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No Rest For The Wicked

Pairing: Vigilante!Bucky x FBI Agent!Reader

Summary: When the notorious Brooklyn Ripper strikes again, you’re more determined than ever to finally catch him by any means necessary. Even if it means teaming up with your vigilante neighbor Bucky, who's wanted by the very institution you work for.

WC: 31.5k

Contains: crime show level of violence, themes, and action (think of criminal minds/law & order svu as examples) / murder mystery with a serial killer on the loose / friends to lovers / horror elements such as suspense / female reader / mutual pining / Bucky is your hot neighbor / mentions of homicide + case details / descriptions of fatal injuries, blood (nothing in extreme graphic detail) / stalking (not from Bucky) / carnival fun and frights / a bit of a slow burn / a third party has a crush on you, but it's not reciprocated / lots of cameos in the world building / fluff + angst / Alpine shenanigans / hurt + comfort / happy ending

a/n: It seems autumn comes around and suddenly I remember I'm a writer. 😅 This is my piece for the stan-o-ween collaboration! This fic was an idea two years in the making and I spent almost the entire month on it, so I am so excited that it's finally done and yours to read! 🥰 Thank you to all my lovely mutuals who encouraged me along the way while writing this 💖 and to my biggest cheerleader @lomlbuckybarnes 🥹💖 who without her, I'd probably chicken out about posting anything ever again. 🫶🏻 Thank you for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡

bucky masterlist || fic playlist || trick or treat event

“Here,” Special Agent Carol Danvers places a freshly brewed cup of coffee on your desk, its earthy aroma wafting through the air to settle within you with a promise of alleviation. “And before you say anything, don’t. Just drink it. You look like you need it,” She says as a matter of fact, leaving no room for argument. She leans against your desk, crossing her arms with her eyes trained on you like you're her next big case she has to investigate. You take a deep breath, whether to prepare for her lecture or because you need it, who knows? You can feel the radiating warmth of the mug on the back of your hand, tempting you to bask in its caffeinated contents.

For the fourth time today, no less.

“I really shouldn’t. I’ve had enough caffeine today to last me the whole week,” you say, and yet your hands betray you, wrapping around the ceramic FBI mug like it holds all the answers to what’s been ailing you for months.

Carol looks at you with bemused pity, “When’s the last time you had proper sleep?”

“Last night.”

“Liar.”

“I swear.”

“Really?” Carol’s eyes drift to your hands, analyzing the way you stir your coffee—with a pen.

You blink, taking a second to realize what you're doing, taken aback by the sight of your black pen in your coffee. It seems exhaustion had seeped its way so deep into your bones, you were no longer aware of your own actions.

“Okay… so maybe I haven’t been getting the best sleep lately,” you admit despite yourself, removing the pen from your coffee and throwing it away. Carol scoffs, "No kidding."

“I bet you haven't eaten anything either, have you?" Special Agent John Walker inserts himself into the conversation, placing a small bakery bag on your desk before he goes to sit in his—across from yours to the left. He gives you the same look Carol is giving you now, expressions filled with an equal amount of worry and sympathy. It makes you wonder if they show this much care to your other colleagues and friends.

“You two spoil me too much," you state, appreciatively grabbing the bakery bag and opening it to find a golden chocolate chip muffin inside. It's still warm, meaning John must have gotten it right before he came back to the bureau from being out in the field. First coffee and now this, were you that predictable or were your friends that perceptive?

"I promise I’m fine. You both have nothing to worry about. I'm just a bit overwhelmed with the case,” you explain, hoping to placate their worry, but the weariness in your voice does little to quell the concern both blondes feel for you.

And it's written all over their faces.

"I can help with the case if you need any," John offers, a sly smile on Carol's face as she exchanges a brief look with you. You hold back from rolling your eyes at her. For some time now, she has been convinced that John has feelings for you, but you always interpreted his kindness as just being a good friend. It's not like you can take his flirtations seriously when he's flirted with every single female agent in the bureau.

"Thanks John, but you and Lamar are busy enough with the Hydra investigation as it is," you reply, before adding, "Plus if Laura found out I had anyone else helping me with the case she'd kill me. Nat told me yesterday Clint's been moody ever since he found out his wife messages me more than him," your last statement pulls a laugh out of both blondes. "That does sound like Barton—both of them," John chimes in with amusement, easing the a bit of the tension from your shoulders.

Truth be told, it's not like you wouldn't have appreciated the help. A tiny part of you feels bad for turning John down, but unbeknownst to the entire bureau, you already have all the help you need.

Help they can never find out who you're getting it from.

"It's better Walker here doesn't help anyway. Hopkins would miss his work husband too much to let him work on the Brooklyn Ripper case with you," she teases John with a cheeky grin, making him roll his eyes at her.

"Lamar is not my work husband."

"No? Then why is Hopkins bringing you homemade breakfast and lunch every day? Not to mention, he's the one always driving you two around like you're his pretty little passenger princess."

"First of all, those meals are made by his wife and they're delicious. And second of all, what the hell is a passenger princess?"

