conditioned to enjoy it? The doubt creeps in—did his opponent deserve the extent of his aggression? Was the violence necessary, or was it an instinct honed by years of programming? Even his own thought processes become suspect. When he deliberates whether he should have sought a second opinion before acting, he is unsure if this is a natural ethical impulse or a remnant of his conditioning—an ingrained need to take orders rather than make decisions autonomously.

Bucky’s struggle extends to identifying what exactly he derives from violence. Is it the act itself? The escape from his own mind? The power he exerts? The thrill of dominance? These questions drive his inner turmoil, leading to moments of emotional collapse as he grapples with the implications of his own desires. The answer, ultimately, is not singular. His relationship with violence is multifaceted.

Simplicity and Escape: In a fight, the world reduces to its most basic form—winner and loser, attack and defense. This absolves him, momentarily, of the crushing guilt that permeates his existence.

Power and Control: Having spent years as a puppet stripped of free will, there is an undeniable satisfaction in regaining agency, in overpowering an opponent. This newfound control is intoxicating but also troubling, as it blurs the line between reclaiming strength and becoming an aggressor.

Conditioning and Instinct: Bucky’s past as the Winter Soldier complicates his ability to trust his own instincts. Does he fight because he wants to, or because he was programmed to? This question haunts him, making each fight a battle not just against an opponent, but against himself.

While combat provides temporary relief, it is invariably followed by a devastating emotional crash. The pleasure of victory is undercut by the resurgence of guilt and self-doubt. The knowledge that he enjoys aspects of violence—especially the dominance and control it affords—deepens his internal conflict. This cycle of exhilaration and remorse becomes its own form of psychological torment, leaving Bucky to question not only his actions but the very nature of his identity.

Bucky Barnes' relationship with violence is deeply complex, rooted in both trauma and survival. It is an outlet, an escape, a source of power, but also a source of guilt and self-doubt. His struggle lies in disentangling his own desires from the conditioning imposed upon him. As he continues to reclaim his autonomy, the greatest battle he faces is not with an external enemy, but within himself.

they call him THE WINTER SOLDIER

❝ then i'm not saying it right, ❞ bucky mumbled, because what he was asking her to do was the hardest thing he'd ever attempted. coming back from a lifetime of war, blood, pain, and violence was a constant work in progress and most of the time he felt as if he were performing for some invisible judge, jury, and executioner. ❝ it's not easy. it's the hardest thing you'll ever do. you'll fail, you'll try again, you'll fail again. ❞

bucky turned the mug of coffee absently in his hand. watched the steam rise from the surface and tried not to lose himself in the ordinariness of the motion. he didn't look at her when she asked about him, instead, his jaw clenched and his brow furrowed. truth be told, he tried not to think about it.

❝ i don't know, ❞ he said finally, ❝ but i believe it matters that we try. ❞ he nursed his jaw for several short seconds before he met her eye again, ❝ i don't have all the answers. i'm making this up as i go, but i do know this: you're not too far gone that you can't come back, kara. ❞

kara let the silence stretch between them,  let it settle around her like a weighted blanket,  unfamiliar but not unwelcome.  no history.  no past.  just now.   she traced the rim of her cup with a fingertip,  watching the way the steam curled  &  disappeared.  ❝you make it sound easy. ❞ the words weren’t an accusation,  just an observation.  she wondered if he really believed it — that the weight of the past could be shrugged off so cleanly,  left outside like a coat too heavy for summer air.   

her fingers flexed against the ceramic.  ❝maybe it is.  for some people. ❞ she glanced around,  watching the other patrons — people who belonged here in a way she never could.  the man at the counter flipping through a newspaper,  the couple sharing a plate of fries,  the waitress moving through it all like she had done this a thousand times before  &  would do it a thousand times again.  ❝i don’t know if i can be one of them. ❞  but she wanted to be.  what she wasn’t sure of was what she wanted from him.  reassurance? permission? maybe just the chance to sit here  &  pretend,  for a moment,  that she belonged.   

the waitress set a menu down in front of her with an absent smile,   &  kara nodded her thanks.  the gesture felt small but significant.  normal.  she wrapped her hands around the warmth of the coffee cup,  inhaling the scent of something burnt  &  bitter  &  real.  she looked up at bucky again.  ❝&  what about you?❞ her voice was quieter now,  but steady.  ❝do you believe that? that we can just …  exist?❞  her gaze shifted from him. ❝ do you think we can ever have … more? ❞

but what if i wrote war time letters that bucky sent to people that went up in the smithsonian ( until he stole them back post-tws )??? what then??

the body slumped against the wall, a smear of red streaking down cracked concrete while the sound of the gunshot rang in his ears. he watched her, silent, the dim light catching the steel of his arm as he stepped forward. her grip on the gun was tight—too tight. knuckles white, hands shaking, but not from fear. from something colder. something deeper.

