Blue Bee

Sun pecking skin. Petticoats swishing—the Hopewell dances upon the sea. You disembark; beech heels clacking against oak.

The chorus of livestock. Yeomen baying. A child's jaw slackening at ‘The New World'. You inhale deeply; eyes fluttering—the tang of salt upon your lips.

“For ye.” His voice a caress amidst the tempest—lids snap open. “A comely damsel deserves beautiful posies.” Heat blooms.

“Thank ye.” Fingers brush flesh.

“I’m Steven.” A cough. Flaxen locks sway with each rasp. “H—” His throat clears. “He’s James.” Lips twitch. Eyes crinkle. Your nose skims a silky rose.

As always—you remember. Your loves forget. Vines entwine—the memory loops; transcending time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Time is without death... A shadow upon the sun dial; click-click-click—you wind granddaddy’s pocket watch... Death is the fulfilment of time.

Laughter—yeomen in a merry pin. Music—Goodman Banner gaily plays the fiddle. Blue adorns trees. “A country dance is an unseasonable revel. Since the Boston massacre, Pa believes war is inevitable.” Natalya toys with a ribbon waving against the oak.

“What cheer, cousin?” You flinch; palm covering your bosom. Cool metal—the pendant lying upon your breast. A beautiful gold rose.

“Pray, excuse me, cousin. To affright you was not my intent.” Clint withdraws a step. Fingers tapping the flap of his cocked hat. “My good friends simply wish for an introduction. May I present Captain Rogers. Sergeant Barnes.” He presses a fingertip against twitching lips.

Parchment crinkling—a snap of linen. Captain Rogers tugs at his hunting shirt; Sergeant Barnes cups your palm. Warmth; lips graze flesh.

“We hope for the pleasure of your company this evening.” James murmurs. —Life anew. Souls eternally bound. Once again, love blooms.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“How do you do, dearest?” You haste; foot catching upon a hoop. Huffing. “This crinoline cage is of such sizeable girth, I fear I shan't fit through your parlour door.” The apples of Wanda's cheeks rise. She nods towards two sirs taking tea upon the veranda. Warmth blooms.

Heat—the whisper of breath. “Father's business partners. Yesterday's report in ‘The Herald’— Oh, it’s terrible.” She clasps your wrist. “Railroad stock values are declining. I dread—” Her voice breaks. Fingers squeeze tighter. “Losing the estate is simply a question of time.”

“Oh, sister.” You inhale sharply; corset biting your ribs. “The Mormon Rebellion destroys us all. Papa too, is facing bankruptcy.” Head shaking. “We must stem the tide together.” You sweep a glove-clad thumb beneath her eye; purple smudges crisp upon pale flesh.

Pebbles crunch; footfalls along the gravel pathway. “My dear child. Darling goddaughter.” He bows. “Pray join us.” Elbow linking Wanda’s—you follow. His rustic cane scritching stone—a musical melody of gravel dancing with oak.

Step. Step. Step. Lungs constricting; eyes drifting shut… Thrum. Thrum. Thrum—Stevie’s heart flutters beneath your ear. Click. Click. Click—James maps your jaw with gentle lips…

An introduction; cheeks flush. The gentlemen bow; warmth blossoms. You curtsy; butterfly wings ripple within the belly. Breath hitches—a hint of their Eau de Cologne, damask rose.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cutlery clanking against porcelain. “Hey!” Fingers snake your wrist. “We only serve payin’ customers. If table two keeps ordering dog soup, get rid.” A shove; you wince—the countertop jarring your spine. Children squeal—their chubby legs kicking chrome, the stools a bright rose.

Grasping a rag—knuckles translucent—you scrub the bar top; hips jerking. “I have their order, sir. Lemonade—” Fingering the coins in your apron pocket. “And two slices of war cake. Oh—” The cloth stills. “We should alter the menu. War cake, depression cake—it dampens one’s spirits. I use orange blossoms in the mix, so why not call it ‘orange blooms’.”

“Here’s an idea.” His finger jabs your breast. “I pay ya for bakin’.” He snatches up the rag. “And for waitressin’. Do ya job. And stop lettin’ people use my business as a damn soup kitchen.” A sting. Eyes watering—the cloth whips your flesh. “Now, get servin’, and zip ya lips.”

Hands yank on the boss’ shirt collar—the linen tawny with sweat stains. “A slice of ‘orange blooms’ sounds mouthwatering, doesn’t it, Stevie?” A spluttering cough; the boss’ jowls turning puce. “Offer the young lady an apology, and I won’t toss you into the trash cans out back… This time.”