You sigh internally—here they go again.

You tune out their bickering, used to the way they get under each other's skin and quarrel like siblings. Sometimes you wonder if they had been in another life.

Your mind goes back to the case at hand, The Brooklyn Ripper case. It's files strewn across your desk like pieces of a puzzle you have yet to solve. This case lies between your typical serial killer investigation and a potential connection to Hydra. A criminal organization tied to a litany of crimes including blackmailing influential figures, money laundering, exploitation, mysterious killings, and more. All with the end goal of moving their organization to the top and spreading their influence beyond New York.

Even if it means entertaining a serial killer in their ranks.

The Brooklyn Ripper has taken the life of seven women so far. The first was killed in September of last year, with NYPD detectives handling the investigation. They were in charge of the first four murders, but when the fourth woman was found to have been working for Hydra, they dropped the case and handed it over to the FBI. Anyone working in law enforcement knows how dangerous it is to cross Hydra. Not many would step up to go against them, unlike your boss Nick Fury, the director of the FBI. He has no issue making Hydra his enemy.

You've worked in the New York branch of the FBI for a few years in the counterterrorism and counterintelligence unit, before being transferred over to the criminal services unit eight months ago. You didn't mind the transfer due to budget cuts since you felt like you needed a change of routine anyway. And as fate would have it, out of all the cases that could have been assigned to you, you got The Brooklyn Ripper case along with Special Agent Laura Barton as your partner. Since you've been on the case, three more women have been killed, with all three women having connections to Hydra.

Laura left for maternity leave two months ago, and ever since then you have been investigating the case alone due to too many cases on priority and not enough staff to handle them. Out of seven women, one of them was murdered under your watch alone, and that's a fact that makes you lie awake at night.

"I still think the killer is the White Wolf," at the mention of that specific alias falling from Carol's lips you come back to the present. Your head snapping in her direction, eyes widening ever so slightly having been caught off guard by the name. She tilts her head at you, shaking it with fake disappointment, "You weren't even paying attention to me were you? You really should go home."

The reassuring smile you give her is not convincing at all, "No, no, I was listening. I just got lost in my thoughts for second, why did you bring up the White Wolf?"

"Because, he's obviously your killer."

"He might be one of the possible suspects, but I think others make more sense than him," you reply, composing yourself from your earlier slip up, "He's only ever taken credit for the deaths of higher officials with deep ties to Hydra. Rumlow still makes more sense than the White Wolf here. We don't even know who the guy is or if his background matches what we're looking for," you point out.

Your colleagues have no idea who the White Wolf is, but you do.

You had dinner with him last week.

"I hate to say it, but Danvers might be right," John cuts in, agreeing with Carol for the first time in his life. "He's the only possible suspect who's gone after Hydra apart from the FBI. The last few women have all worked for Hydra, it makes sense he'd go after them."

Carol can't believe what she's hearing, "Walker is making sense—the world is ending."

"You never give up, do you?"

"But he's never gone after women or children, why would he switch up now?" You ask, cutting into their exchange to play along in the conversation. You don't want them to think you're playing defense for the White Wolf.

John shrugs, "Guys like that, they snap," he snaps his fingers for emphasis, "Maybe something happened in his personal life and it set him off. Made him think he had to go further with his vigilante justice and started going after whoever he could get his hands on at Hydra," he theorizes, but everything he says is further from the truth of what the White Wolf stands for—of who Bucky really is.

"Maybe, but as a theory it wouldn't explain the motives for the first three women who were never found to be connected to Hydra at all. In the end, none of the suspects make complete sense," you say, sighing in solemn displeasure.

"Look, your main suspect is still Brock Rumlow—Hydra's guard dog. Lamar and I, we're working hard on the Hydra case, but that doesn't mean we can't find the time to help you out with something. Our cases are most likely connected, so we could always help enough to get some of the weight off your shoulders," John offers again, a soft genuineness to his voice that most don't experience often from him. You give him a small appreciative smile, "Thanks, John. I'll keep that in mind."

He returns the smile before looking at the notification that pops up on his phone. "Crap, I'm gonna be late," he gets up from his chair, putting the files on his desk into one pile, "Sorry for ending the conversation here ladies, I gotta go. You two have a good night." And with that, John packs up the last of his stuff and he's gone.

"Jealous?"

You frown at the question, completely lost as to why Carol would ask you that and why she's smirking at you. "Jealous? Of what?" The pure confusion on your face has Carol letting out a breathless laugh, "You really weren't paying attention, huh? John's going out on a date tonight."

You snort, "Oh? When is he not?"

"So you are jealous…"

You roll your eyes at her attempt to tease you, "Carol. No. John is my friend and he's nice and all, but you know I don't date divorced men—it's too messy."

She shrugs, taking a few steps forward to take a seat on his desk. Oh, if only John could see her now. "Yeah, but you know I'm right when I say he likes you." You look at her like she's said possibly the dumbest thing you've ever heard, "Carol, please be serious. John has flirted with every single female agent in the bureau. Well, except for you, but only because you scare him."