❝ i thought it would give me a moment of peace. ❞

bucky clenched his jaw together tightly and reached out, slow, deliberate. his fingers brushed the side of the weapon, testing for resistance, and then he pried the gun from her hands. ❝ it's done. ❞ he said, because what else was there? he'd been where she was, he'd done what she'd done ten times over and even now, knowing what he knew, he'd do it again. // @staticveil , altered carbon prompts .

he watched her as she studied him, expression unreadable, eyes sharp but not unkind. bucky couldn't be certain what it was that she saw when she looked at him but she looked at him like he had the answer to an unspoken question. maybe he did, and maybe he didn't. the blood at their feet was already beginning to set, thick and dark, and it would stay there for a while longer but eventually, it would disappear as all unclean things did.

bucky nodded, stepped past her and over the body, out of the shadows and into the cold, neon-lit street. he led the way out of the crime scene, keeping a casual pace and walking through side streets and back alleys as if it were second nature. they walked for a long time before his destination came into view.

the diner was nothing special—chrome-rimmed stools, and faded vinyl booths—it smelled like burnt coffee and cheap bacon grease, but bucky liked it for the same reason most people overlooked it: it was steady. real. a pocket of normal.

he slid into a booth near the window with a clear line of sight to the front and rear entrances. ❝ what d'you see? ❞ bucky asked when she joined him, nodding to their surroundings with an expectant glance.

kara exhaled slowly,  watching the blood spread into the cracks of the concrete like veins beneath fractured skin.  it would dry,  flake away,  be washed into the gutters until only the memory of it remained.  but the act — the choice — would linger,  another mark upon a soul already worn thin.  she had spent years telling herself that she was beyond redemption,  that the things she had done,  the things that had been done to her,  had calcified into something immovable.  but then bucky spoke,   &  the certainty wavered,  just slightly,  just enough to let in the smallest sliver of something else.  try.   

she turned her gaze to him,  searching for something she wasn’t sure she would recognize.  he knew — knew what it was to be made into something unrecognizable,  to wake up in the ruins of a life he could barely call his own.   &  yet,  he stood before her,  not unbroken,  but whole in a way she had never believed possible for herself.  if he could come back from it,  then maybe — maybe — she could too.  the thought was terrifying in its own way.  it was easier to be a blade,  a weapon with no need for softness,  no need for hope.  but hope,  she realized,  had already taken root the moment she had let him pull the gun from her hands.   

her fingers curled into fists,  then released.  there was no erasing what had been done,  no undoing the ghosts she carried,  but perhaps there was more than just this.  more than the endless cycle of blood  &  consequence.  when she spoke,  her voice was quiet,  but steady.  ❝then let’s start. ❞ not surrender,  not absolution — but a step.   &  for now,  that was enough. 

it was difficult to hear her utter the same questions and uncertainty that plagued his every thought since regaining some semblance of identity. how often had he asked himself the same question? pondered the same inevitability of disbelief and raw undiluted regret and guilt and pain? he felt not unlike the blind leading the blind. hopelessly underprepared and praying she didn't notice.

❝ make something new. ❞ he knew he would never be the same man that he once was. he remembered how the war had changed him. hardened him, made him callous and vindictive. unapologetic in his fury. and his time as hydra's weapon, their personal attack dog, had left him haunted and broken. he could never go back to how he had been before all the blood and violence, but maybe he could forge a new version of himself that wasn't so . . . lost. the same had to be said for her as well.

i want to believe you, she said. he wouldn't tell her that he wanted to believe him too. bucky offered her a half smile when she said pancakes, nodding in agreement as he glanced down at the menu. ❝ i'm more of a waffle guy. ❞

kara curled her fingers around the warmth of the coffee cup,  as if it could bleed into her,  as if it could thaw something frozen deep in her ribs.  she turned his words over in her mind — fail,  try again,  fail again —  &  felt the weight of them settle into the hollow spaces she didn’t like to name.   