The aging wood stove groans. Whoosh—your breath hitches. Hiss—the boss stutters an apology. Crackle—fingertips lightly graze your elbow. Pop—a chestful of the woodsy aroma, oak…

Burnt orange—embers winking. Snap; Steve drops an oak log into the hearth. Shadows dancing upon flesh; your fingers sketch patterns along smooth skin. Until… Their hands clasp yours. The flutter of warm breath in your ear—Steve… “Miss, are you all right?” You blink slowly. Once. Twice. “Miss. Do we— Have we met before?” Lips twitch. Cheeks lift. Flesh skims flesh.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A snowy handkerchief—sopping with tears. Two sheets of acidic paper; the contents bubbling within your throat—a sob tears through you. “D-damn this war.” Hands crumple the yellow telegrams; another rip, more creases. The weight of its words heavy against flesh.

Tossing the papers—a light thunk—they ricochet upon checkerboard flooring. Smash. An earthenware cup—full with sweet tea—follows. Golden droplets trace the wall… Bucky’s thumbs blot the tears mapping your cheeks. “It’s my duty. Oh, please don’t cry, my beautiful rose.”

Hands reach out. Pit-a-pat—his heart beneath your palm. “How can I not cry?” A scoff—razor-sharp—bursts out. “Steve’s ‘Four-F’ status doesn’t deter him. The army’ll take him eventually, too. A-and—” An ache; the lump in your throat growing bigger. “S-soon all will remain of us is a worn photograph set in oak...”

Three rhythmic raps upon oak. A cry; palm clutching your breast. Tick-tock—a fourth knock. “Mrs. Rogers?” Feet shuffle. The crystal doorknob crisp within your grasp; timber groans... A stranger tips his bowler hat. “Hello, Mrs. Rogers.” Clearing his throat. “For you.” Eyes red, he proffers a bouquet of posies. “Cap ‘n’ Bucky always spoke of your love for wildflowers, so I thought I’d pick these blooms.”

“Thank. You—” A beautiful burst of color. Plum—the fruit preserve you often cook for Bucky. Tink. Tink. His spoon scraping the jar clean. Crimson—the roses Steve always gifts you. Kisses upon a soft jaw; his cheeks flushing. Gold—your trinity wedding ring; a band symbolizing each of you. You’ll meet them again… A sob. In time.

You press the flowers against your heart. Teardrops trailing along satiny petals. “Oh. To hell with propriety.” Arms—warm, sturdy—encircle you. “Name’s Timothy Dugan.” He gently rocks you. To. Fro. “But as your Cap ‘n’ Bucky’s girl, you call me ‘Dum Dum’. We’re gonna watch out for you now. Howling Commandos look after their own.” Sinking into the embrace; a keening cry tears past your lips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dry leaves rustling—the flutter of pages. Book heavy in your palm—flesh grazes the spine; binding craggy with creases… Schliff—Bucky turns the page. Breathing life into Tolkien; his chest thrums beneath yours… The hum of the shopkeeper’s bell. “Welcome to ‘Hearts of O’—” A broken laugh—eyes welling. The book slips; fingers press against your lips.

“How?” His voice—no longer thin, but resonant. “Why?” His jaw—once soft, now chiseled—locks. “We thought—” Head shaking. “Is it truly you?” Mouth dry; you nod. “Then… Everything else is neither here nor there.” One blink; footsteps—two sets. Two blinks—warm skin, cool metal. A third blink—weightless in their arms; flesh caresses flesh.

“Our story began over a millennia ago. In the hub of Rome.” Palms cup their cheeks; one smooth, the other bristly. “Though together—peace within the noise. Until…” The pungent stench of rotting corpses… Your belly lurches. “The Eclipse Plague.” Eyes squeeze shut… Shouts on your heels. “Scelesta—wicked woman. Impura—unclean. Luppiter te disperdāt—may Jupiter utterly destroy you.” Lungs bursting; you run… Pressure upon your crown—Bucky’s chin. “With the plague claiming so many, Roma set about searching for scapegoats.” A sob. “Such stolen time.”

Tick. Tick. Tick. Chests rising, falling—with each silent breath. “You fought for us…” Flagellorum sibilus—whips whistle. Thwack—metal tips bite gentle flesh… “Crimson wept upon linen...” Fingers slip beyond your grasp—Steven. A body slumps against you—Bucky… “My final breath; I clung onto our necklace—the garland of roses.”

“Rose—” Metal cooling your hot cheek; you lean into the delicate touch. “Always our beautiful rose.” Your hair fluttering; Bucky utters a broken chuff. “Flashes. Fragments Hydra couldn’t erase. The Althing—woolen cloaks with fur linings… Sunlight kissing our skin at a country jig…” His gaze shifts. “We found her, Stevie.” Lips peck your temple. “And she always blooms.”

Steve’s arms—not willowy, but broad—tighten. The hug—stalwart as always. “This bookstore—the name. It’s us, isn’t it?” You nod. His mouth claims Bucky’s… Then yours. Lips still soft. Woodsy scent—home. His whisper drifts through the hush. “‘Hearts of Oak’.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A gentle sigh—time breathes… Scritch—graphite brushes paper. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Silence—Steve’s pencil stills; Bucky’s brow puckers. “I can’t steer myself into your path. I’ve gotta trust it’ll happen organically—as fate intends.” Fingers interlace. Click—your lips graze Steve’s knuckles. A chill; mouth tingling—a kiss upon Bucky’s steel arm. “There’s beauty in trusting it, isn’t there?”