Carol snickers in delight, "That's true. And it's not like he hasn't gone after some of our friends. I still cringe every time I think about how he fumbled that dinner date with Ava," you both grimace at the reminder, "But god, its kind of pathetic how many rebound dates he's gone on that have gone nowhere. He needs to be stopped for the sake of all women in New York," she can't help but take a jab at him even when he's not around.

"Okay, that's enough about John. How's the Punisher case going?" She thankfully takes your cue to move the conversation along, and begins updating you on her investigation. You do your best to keep up as you organize the files in front of you, but truthfully, it's all going in one ear and out the other.

"You know I can tell when you're not paying attention to me, right? I just act like I don't," she calls you out with mirth, you have the decency to be sheepish, "Sorry…"

She shakes her head softly, speaking to you in a tone only a big sister would use, "Don't be, just go home. Take a day off if you can. The case will still be here tomorrow."

"So will the killer."

She can't deny that, "He will, but that's just how things are in this line of work. You take one down and another one pops up tomorrow. There's not much we can do about it—that's just the way the world is." What Carol says may be true, but you don't want to dwell on such harsh realities. Not when it'll make you spiral more into a darker hole than the case already has you in.

Maybe it is time for you to call it a day.

"Are you heading home too?" You ask her as you start to gather your belongings. She nods, the relief she feels at you finally deciding to go home evident in the way her demeanor changes. "I am, but I'm gonna head over to tech first and see if Stark can figure out what's going on with my access ID. This thing only works half the time and I'm sick of it. I think I need to get it replaced."

You grab your messenger bag in one hand and the small bakery bag in the other, "If you're seeing Stark then let's hope he thinks a new ID is in the budget," you jest, causing her to groan. "God, don't say that. Stark and his stupid budget will be the death of me." You laugh, wishing her luck talking to Stark before you're off as well.

Autumn brings in the beginning of change. Trees shed their leaves, going from forest greens to vibrant shades of auburn, blanketing the ground and blowing in the wind like they're searching for their final resting place. The chill in the air invites you to wear your coziest sweaters and visit your local shops to try anything with cinnamon, maple, or pumpkin spice to really welcome the season in.

Tonight, however, the breeze you feel when you step out of your car is icy and sinister in a way that makes you do a triple take of your surroundings. It has you guarding your bag close to your body and locking your car twice. A season that used to bring you a serene comfort is now cold and unforgiving like the end of life.

The wisps of the wind curl around your body, clinging to you as you step into your apartment building. You give a small yet polite greeting to the property manager's father, Yori. A sweet old man who sits at the front desk all day playing crossword puzzles or watching baseball games on a small television behind the desk. A cheerful smile spreads across his face as he returns the greeting. Thankfully, he's engrossed in a Yankees game or he would have pulled you in for a conversation already.

The sound of a crunching leaf that's stuck on the sole of your shoe follows you into the elevator and to the third floor. The clinking of your keys joins it, echoing down the hallway as you walk to your apartment. You're just about to insert your key when the door to the apartment next to yours opens, a meow you can only describe as a hello follows it.

It's your neighbors, Bucky and Alpine.

"Hey you two," you greet them warmly, appreciating the sight of your very handsome and very muscular neighbor holding his cat in his arms like she were something precious and delicate. The sight of him in his navy Henley is enough to turn your night around for the better.

"Hey," Bucky starts, but then Alpine interrupts him by hopping out of his arms and prancing her way to you. She rubs her soft fur against your legs, before pawing at them—her way of saying she wants you to hold her.

You laugh softly, placing your messenger bag on the floor against your door and crouching down to pick her up. You stand with her cradled in your arms as careful as Bucky did in his. Alpine immediately nuzzles into them, letting out a content purr.

Bucky looks at the two of you in a way that makes your heart squeeze in your chest. "She missed you. Haven't seen much of you lately," he points out, voicing only half a truth. What he really wants to say is he missed you, but he'll let that truth hide in the affection of his expression.

You give Alpine a gentle head scratch, your smile turning softer, "I missed her too—and her dad," you add, not being able to hide it like Bucky can. The affection in his eyes only grows fonder at your words.

"Sorry I haven't visited lately. This case has a hold on me and I'm not sure it's going to let go of me any time soon," you say honestly, holding Alpine just a little tighter. Bucky notices, stepping closer to get a good look at you. There's no hiding the tiredness that seems to stick to every part of you like it's a second skin. "I thought so. You dedicate yourself to your job more than others, and it's admirable. But you have to take time to take care of yourself, doll," He reminds you and you find yourself exhaling a little harder, "You're not the first person to tell me something like that today. I try, but it doesn't feel right focusing on anything else when he can strike at any point again."

Bucky searches your eyes as if they hold the answer to how he can get through your stubbornness, "There's a difference between working hard and overworking yourself."

You have nothing to say to that.

Bucky leans down, grabbing your bag and nodding toward his door. "Let me make you dinner. Something tells me you haven't had a proper meal in days." As if on cue, your stomach lets out a grumble loud enough to reach your ears. Bucky bites his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing, sparing you further embarrassment by walking back to his apartment and holding the door open for you. You follow him inside with ease, having been at his place enough times to consider it a second home.

