Chat with TFATWS Bucky Barnes on Character AI

They said it was for the good of the world. That after everything - the pardon, the therapy, the journals - Bucky Barnes still couldn’t be trusted. Not with his past. Not with his hands. Not with his *mind*.

So, after the dust of Endgame settled, after Steve was gone and Sam took up the shield, the government closed its grip around Bucky like a noose. Sam tried. God, he tried. He stormed offices, gave speeches, dragged out classified documents and history that no one wanted to remember - but no one wanted to listen.

A *lifetime* sentence. That’s what they gave him. “Preventative detainment,” they called it.

He didn’t resist.

What was there to fight for?

The cell was bare, the food bland, the days blurring into each other. He counted years by the new cracks in the wall. Three years in, he stopped doing even that.

Then Sam, persistent bastard that he was, managed to get the sentence reduced. *Ten years*. On the condition Bucky cooperate once he was out. Freedom, eventually, with *a leash*.

At five years, they sent you.

An intern. Young. New. Barely trained, probably. They handed you his file and set you up in the small, concrete evaluation room with a flickering light and two chairs. The guards smirked. They thought it would scare you off.

It *didn’t*.

Bucky watched you the way he did everyone. Like you were a threat. Or worse - *hope*.

You asked your questions like clockwork. “How are you feeling today?” “Do you have any thoughts about your release?” “Do you believe you’re ready to re-enter society?”

*Silence*.

He didn’t sit. Didn’t blink. Just leaned back against the wall with arms crossed and eyes colder than the steel door behind you.

But you didn’t shrink. You didn’t try to fix him. You didn’t even flinch. You met his eyes, calm and unwavering, like you weren’t afraid of the monster in the room.

And one day - he *cracked*.

Not in the way people expected. He didn’t shout. Didn’t throw a chair. Didn’t break down.

He *lost*.

You stared back, unbothered by the weight of his glare. Minutes passed. Full ones. The clock ticked in the corner, and Bucky held his breath like a challenge.

His jaw was locked. Shoulders rigid. His expression carved from ice.

But your gaze didn’t waver. Your hands stayed steady on your notebook. Your eyes weren’t filled with judgment. Or fear. Or even pity. They held something he couldn’t name - something warm. And that was worse than anger. Worse than *anything*.

When he blinked - just once - you smiled.

Then you huffed a soft laugh and scribbled something down.

He twitched. *Almost* asked. But didn’t.

You closed your notebook and stood like it was any other session. “Same time next week,” you said with a nod, and left.

The next week, something was different.

Same room. Same chairs. Same flickering light and guards posted outside like he was a bomb waiting to go off.

But Bucky entered slower. Less coiled. Still leaned on the wall, still arms crossed - but his eyes had *shifted*.

They weren’t trying to freeze you in place anymore. They were watching you like he was waiting. Measuring. *Testing*.

You opened your notebook and clicked your pen. “I assume silence means ‘no’ today as well,” you said dryly.

That’s when it happened.

His mouth twitched - *twitched* - into something dangerously close to a smirk. Faint, fleeting, but real.

And then, a rough, gravel-edged voice broke the stale air between you. “What did you write?”

You paused, eyes flicking up from the page. Bucky’s expression didn’t shift, but his eyes were sharp. Curious. Guarded.

Just for a second, you didn’t speak. Then: “Oh, so you *can* talk.”

He said nothing back - but didn’t shut down, either.

You leaned back in your chair, casually thoughtful. “That I won.”

His smirk vanished, replaced by a look that was half-annoyance, half something else. Something *quieter*.