“I guess. Though—” Bed sheets rustling. A hint of oak—Bucky nuzzling your cheek. “I’m certain Stevie will agree, this curve—” Fingertips—featherlight—flutter along your hip; a squeal of laughter. You squirm. “Is where the true beauty lies. Whaddya say, Cap?” The prickle of whiskers; Bucky pressing kisses against your flesh.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The cry of a rose.

Nails biting skin; a bloom of bruises.

Tick-tock—clock shuddering with each beat...

“We’ll pick you up at eight.” Cool steel enveloping you.

The flourish of warmth; supple flesh pecking your nose.

Bone crunching—a metallic tang—blood filling your throat.

“You. Ain't.” Fingers a vise around your biceps.

Tremors; teeth rattling. “Going out tonight.”

“But dad—” A gurgle of viscous fluid. “I’m an adult.”

“Ha! My house.” Spittle hurling. “My rules.”

A shove; the countertop digging into your back. “Clean up.”

Keys jangling. “I’ll be at Stan’s.”

Silence; trodden petals bleeding into snowy tiles.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An icy gust tapping glass.

Your grip curling around crinkle velvet—bruises soiling the wilting flowers.

Nose throbbing.

Phone screen a blur—‘Stevie. Buck. Something came up. Rain check?’

Press send. Your finger twitching. Go on. Do it.

Clock hands jerking with each tick; the message lay unsent.

A map—behind puffy lids—drawing the crinkle of Steve's eyes; quirk of Bucky's lips.

One shrill buzz; your flinch. The doorbell.

Time sighing.

Knuckles rapping against solid oak.

“C—” Voice hoarse. “Coming.”

Footfalls—feet dragging.

Such an ugly rose.

Conceal the crimson sting.

A tug of the door handle.

Too late.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kisses—feather-light—upon your purpling nose.

The graze of sleek steel; fingers gently probing splotchy flesh.

Warmth; skin pressing close.

Muscles slackening—weightless until... The gears of time caught up.

“You s-should go.” Your clammy palms nudging firm pecs.

“Never.” The tingle of their lips.

“But if he catches you here—” Breath bursting.

“Darling.” A pinch of Steve's eyes.

Cool metal drawing circles upon your hip.

“Why do you think we visit your store each day?”

“For—” Hand cradling Steve's jaw. “My signature tea blends.”

Bucky nuzzling your temple. “We don’t drink tea, sweetheart.”

“And... the thorns won’t sting again.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A light dab upon torn flesh.

“Sweetheart.” Smooth steel stroking your chin. “I’m fine.”

Tongue clucking teeth. “Your knuckles are weeping crimson, but sure... You're ‘fine’.”

“We’ve had worse pruning roses in the yard.”

A chuff of air—your gaze snapping toward Steve. “He’s not wrong, darling.”

Eyes narrowing. “You swore Buck was only gonna use his words.”

“I did—my fist was very talkative.”

Steve's snort.

Bucky’s wink.

Your chin trembling. “Don’t—”

“Honey.” Steve kissing your crown. “Love is protection. Allow ours.”

Cool fingers—petal soft—cupping your swelling nose. “Which means Banner checking you over.”

“Tomorrow. Dinner first.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The shopkeeper’s bell tinkling.

“Welcome—”

Light footsteps; the sound of crumpling paper—leather rustling.

Cheeks rising—eyes a map of fine lines. “How was it, my loves?”

Heat blooming; a chill—flesh and metal encompassing you.

“So-so.” Traces of honey; Steve brushing your ear. “This one threw a chair at Tony during debrief.”

A gasp. “Buck. Why?”

His muscles tightening.

A prickle; fingertips ghosting Bucky's bristly jaw.

“C'mere.” Cinnamon; your lips claiming his.

Bucky’s chest thrumming. “Like falling in love again.”

“S-Steve,” you slurred, tongue heavy in your mouth. “I—I can’t see you.”  

“What? Sweetheart, what do you mean? Are you hurt?” 

“Oh—” your fingers brushed against your comms. “Silly me. It’s okay. I—”  

With trembling fingers, you pressed against the gaping puncture, your words halting at the contact. Your back arched, the throbbing in your thigh momentarily stealing your breath. “Did someone turn out the light?” 

“Like hell it's okay! Steve, haul your ass up here now.” Bucky emphasized, sending one of his attackers sprawling with a brutal uppercut. “Not only is our girl losing blood, but I think the knife might've been laced with something. She’s drifting too fast.” 

“That’s America's ass,” you croaked, chest wheezing with the effort. “Wait... Your girl?” 

“Manchurian Candidate, what’s going on up there?” Tony interjected, his question reverberating against your skull.  