"I'll have you know I had a muffin today, and like four cups of coffee," you mumble out that last part, feeling small at the thought of Bucky being able to read you so closely—like there was nothing you could ever hide from him. He lets out a sound between a huff and a chuckle, "Exactly my point. None of that is a proper meal," he places your bag on the couch in the living room, "You should get some rest while I finish making dinner." You open your mouth with a question on your mind, but he narrows his eyes like he knows exactly what you're about to ask, "No talking of the case right now. Not until after dinner."

"But I want to know—" he cuts you off by shaking his head, "I know what you're going to ask, and no—I haven't found any new leads in any of the Hydra communications and their databases haven't been updated. There's nothing new since last month's murder. Now sit," he insists gently, and this time you listen. He makes his way to the kitchen, and you plop down onto the couch, settling comfortably against the cushions while Alpine makes herself comfortable on top of you. There's a part of you that wants to stay awake and pay more attention to Alpine, but as soon as your body sinks into the couch, you doze off, letting the world around you disappear.

Bucky looks through what he has in his cupboards and refrigerator, deciding on making a simple Alfredo pasta. He calls out your name, wanting to know if that's something you'd want to eat, but when he hears no response, he strolls over to check on you. He sees you fast asleep with Alpine in your arms and he can't help the warmth that grows within his chest at seeing you snuggled up in his home like this. He reaches over to the armchair and grabs a throw blanket—the red and black plaid one you gifted him. He covers you with it, gently tucking both you and Alpine in.

There's a lightness to his step when he goes back to the kitchen. He takes his time making dinner, all with a lingering smile on his face. If anyone had told him before he met you he would be granted these moments of peace—of normality from his somewhat unconventional life—he wouldn't have believed them. It seems like it was just yesterday when he was still in the clutches of Hydra, doing their dirty work as the Winter Soldier to save his family from a fate far worse than death.

And all for what? In the end he escaped, but at the cost of his former life. Disappearing from Hydra's traces and distancing himself from his family and friends for their safety. Years of never staying in one place for more than a month, living alone across the country on the run—all to come back to New York to seek revenge on the organization that took everything from him.

He never made a place a home. And then over a year and a half ago he moved here, thinking it would be a temporary place to set some of his plans into motion, but staying here ultimately led him to Alpine and you.

Alpine, a scrawny little kitten he found in an alley, under the pouring rain in a unforgiving city. Left to fend for herself—she reminded him of himself in a way.

You, his next door neighbor with a heart of gold and a smile that never fails to make him weak in the knees. You're everything good in this world he wishes he felt he deserved.

There's nothing he wouldn't do to keep this new life—this fresh start—safe and sound.

When dinner is ready, Bucky reluctantly walks over to you, crouching down to softy nudge your shoulder. As much as he wants to let you sleep, he knows you need to eat something before you go to bed for the night. After a few nudges, your eyes slowly blink awake, but as the scent of dinner drifts your way you perk up, causing Bucky to chuckle fondly at the sight. Alpine yawns from where she lays across your torso, standing on her paws and stretching as she awakens from her beauty sleep.

"Come on, doll. Didn't wanna wake you, but dinner's ready."

You yawn as you get up from the couch, giving your body a good stretch before you follow Bucky to the kitchen table where there's already two delicious bowls of pasta waiting. Bucky pulls out the chair for you and you utter a dozy thank you before digging into the plate in front of you.

You hum in satisfaction at the taste, "Have I ever told you, you could make it as a personal chef?" Bucky takes a seat beside you, practically preening at the way you compliment his cooking. "No, but it wouldn't work out anyway for me. I don't like cooking for other people."

You frown, taking another bite of pasta, "But you cook for me." He grins, a twinkle in his eye like he knows something you don't, "You're not just people to me, doll. You should know that by now." His words have your heart fluttering in your chest in a way only Bucky ever seems to make it. You shove another bite of food into your mouth, anything to preoccupy yourself from thinking too deep and asking him what he means by that.

You don't need to have that answered right now.

Bucky can tell you're holding back, but he doesn't pry—just smiles to himself and continues eating beside you. Your curious nature will get the better of you soon enough, and Bucky is a patient man. He can wait until you're ready to discuss this.

Whatever this is.

There's a comforting silence that falls between you, only interrupted once by the little tune of Alpine's automatic feeder signaling her food is ready. The silence continues until it stretches to the point you feel like breaking it.

"We talked about you at the bureau today," you mention, catching Bucky's attention.

"Oh?" He mutters out between bites, his tone in that one syllable indicating he's wary of where this conversation is going. You know he said not to talk about the case, but this surely doesn't count, right?

"Yeah, my coworkers think that you—the White Wolf—are the Brooklyn Ripper," you say, words laced with an undertone of mirth at such a inconceivable thought. Bucky on the other hand reacts differently to how you thought he would. He finishes his bite, his jaw tensing like it's hard to swallow.