❝i don’t know if i believe that,❞ she admitted,  voice quiet,  shaped from something raw  &  uncertain.  ❝coming back implies there’s something left to come back to.❞ she traced the rim of her mug with the pad of her thumb,  eyes fixed on the way the steam curled upward  &  disappeared.  ❝what if there isn’t?❞

the thought lodged itself in her chest,  thorned  &  bitter.  she didn’t look at him,  not yet.  instead,  she listened to the quiet,  to the sound of the world continuing without her permission — the scrape of a knife against toast,  the low murmur of a conversation she wasn’t a part of,  the distant hum of a jukebox playing a song no one was listening to.  a place that didn’t need her.  a life that had gone on without her.

 &  yet,  she was still here.  still breathing,  still speaking,  still wanting — god,  wanting.  something to hold on to,  something to tether her to the world,  something that made all the blood  &  ruin  &  loss mean something.  she had never known how to exist without purpose,  without someone else dictating her movements,  her thoughts,  her very identity.  without that,  what was she?  

her fingers flexed,  released.  a breath in,  a breath out.  ❝i want to believe you. ❞ the words weren’t quite hope,  not yet,  but they weren’t despair either.  maybe that was enough.  maybe wanting was the beginning of something that could be real.  ❝ … pancakes. ❞ it was a start.

HEADCANON : war letters , 2 / ?

Dear Home : The Lost Letters of Sgt. James Barnes

Discovered decades after World War II, these letters—written by Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes—offer a rare and intimate glimpse into the heart of a soldier. Though history remembers Bucky Barnes as war hero, these letters remind us that before the legend, there was a young man writing to the people he loved. This collection invites you to read not just history, but memory.

March 20, Somewhere Dry

Hey Steve,

I'm writing from a little sun-blasted nowhere in ██████. You'd hate it here. It's too dry, too hot, too many bugs that think you're part of the scenery. It's not all bad, though. The sunrises are something else.

We rolled in not long after ████. The big brass called it a success, but from down here in the dirt, it doesn't feel like anything's close to finishing. We're on clean-up detail. Recon mostly, sweeping through these ██████ tucked into ██████. Every now and then we hit a pocket of resistance, holdouts or worse, stragglers who don't even know the war moved on without them.

The guys in my unit are solid. Green, some of them, but learning fast. You don't get the luxury of being slow out here. There's this private named Mendez who swears he can hear artillery fire in his sleep. I told him that's normal. I didn't mention that I do too, or that sometimes I hear it even when I'm wide awake.

Being out here has me thinking about Brooklyn a lot. Remember that time we got jumped in that back alley carrying that old lady's groceries? You took that punch like an idiot, I crushed the bread loaf when I fell, we both walked out of there soaked in turbid water. Half the squirmishes feel a lot like that. A little bloodier, and a little louder. But getting out with all our appendages attached.

Do me a favour and check on Rebecca for me. You know how she gets when she's on her own.

Take care of yourself, Buck.

HEADCANON :  war letters .

Prior to his deployment to the Italian Front and subsequent capture by the Wehrmacht troops at Azzano, Bucky wrote letters to his younger sister Rebecca religiously. At the time, she was only sixteen and had been living in a state orphanage in Park Slope, Brooklyn since their fathers death at Camp Lehigh. He also sent letters to Steve while he was training at Camp Lehigh for Project Rebirth, however, Steve wasn’t able to tell him that he had been selected by the USSR or that he had been accepted into the Army due to the secrecy of the project and Bucky was also not able to divulge much information about his duties.

He traded some letters with Connie as well, the pair of them often discussing the state of the war as she was a registered nurse, their letters would switch between casual banter and deep and vulnerable confessions of their struggles and challenges as either nurse or soldier, often attempting to uplift each other’s spirits through written word. One of Bucky’s letters included a pressed puglia that stained the letter purple.

After he and the other United Allies were rescued from the Hydra Prisoner Base, Bucky was reunited with Connie for a short time before he was deployed alongside Steve and the other Howling Commandos and Bucky returned to writing letters to Rebecca whenever he had the chance to sit down.

As before, he wasn’t able to divulge much information about their activities back to Rebecca so most of his letters discussed members non-classified information, usually details about the other Howling Commandos (such as Gabe Jones proficiency at the trumpet and Dugan’s terrible singing), in passing he would mention cities that he had passed through but was no longer residing, and other minor details about the people that he met from the various resistance groups that they worked beside against both Hydra, and Nazi Germany.

He continued to write to Connie as well, though the letters between them were few and far between due to their work.

Following the end of W.WII when the Smithsonian began developing the Captain America exhibit, members of the museum reached out to Rebecca as Bucky’s only living relative. She donated some of Bucky’s war letters to the museum where they picked and chose from those available to them to display for Bucky’s memorial. When Bucky began piecing together his history in 2014, he stole the letters that were on display to help trigger more of his suppressed memories.