“Don't call him that,” you snapped feebly. “Hang on, how are you in my head right now?”  

“Bluebird?” Tony’s affectionate moniker always elicited a warm smile. Yet on this occasion your slick brow furrowed, his frantic tone pricking at your gut. 

You hummed, the action tickling your throat and sparking a hacking cough. “Stark, your intel sucks.” 

Tony replied with a hearty chuckle. “I’ll be sure to pass that along. You just hang in there, okay? Capsicle's comin’.” 

“He s-shouldn’t. I-It’s c-cold up here. Wet, too. Why are my hands painted red? I knew I should never have gifted Steve that art set for Christmas.” You had long since ceased the vise-like grip on your leg, no more certain why you’d even begun. A thick fog settled deep within your mind. 

“Gonna t-take a nap. Don’t let me miss d-dinner. I was promised pizza, right, Stevie? Not—not...” Your whispers tapered off. 

A chorus of “no” cut through your stupor.  

“Sweetheart,” Steve pleaded, his voice shaking. “I’m less than a minute away, but you’ve gotta keep talking, all right?” 

“What ‘bout?” 

“Anything,” the captain murmured. 

“I messed up, didn’t I?” A keen cry escaped your lips, the sound piercing through the air. “I—I got distracted... Lost my knife. It was the one that Bucky gave me.” 

“That’s okay. Buck or I will get you another.” 

“No. You don’t—don't understand. I can’t feel my legs. Wh—” you swallowed, “What’s happening?” 

Fingers tapping your cheeks forced your leaden lids open. When did they close? “Shit,” Steve cursed. “Come on, sweetheart.” 

“Language, Stevie,” you rasped, reaching out to press your palm against his jaw. The gentle touch left a trail of crimson on his neck. “I’ve gotta tell you somethin’.” 

“We’ve gotta get you to the jet, darling. You can tell me when you’re safe, yeah?” 

“You. Bucky. You’re the perfect couple— Ahh!” you sobbed, clasping onto Steve’s wrist while he twisted his utility belt taut around your thigh, the makeshift tourniquet digging into your flesh. 

“I know. I know. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. But we gotta stem the bleeding.”  

Blinking through the rush of nausea, you thrust his comforts aside. “I'm not—I don’t measure up. But I’m so in love with you. With Bucky. I—” 

“Hey!” the blond cradled your cheeks with both hands. “You’re the best of us all. We should’ve told you long ago that our heart is yours, but we were too fearful—” 

“Too stupid, more like.” 

“Yes, thank you for interrupting the moment, Nat,” Steve groused, his rough voice at war with the fingertip now lightly probing your pulse point. 

“Stevie? You’ll tell, Buck, won’t you?” Your mouth barely moved, the words spoken so quietly, they drifted with the breeze. 

Warmth beneath your knees. A sturdy weight enveloping your shoulder blades, drawing you close. 

“Hey. No, sweetheart. Don’t fall asleep.” But your eyes were fluttering shut despite Steve's warnings. “Shit! Buck, we’ve gotta go. Now.”

Your eyes briefly cracked open as your head lolled against a rugged chest. 

Steve called your name, jostling you gently when you reached out, purposely grazing his torso with your palm. Your lids felt weighted now though, curtaining your eyes as darkness settled all around. 

*** 

A groan rumbled deep within your throat as the metallic odor of blood assaulted your nostrils. 

“Hi, honey.” The greeting was scarcely audible, but you prized your eyes open, wincing at the strain, and blinking into the garish fluorescent lighting.  

“Wanda?” you breathed. Mouth dry. Voice hoarse with lack of use.  

“Welcome back.” She offered a sunny smile before tiptoeing toward a steel cart that sat opposite the bed. “How are you feeling?”  

Fighting off a wave of vertigo, you hummed, watching with glassy eyes as she poured water into a plastic cup. 

“It’s been three days; those two haven’t left your side since we got back.” Wanda set the glass pitcher back on the cart, nodding at the two super soldiers, both snoring softly, their heads lying against your uninjured leg. 

“Do—” You cleared your aching throat. “They hate me?” 

“Did you hit your head? Why on earth would they hate you?”  

“I ruined everything, I—” muffling the sound in the crook of your elbow, you let out a dry cough. 

“Drink this first, then we’ll talk.”  

Drawing nearer, Wanda's leather boots clacked on the vinyl flooring. “Hush, traitors,” she hissed at her feet, scowling at the offending leather with purpose. 

A giggle sprung out; your palm flew across your mouth in an effort to stifle it. “I sound like a herd of elephants in these things,” she teased, eyes flicking toward the boys’ slumped form as she crept forward. 

“Here.” Mindful of the cannula inserted into the back of your hand, she looped an arm around your shoulders. “Hopefully Bruce can remove the IV now that you’re awake.” Leaning into your friend's warmth, you let out a long, breathy exhale.  