"Do you?" he asks, the air between you shifting into something heavy. You adamantly shake your head, upset that he even felt he had to ask, "Of course not. I'm pretty sure I've been your alibi for almost every victim, Bucky," you let out what can only be described as an awkward attempt to laugh while trying to lighten the mood, but he's looking at you like what you say next could break him.

"But if you hadn't been… Would you believe that I was the killer? That I was capable of that?" He holds his breath waiting for your answer. The weight of what he's asking settles itself deep in your heart. He's asking you if you would ever believe him to be a cold-blooded killer. Someone who kills for the sake of it and not with a morally just reason behind it. Bucky's past is no secret to you. He's been open and honest about everything from the moment you gained his trust. You would never take that for granted by believing him to be someone as cruel and ruthless like the Brooklyn Ripper.

You lock gazes with Bucky, needing him to clearly see the truth in your heart, "No. I would never think that of you, Bucky. I swear." The conviction in your voice eases the fear in Bucky's heart, feeling like he can breath again. He finds solace in the color of your eyes, and after a moment, the air shifts back to something comfortable—familiar.

"Why was I even brought up in the first place?" He wonders, and you wish you would've paid attention earlier to give him an exact answer, "I'm not sure. My mind was elsewhere when Carol and John were talking. It wasn't until they mentioned you that I started to listen. I think they were throwing around ideas for suspects since Rumlow isn't talking."

"Still? Let me guess, Pierce keeps covering his ass?"

"More like sending us on a witch hunt every time we want to ask a question or collect a piece of evidence. He impedes every step of the case with legal jargon."

He grunts, having firsthand knowledge of how Alexander Pierce operates, "Just say the word and I'll delete all the files on his computer—for fun."

"You wouldn't."

"If you asked me to I would."

The temptation to make Pierce's life a bit harder is difficult to brush off, "I'm not going to tell you what to do, but I'm also not going to tell you what not to do." The mischief that makes its way to his face is impossible to miss.

You're halfway through the pasta in your bowl when you've had enough of the conversations involving you, "Anyway, enough about my work, anything new in yours?"

"Not really. Same old boring I.T. stuff," he waves it off like it's not even worth mentioning.

"How's Sam?"

"Still a pain in my ass."

You playfully bump his shoulder with yours, "Stop it, he's not that bad," his face deadpans at your defense of his coworker, "Sam's nice. He gave me the recipe to his grandma's pecan pie when he came over for my birthday dinner."

"Yeah, cause he's a kiss ass," he grouses, nose scrunched up in annoyance. You giggle, watching as Alpine jumps onto Bucky's lap, her head butting his abdomen in an attempt to ease her dad's grumpiness.

The bubble of serenity surrounding you bursts at the sharp and sudden sound of your ringtone. Your stomach lurches with a sense of dread, losing all its appetite. You know there's only one person that can be calling this late.

Bucky utters your name like a silent plea for you to ignore the call and go back to how you were, but you're not listening. You're already up from your seat when he says it, walking over to your bag, and picking up the phone.

"The Brooklyn Ripper struck again."

And just like that, your night takes a turn for the worst.

Bucky feels helpless sitting at the kitchen table, watching as your face falls to something grave as Fury relates to you the details of everything he knows about the most recent victim. There's not much he knows, so he's sending you the location of the crime scene for you to investigate.

The call is over before you know it. You start packing your stuff, needing to head out to the scene of the crime as soon as possible.

"I have to go. There's been another murder."

"Let me go with," Bucky knows you'll turn him down, but he offers anyway. The wooden chair scrapes against the kitchen floor when he stands up, striding over to where you're standing. He knows there's nothing he can say to make the situation better, but at least he can try to do something—be helpful.

You shake your head, looking over at him with eyes that say I wish you could, "It's not a good idea, Bucky. The White Wolf is still on the suspect list and as long as Hydra is connected in some way, you'd only be putting yourself at risk for exposure." Against his better judgment, he pushes the topic, "I don't care if Hydra finds out that I'm in the city or if the FBI figures out who I am. I only care that you're safe."

You swallow hard, the depth of what he's saying not getting lost on you. You need him to understand the sentiment is mutual, "Bucky, I would never forgive myself if you were found out because of me. I care about your safety too and I'm not letting you fall back into the clutches of Hydra for my sake," you stand firm on your decision, "Let's just stick to what we usually do. I go out into the field and you stay here listening in on the Hydra communications and checking the databases for all the information on the victim," you instruct, leaving no room for argument. He had no choice but to listen.

"I don't like this," he says like it's painful to watch you go. "I know, and I'm sorry, but that's just the way things have to go," you remind him solemnly, not able to look him in the eye while heading towards the door. Two bowls of unfinished dinner going cold at the kitchen table.

Alpine meows beside Bucky almost as if to say goodbye or stay, you weren't sure. You couldn't meet her eyes either.

"See you later, Buck."

"See you."

The door clicks shut behind you.