“This should help ease your throat. Go steady, though, only small sips.” Holding the cup against your lips, she supported your weight as you drank—gently rubbing your back when your greedy gulps morphed into the occasional splutter.   

“Thank you, Wanda.” 

With a flick of her wrist, she waved off your thanks. “I’m just happy that you’re okay. It was—” She abruptly turned away. But the slight hitch in her breath cut through the hush. “Do you need anything else? Perhaps an extra blanket?”  

“We both know that I don't need an extra blanket. Come sit,” you coaxed, tapping your fingers weakly against the edge of the bed. 

A few beats passed. You held your breath, lips scarcely parting, and muttered, “please.” Yet, when Wanda's silence stretched on, you tilted your head and took notice of the slight tremor in her fingers as she dropped the empty cup into the trash can.

“Wanda?”  

“I’m gonna go find Bruce. He should check you over, make sure that you’re okay.” Her voice had taken on a stoic edge, but instead of heading for the door, she remained in place, swiping at her eyes.

“No, I’m fine. You said that we’d talk, so talk.” She ducked her chin at your reply—the wavy locks that you envied so much falling like a curtain across her face.  

“Hey. Unlike you, I wasn't gifted with mind-reading abilities. What are you thinking?” You reached out, interlacing your fingers with her own. “What’s wrong?” 

“It’s been really tough.” Wanda admitted, shoulders bowing like a branch heavily burdened with fruit. “The blade was laced with rat poison... we almost lost you. When I shut my eyes, I see the blood—” she swayed, staring down at her palm as though it was still splattered with crimson.  

“I’m okay, Wan.”  

She shook her head though, dismissing your reassurance. “You didn’t see—you were completely ashen. We tried stemming the bleeding, but you slipped into hypovolemic shock on the jet. Your heart—it just stopped.” Her legs buckled; using your joined hands you tugged her onto the mattress.  

“Wanda, you haven’t lost me. I’m right here.” 

“But that solitary, high-pitch beep of the heart monitor still echoes through my skull.” She then inclined her head toward the sleeping super soldiers, “It haunts them, too.” With a single fingertip, she tapped on her temple. “I see it.” 

Following Wanda's gaze, you hesitantly stretched out your arm, tracing the bruise-like shadows beneath Bucky's eyes with the tip of your thumb. Had they slept or gotten any rest at all?  

“No,” Wanda murmured, a flush creeping across her cheekbones as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Their bodies gave out a couple of hours ago, but they hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep since the mission. I’m sorry though, I know that I shouldn't listen in on your thoughts.” 

You clicked your tongue against your teeth, tutting at the apology. “Don’t be silly, you can’t control it.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me.” Wanda puffed out a ragged breath, the whoosh of air faintly tickling your forehead. 

“Wan.” You faltered for a beat, your bottom lip stinging as you scraped it with your incisors. “Aside from my near-death experience, are you all right?”  

With a half-hearted twitch of her lips, she gave your hand a brief pat. “Y-you know that my emotions affect what I can do? That I have no control over what I hear?” Though rhetorical, you nodded firmly, arching your eyebrows as she continued. “Well... Steve and Bucky's thoughts haven’t only been super loud. They’ve been really dark.”  

“Dark?” your head flinched back slightly. “What do you mean?” 

“If you hadn’t pulled through, I'm not sure that they would have survived. And honestly—” Now picking at an invisible blemish on her stonewash jeans, she paused for a moment, her wet eyes meeting yours.  

“After Pietro... I don’t think that I would have survived it either.” 

At her confession, an ache bloomed deep within your soul, the pang so pronounced that you immediately drew her into your embrace.  

“I've heard your thoughts often enough.” You soothed her hair while she spoke, ignoring the tug of the cannula as you gently untangled a knot with your fingers. “I know that you can’t imagine it, but you’re the superglue that bonds this family together, especially for Bucky and Steve. And—a-and—” 

“Ssh. It’s okay. You’re okay,” you whispered into Wanda's ear, your neck muffling her labored gasps.  

“I-I’m so sorry. I’m being really silly. After all, I should be the one offering y-you comfort right now.” Her shoulders shook with each stutter, hot tears dampening your shirt, and in spite of the burn in your thigh, you tightened your hold. 

“Nonsense! We all need a big bear hug at least once a day, right? You haven’t had any for a whole three days. I’d be upset, too.”  

Wanda let out a scoff, brushing a soft kiss against your temple as she slowly withdrew. “You’re such a dork,” she ribbed while roughly scrubbing at her red, splotchy cheeks. 

“You already knew that. Though, please don’t tell those two,” you emphasized, jerking a thumb at the sleeping figures, “about my collection of Captain America merchandise; I’ll never live it down.” You threw your head back against the pillow with a chuckle. 

“Oh, they know,” she snickered, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively “Cap's positively thirsting to catch a glimpse of you wearing those Captain America pajamas you've stashed in your closet.”  