It take you about twenty minutes to arrive at the crime scene. You mask your face with indifference as you walk past the vultures who call themselves the media. It's like at the first spill of blood they can scent it in the air—scrambling to get a headline instead of seeing it for what it is.

Someone has lost their life today in a brutal way. The least the media could do is have the decency to offer the family privacy and the chance to find out the devastating news from the proper channels and not through a social media post.

You ignore their existence, eyes darting to the buildings surrounding the crime scene to try and locate any cameras. The Brooklyn Ripper is smart enough to avoid them, usually placing the bodies in blind spots if there are any. He always kills the victim in one location and then drops it in another, meticulously staging it so the only clues you find are in the victim's autopsy.

If there are any camera's around, Bucky is probably looking through them right now. You sent him the location Fury gave you as soon as you got into your car. He's probably sulking as he watches from afar instead of at your side. You feel a strange sense of comfort wash over you at the thought of Bucky watching your back through the cameras. It helps knowing there's someone looking out for you with a case this severe on your hands. You hope Bucky understands you look out for him too—in your own way.

You pass by the buzz of local news station reporters, and a small crowd of people forming at the sight of law enforcement. You flash your badge to the NYPD officer keeping the reporters at bay, and he lets you pass the yellow crime scene tape. Like all the other crime scenes, nothing seems to be special about this one for the killer to have picked it. It's your average looking alley, tucked ominously between scattered operating businesses on the almost vacant street. It's late enough that most businesses are closed and the streetlights offer but a sliver of light to enter. There's a metallic bleach like scent that hits you almost at the same time that the foul odor of the garbage from the bins does. It's potent enough to be aware of it, but not enough to bother you. You've smelled worse in this line of work.

You carefully make your way over to the black tarp covering the victim's body. The chief medical examiner, Dr.Helen Cho, is discussing something with one of the members of the crime scene unit when you approach. There's about a handful of the unit here collecting all the evidence they can find.

You know if the presence of Dr.Cho was warranted, then there's no doubt who the culprit of this murder is.

"Dr.Cho, did she have the markings?" you inquire, cutting straight to the point. Dr.Cho nods grimly, beckoning you to come and see for yourself. "An off duty officer found her. He was in a drunken stupor when he stumbled his way out of the bar from a few doors down and ended up here. He claims to have sobered up when he saw the body." She hands you a pair of evidence gloves. You slip them on, bracing yourself for what you're going to find.

"He called the FBI tip line when he saw her neck," Dr.Cho crouches down to carefully lift the tarp from the victim's face. You follow suit, crouching down beside her to get a better look. At first glance you notice the way she's laying in a sleeping beauty pose, no blood on her clothes or hair. She looks like she was heading somewhere nice, having no idea of the end that was awaiting her. But most damning of all is the wound on her neck, fitting the Brooklyn Ripper's M.O..

There was an end to end gash along the front of her neck that would indicate it was sliced open. However, when you look closer you can see the swelling and faintest marks of bruising underneath the skin of the wound. A slight deformity that Dr.Cho is sure to conclude happened prior to the slicing. A slice that was clean and precise, with little blood around it. It wasn't done in the heat of the moment or with abruptness. It was done because he needed to do it, not because he wanted to. Without a shadow of a doubt when the victim is transported for an autopsy, Dr.Cho will find she died of a broken neck.

The slicing was done as a cover up.

"I'm confident enough to say the Brooklyn Ripper did this," you conclude solemnly, scanning the alley as Dr.Cho covers the victim again. "Let me guess, there's no evidence the victim was murdered here, is there?" Dr.Cho shakes her head, lips pursing at the lack of evidence. "There are no blood splatters, footprints, or any other indicators that anyone else had been here besides her. The only organic matter we have apart from the trash in the bins is the vomit from the officer who found her body. Other than that, everything else is staged as usual. The victim was laid on the ground in a sleeping beauty pose with her belongings tucked at her side. Her purse seems to have everything in it, but the phone is missing, same as the other victims."

After Dr.Cho recaps the evidence, you ask for the purse. Once you have it you search it and find a few packs of gum, lip gloss, a pocket mirror, some miscellaneous receipts and bits of trash, and what you were looking for—her wallet. You take it out, reading over her ID for the basic information.

Beth Johnson, twenty eight, born on October 10th—her birthday had been last Friday.

You swallow the lump in your throat with a regret you're in no place to have.

Inside the wallet you find a few dollar bills, a debit card and a couple credit cards, but what stands out to you most are two things tucked away behind her ID.

The first item, a polaroid picture of the victim hugging a child in her arms. They share the same smile and fluff of blonde hair. The words Toby's fourth birthday, are written on it in blue marker.

The second item, Alexander Pierce's business card.

You waste no time calling Fury after that, informing him of all the details you knew so far. This was now the second woman to die under your watch, and the eighth woman the Brooklyn Ripper has taken overall. You weren't going to drag your feet in this investigation.

Fury was livid. He hated feeling like someone got the upper hand on him and this war with Hydra was driving him up the wall. He made it clear he wanted you back at the bureau as soon as possible. He was going to call in John and Lamar for an emergency conference and he would be seriously considering formally connecting both the Hydra and Brooklyn Ripper cases once and for all. There's too much overlapping evidence for him to not start connecting them.