Snorting, you gave Wanda a playful shove. “Oh, stop. I really don’t think that—” with wide eyes, you propped yourself up on one elbow. “Hold up! Does he...” you bopped your head sideways. “Y’know...?” 

Wanda momentarily pressed a fist against her mouth. The corners of her lips visibly twitching upwards. “You are adorable,” she chortled, eyes alight with mischief. “And yeah... PJs or not, they both think about you a lot,” she finished with an exaggerated wink.  

Clearing your throat, you twisted your features into a smile. 

“Oh, that’s n-nice,” you eventually fumbled out, resting a palm on your clenching stomach. “But... are you sure? Perhaps you’re reading their thoughts wrong? Or—” 

“Stop!” She cocked her head. Then shook it.  

The hand holding your midriff tightened, fingernails biting into your flesh as you forced out an apology.  

“No, don’t apologize,” she murmured, grasping your hand and unfurling your clenched fingers. “I often catch flashes of your thoughts—and sometimes the occasional childhood memory leaks out.” Prying your hand away from her solid grip, you felt a wave of nausea wash over you. 

She winced at the loss of contact. “Please, don’t be upset with me. It’s not deliberate.” 

“I know.” You reached out, clutching at her wrist. “I’m not upset with you. I promise.” 

“What I’m getting at is... I-I’ve felt the whip of your father's tongue. Watched his belt lash against your skin. Your screams. I’ve heard them. So I know—” She squeezed her eyes shut for a beat, then met yours. “I know where that seed of self-doubt stems from, but please believe that without you, they really are fractured. You hold their heart.”

Though your eyes prickled, the hush after Wanda’s confession was the echo of Stevie's sketchbook. A fresh page, smooth beneath the weight of your palm—the ache of your jagged scars ebbing with each scratch of his pencil. 

“Stevie, what ya working on?” You shuffled your chair toward him, neck craning as you peered over the open sketch pad. 

The scritch of graphite halted at the interruption, your arm now reaching out, fingertips tracing the contour of a bird’s wing. “It’s—”  

“Beautiful,” Bucky interjected, sneaking up on you both and greeting Steve with a kiss against his hairline. 

You shot Bucky a fleeting, pointed stare. “It’s rude to eavesdrop,” you chided. “And yes, it is beautiful, though I was gonna say breathtaking.” Studying the sketch once more, you leaned closer, resting your chin on Steve's shoulder. “Stevie, is—is it a bluebird?” 

Steve bounced his knee, his leg vibrating against yours, but offered no reply. With every tick of the clock, you tugged on a loose strand of cotton at the edge of your shirt. The thread unraveling along with the calm in your belly. 

“Yeah,” Steve eventually affirmed, rubbing his palm against the nape of his neck. “It’s for you actually.” 

“For... me?” Threading your forearm through Steve's bicep, your voice cracked. Heat blooming within your chest as Steve nuzzled your hair with his nose.  

“Thank you, Stevie.” You withdrew slowly, your eyes glistening as you caressed his cheek with your lips.  

Bucky let out a low whistle.  

The tips of Steve's ears flushed pink.  

“You know, I was an excellent art assistant,” the brunet declared, sidling into the seat beside you, his metal prosthetic winding around your middle. “Fetched his pencils and everything. Do I get a kiss?”  

Puckering your mouth against the tips of your fingers, you blew Bucky a smooch.  

“Come ‘ere, you.” Bucky grumbled, sticking out his bottom lip before coaxing you into his embrace. The scruff of his beard prickling your flesh as his lips grazed your temple. 

The pressure of Steve's arms followed, his throaty mewl rumbling in your ear as his chin nestled atop your head.  

Sagging into their stalwart grasp, your eyes fluttered closed. The image of Steve's artwork dancing behind the curtain of your lids. Mapping each layer, every smudge, his use of tonal blending; until its beauty was perfectly anchored within your mind’s eye.  

Each detail of the sketch becoming an echo of their unspoken vow, one that resounded throughout the hush—A lonely tear slipped from beneath your lashes. “Do you see it, now?” Wanda breathed, her warm fingers massaging your chilled hands.   

“Maybe...” Yet, as you sank further into the mattress, your quivering chin belied the uncertainty. 

“Honey, are you all right? Do you need to rest awhile?” You lifted your heavy lids, your glazed eyes barely grasping the words as she momentarily set a hand upon your clammy forehead.  

Holding the heel of your palms against your brow, you sluggishly shook your head. “I just took a three-day nap—” Voice trailing off, your arms slackened, sliding limply onto the pillow.  

You jerked, your heart stuttering. “Wha—” Wanda was easing your limbs into a more comfortable position. “Don’t you think I’ve rested enough?”  

“Absolutely not. You’ve been through a lot.” A hum, rich and resonant, vibrated within your chest as Wanda's thumbs began kneading the pressure point on each of your temples. “Your body is still recovering, y’know?”  

“’Kay... W-Wan?” 

She released a soft snort, though it was distant, like static cutting through your comms. “Yeah, honey.” 

“When—when I’m back on my feet. You think Tony'll let me renovate the med bay? The decor in here totally sucks.”  

A tinkling laugh floated into the air, the melodic sound dragging you further under. “Yeah, it really does suck. And truthfully, I’m pretty sure that Tony would let you do anything.”  

“That’s... s-sweet. TV, too. Stay...” 

*** 

“She woke up?” Your eyes squeezed tightly, features contorting into a grimace. The voice was gruff. Sonorous. An image of Bucky fisting at his messy locks flashed behind your lids.   

“Did you at least fetch Banner, so he could check her over?” Stevie joined in, the words rapidly stumbling out of his mouth.  

“No, she asked me not to get Bruce, and I didn’t want to go against her wishes. She—” Wanda whispered, sniffling a little as she broke off. 

Who's drilling? You asked yourself. Was the compound undergoing construction?  

“Of course she did, she’s as stubborn as hell, but you should have woken us.” Bucky fired back, clipped.  

No, the rat-tat-tat of a jackhammer was the pounding in your skull.  

A scoff rang out. The shuffle of clothing brushing against flesh followed; Wanda undoubtedly folding her arms across her breast. “You were out cold. Perhaps if you had both gotten some sleep a couple of days ago—like I suggested,” she hissed. “Then you wouldn’t have missed her.” 

“That’s a low blow, you of all people know—”  

“Stop.” Your protest was a feeble one, yet the petty squabbling halted within an instant. 

“Doll?”  

Fingers cupping your chin. A coarse thumb trailing along your cheek. The weight of a hand lightly pressing on your shin.  

Swallowing the bile rising in your throat, you cracked one eye open, the jackhammer intensifying into a dah-dah-dah. “Lights,” you ground out through clenched teeth. 

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. dim the lights in the medical bay, then send for Bruce.” The captain spoke with authority, his command brooking no argument.  

Though—panting with the effort—you chipped in with, “F.R.I.D.A.Y. please dim the lights, but do not bother Bruce.”  

“I apologize, Agent Bluebird.” The brightness softened. Your nose scrunched; that knocking in your skull screamed in protest. When had Tony altered your name in the system? “I cannot override Captain Rogers' order,” the AI continued. “Dr. Banner has already been updated on your vitals. He's also requested I inform you that he’ll be along in a few minutes.” 

Steve straightened his posture. “Thank you, F.R.I.D.A.Y.” the blond announced, his voice full of bluster. 

“That’s not a flattering trait, Stevie. Don’t fret too much though, I still love you.” 

“Where's my lovin’, doll?” 

You raised a quaking hand toward Bucky's brow attempting to smooth out the lines that had formed there. “If these set in permanently, I’m gonna start calling you Grumpy Barnes.” 

Puffing out a wobbly laugh, Bucky knelt over you, nuzzling his nose against yours. “As long as I’m your Grumpy Barnes.” 

“Aaaaand that’s my cue. I can already sense the three of you are gonna be exceptionally nauseating. Heaven help poor Bruce when he shows up.” With a conspiratorial flicker of an eyelid, Wanda tagged on, “Shall I fetch your ‘special’ pajamas?” 

“Wan!” you exclaimed, burrowing your face into the pillow. The plastic coating—cool against your cheek—rustling beneath the movement.  

A collective chuckle resonated throughout the room.  

“Oh, honey.” The delicate whiff of citrus tickled your nose as Wanda's lips met the crown of your head. “I’ll pop back in later, okay?” 

Anticipating the click of boots, you gave a paltry nod. Yet, she leaned in closer, murmuring in your ear, “Please remember that they love you.” Though Wanda didn’t linger, a trail of zesty lemon—the scent of laundry detergent that always clung faintly onto her clothes—hung on her heels.  

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted out upon Wanda's exit. The words stifled as you hid further into the pillow.  

“Doll?” — Bucky. 

“Sweetheart?” — Stevie. 

Both super soldiers spoke in unison.  

Hands gently tugged on your shoulders. Metal fingers lifted you away from the cold plastic. The rigid prosthetic fully supporting the weight of your head as it lulled against it.  

“What are you sorry for?” Bucky gently perched on the edge of the mattress, his usual gravelly voice taking on a silvery lilt. 

Standing tall, his torso shielding your view of the door, Steve began rubbing light circular motions into the curve of your shoulder. 

Like a candle guttering in the wind, your gaze flit between Bucky and Steve. Both peering down at you, the skin surrounding their eyes no longer pinched, but smooth. And the words poured out in one continuous breath, “Everything. I’m sorry for everything. Losing my knife. Getting stabbed. Coming between you both. Though most of all, I’m so sorry for being me.” 

“Woah, wait. What?” Bucky’s deft fingers reached out, his flesh grazing the shell of your ear as he swept back a few loose tresses.  