You let Fury know you'd be there as soon as you were done at the crime scene before hanging up the call. You take a picture of the victim's ID and the polaroid in case it comes in handy later. You then hand all the victim's belongings to the crime scene unit to be put away in evidence bags.

You step away from the crime scene, letting the crime scene unit finish their job without you hovering. You converse with a couple of the NYPD officers to help them locate the next of kin to deliver them the tragic news. It wasn't until it was absolutely certain that you weren't needed that you walk back to your car, pass the police tape and away from the reporters yelling at you for a chance at an interview.

Your hand grips the handle of the driver's side door tightly, your heart and mind an entangled mess of emotions, blurring the lines between personal and professional. It was never this complicated when you worked in counterterrorism. It was second nature to detach yourself in that unit, but in this one? You can't avoid it.

Before you step into your car, it starts to drizzle. You look up at the night sky and manage to spot a traffic camera on a streetlight.

The sight of it brings you comfort.

"You seem to conveniently neglect the decision my client has made to remain silent over these preposterous accusations."

"I recognize the decision, but given that it's a stupid ass decision—I've elected to ignore it."

Nick Fury and Alexander Pierce have been going at it for over half an hour, not letting Brock Rumlow get a word in—not that Pierce ever does anyway. He sits in the metal folding chair opposite you in the interrogation room, eyes glued to the table. His shoulders droop like he's about to fall asleep and his face is resting in a look that can only be described as pure boredom.

You've been studying him the entire time you've been in here, your role as the good cop meant you couldn't push and get on their bad side like Fury was doing now. But there's only so much rapport building you can take until you eventually break. Having to refrain from spilling all the questions and accusations you keep behind tightly sealed lips can only hold for so long.

There's a knock at the door that breaks Fury from his rant. He strides over to the door, and Rumlow takes this brief moment without him to make eye contact with you. It's only for a split second, but the challenge you saw there was unmissable.

He's daring you to make a move—to show your hand. He's been in plenty of interrogation rooms with you to know you're both tired of this game.

You want to get to the truth.

Special Agent Lamar Hopkins is on the other side of the door, discussing something with Fury and handing him a folder with what you assume is evidence from the case against Hydra. Pierce whispers something in Rumlow's ear while Fury shuts the door. He makes his way back to your side, opens the evidence folder, and plasters a multitude of pictures on the table for everyone to see.

It's pictures of Rumlow and the victim, all taken from seemingly harmless and innocent interactions. Rumlow helping her into a car, passing by her at a nightclub, leading her into an office, dropping her off at home, and many more. There's nothing necessarily incriminating in them, but the twitch in Rumlow's jaw is a blatant tell this struck a nerve with him.

"We can go in circles all damn day if you want, but I'm more interested in what the hell you were doing being seen with the victim so many damn times. And these pictures, they're just from this month," Fury drops another two dozen pictures on the table, "these are from the last four months."

Pierce scoffs, swiping his hand in the air in dismissal of the evidence, "This is ridiculous. My client can be seen with all employees at some point on any given day, this doesn't prove anything. This is a reach and you know it." Fury slams his hand on the desk, "Is it? Because from where I'm standing, it seems to me like she's another woman who was last seen with your client that ends up dead." The brash accusation cuts through the tension like a knife, and you can tell it's testing Pierce's patience on another level.

But more than anything, it severs your willingness to continue the good cop bad cop play.

"Brock, if you didn't do this, then I need you to help us here. Look at her," you take out your phone, having had enough of this endless back and forth. All eyes are on you as you slide the picture of the victim and her son in front of Rumlow. He looks down at it, but you get no reaction from him at the photo.

"Beth, she had a son, Toby. I'm sure you already knew that, maybe even knew him. Last Friday, she and her family celebrated her twenty eighth birthday, and now she's gone. In a few hours, Toby will wake up and ask his grandparents where his mother is, and they won't know what to say to him. It'll be awhile before he understands his mom is gone and never coming back. She won't be there for his future birthdays, she won't be taking him trick or treating on Halloween, having dinner with him at Thanksgiving or Christmas. When the new year comes in, he'll have to welcome it without her," Rumlow bites the inside of his cheek—this is good, you got him to react. "I don't care about what the FBI wants. I just care about him," you point to little Toby in the picture, "I care about giving him answers and catching the bastard who took his mom away from him." There's a conviction to your voice that clearly drives the message home.

For once, Rumlow beats Pierce to speak.

"You ain't got to worry about the kid. She was one of us, we take care of our own—including him," Rumlow's voice is rough with disuse, but at the very least you finally got him talking. You plead with your eyes, leaning in as a calculated sign of trust, "But he still deserves answers. I know there's something you could tell me that'll help me here." Rumlow looks at you with something that's close to pity, "Sorry, honey, don't know anything that could help. And as for finding the guy, I'm sure you're more than capable of it." He grins smugly, like he's doing you a favor with the half compliment. Irritation make its way up your body, hands eager to take action, but you can't. Instead, you give Rumlow a look like you're disappointed in him, but your eyes tell the full story. And his, it's like they're taunting you with the words cut the bullshit. It's clear you don't trust each other. Everything either of you do or say is done with ulterior motives.