A tear. A sob. Your quivering hand grappled at your aching throat—the lump lodged there constricting with each harsh inhale.  

“Sweetheart, unless you want Bruce charging through here quicker than when he storms into battle, you need to settle down.”  

“Steve.” Bucky threw the blond an imperceptible jerk of his head, his voice scarcely audible above the roaring in your ears. 

“No, Buck! Her breathing is far too erratic.” Grabbing your hand, Steve dropped a kiss upon your knuckles before placing your flat palm against his sternum. “Feel that, blue?” Two fingers rhythmically tapped yours, harmonizing with the steady beat of his heart. “Concentrate. Inhale. One, two. Exhale. One, two, three, four.” Steve repeated the mantra. The words looping in your brain until your quick pants subsided. 

“I’m sorry,” you rasped. Voice raw. Chest burning with the strain.  

“No. No, apologies.” Steve huffed out a breath, dragging his fingers across his jaw.  

Tightly clamping your lips together, yet another apology on the tip of your tongue, your eyes met Bucky's. Tears that wouldn’t fall coruscating in his baby blues. 

“Doll, I’m not sure if you really understand this, but we're in love with you. Always have been. The knife.” The brunet let out a low growl. “Replaceable. You—” He drew you into his thewy chest. “You're irreplaceable.” 

“But I only had one assignment. The data—I never should have led them onto the roof—”  

“Don’t. Don’t do that,” Steve cut in. A tingle fluttering along your spine as his forearm coiled around your middle. “The mission was an absolute bust. Stark's intel was phoney.” 

“But I should have—”  

“No. There is no but.” At Steve's words, you tried burrowing deeper into Bucky's breast, but the brunet wouldn’t allow it.  

Flesh and steel cupped your chin, tilting your neck upwards until your gaze met his. “This isn’t really about the mission though, is it, doll?” You watched with wide eyes as Bucky swiped his thumbs across your wet cheeks.  

“Wha—” you moistened your dry lips. “What?”  

It was quiet for several beats. The super soldiers sharing a glance as you clutched at Bucky's wrist.  

“Blue,” It was Stevie who broke the silence. “When we reached the jet.” The blond paused, scraping his tongue against his teeth. “Bruce asked us... Your tactical gear needed removing.” Steve clenched his jaw, briefly squeezing his eyes shut. “My fingers accidentally traced that jagged, criss-cross pattern across your back.” 

You froze. Ice coursing through your veins, and seeping into your marrow.  

“Stay with us, doll.” Bucky nudged his nose against yours. “What Stevie's saying, is you’re beautiful. The brunet's chest thrummed as he blew out a faint laugh. “The day that you shook my vibranium hand, you changed me. People gawped, the weight of their stares often burning into my core, but until you, nobody would touch it.” 

Bucky lifted his artificial limb, the metal winking beneath the warm lights. “Fear. Loss. Pain. That’s what this steel arm represented. Yet, when I look into your eyes, I don’t see a monster reflecting back.” 

“You’re not a monster, Buck.” Reaching out, your gaze steady. Unwavering. You tugged his prosthetic toward you, brushing your lips against each vibranium finger.  

“Exactly. That’s it.” Bucky shot out, his voice so loud, your head feebly jerked back. “When our eyes meet, I see the man that you believe I am. And—” The brunet broke off, his Adam's apple bobbing.  

“And,” Steve interjected. “It’s our hope that one day, when you gaze into our eyes, you see this...” Clearing his throat, his fingers began fishing inside his jeans pocket.  

“Stevie?” Leaning toward him, you stretched your neck, ignoring the throbbing in your thigh as you tweaked one of your stitches.  

The blond cocked his head in reply, his cheeks reddening as he peeked at his partner.  

“Show her,” Bucky whispered. 

Plucking out a crumpled piece of paper, Steve pushed it into your palm. It was well fingered, a splatter of crimson marring one of the dog-eared corners. Unfolding each layer, your fingers mapped out every crease until it lay flat against your knee.  

A gasp sliced through the air. With your fingers pressing on your mouth, you drank in every detail. A droplet of moisture bled onto the picture. Then another. A cry leaving your lips shortly after. The sketch had captured a moment in time. A snapshot. One as vivid as any photograph. Your head was tilted back with laughter, eyes alight with an inner glow. Enveloped within the embrace of two super soldiers, their gaze was anchored solely upon you. The image was beautiful. You were beautiful. 

Tingling hands. Numb feet. Your throat thick as you clasped your palms across your breast. “Y-you both love me.” You sniffled, swiping your nose with the edge of your wrist. “As much as I love you. In spite of who I am.” It wasn’t a question, but a declaration. 

“You’re ours!” They spoke in unison. Their voices loud. Unyielding.  

“And we love you because of who you are,” Stevie added, his lips caressing your cheeks. Your nose. Your eyelids. Your mouth.  

“You’re mine,” you murmured, resting a palm on each sternum. “I guess, I’ll be digging out those pajamas.”