Neither of you will get the full truth from each other any time soon.

"Alright, are we done here?" Pierce spits out in indignation, but Fury mocks him with an ardent laugh. "Not even close. You might as well start getting comfortable in here. Excuse us for a moment." With those parting words, Fury escorts you out of the interrogation room. Outside, John and Lamar stand on the other side of the two way mirror, having been listening in the whole time.

There's only a brief acknowledgment between you with an exchange of glances before Fury starts speaking. "I want you three to go to the main conference room and start operating as if we're connecting the Brooklyn Ripper case and the Hydra one. Agent Hill has already supplied it with with the evidence files from both cases. There's a few protocols I have to follow before I can officially connect them, but when I'm done I want you two," he points to John and Lamar, "to take a round interrogating Rumlow. You have a deeper rapport with those two, so I'll be counting on you both to get something useful out of them. In the meantime, exchange notes to prepare for the interrogation, and you," Fury turns to you, "as soon as you're done filling Hopkins and Walker in on your case—go home. You've done a great job tonight, but I'll need you rested and ready tomorrow for what comes next." You know better than to argue with him, so you bite your tongue and reply with a clear, "Yes, sir."

He turns and walks off, leaving you three to head to the conference room.

"What a way to end our Monday, right?" Lamar breaks the silence between you awkwardly. You let out an uncomfortable sound you try to pass for a broken laugh, "Yeah, you could say that…" You know he means well by the question, but it doesn't sit right in the space between you, falling flat.

"This didn't ruin any plans did it?" John cuts in curiously, directing his question at you, disrupting the discomfort in the air. You shake your head, a pang in your chest when you think about Bucky watching you leave. "Just dinner," you say it with a somberness you hadn't intended, so you quickly add, "but I'm sure you're more disappointed about your date being cut short. And I bet Mrs.Hopkins isn't any happier about Lamar getting called back to work." Your last statement brings out a small chuckle out of both men, and the sheepish expression on Lamar's face is confirmation enough that you're right.

"My date wasn't really going well, so I don't mind being called in. I don't think she'll be calling back for another, so I appreciate work keeping me busy," John admits, voice laced with self deprecation as you enter the main conference room. The table in the middle already stacked with files from both cases, just like Fury had said. You take a seat next to John when Lamar mutters something about a delivery and walks back out. You feel sympathy for your friend, the dating scene is hard enough, you can't imagine what it must be like navigating it as a divorced father.

Before you can second guess yourself, you place a comforting hand on his shoulder, he meets your eyes at the gesture, "Hey, don't let it get to you. I don't think many of us have a good track record with dating. I mean I think it comes with the job. I'm sure the right woman for you is right around the corner." Your words seem to strike a chord with him, the corner of his lip tugging, "Thanks. I'm sure she is."

He doesn't look away from you when he says that.

Before you can fully wrap your head around any deeper meanings, Lamar walks in with a pizza box in his hands. The strong scent of pepperoni pizza distracts you, your hand falling from John's shoulder like it never belonged there in the first place. Lamar is none the wiser, putting the pizza box in the center of the table and sitting across from both of you.

"I thought we'd need it for the long night ahead of us—coffee's already brewing in the break room," Lamar adds and you both utter a thank you. You try to brush off whatever just happened, even though a strange air lingers in the space between you. Even. Carol's voice echoes in the back of your head with a boisterous I told you so.

She's going to have a field day with this when you tell her.

There's an orange piece of paper that suddenly slips off the pizza box when Lamar opens it. You reach for it out of reflex, the big bold letters in black contrasting with the pumpkin orange background catching your eye.

FOR TWO WEEKS ONLY—THE CARNIVAL OF TERROR IS BACK IN THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS.

"My oldest loved going last year. I'm taking the whole family again this year," Lamar comments when he notices you reading the flyer. The nostalgia hits you hard, "How nice. I remember when my dad used to take me to these things when I was little. Those memories stick with you forever." You have to pull yourself back from drowning in a sea of memories you'll get lost in. From the past, from memories you used to hold close to your heart, to happier moments you used to give yourself the grace to experience.

To the person you used to be before this case ever landed in your hands.

You shake those thoughts away, hands gravitating to grab your phone. You're not sure what for at first, not until you open your text messages and click on your conversation with Bucky. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, typing up a quick text letting him know you'll be staying at the bureau for a bit. You're not sure what time you'll be getting out of here and you'd hate to have him waiting around for you. His response comes not even a minute later.

Okay, doll. Let me know if you need anything.

Will do. Goodnight, Bucky. Give Alpine a goodnight kiss from me. <3

What about mine? :(

You can't hold back the smile that forms after reading that text.

Have Alpine give it to you for me x

Fine. But yours would have been better. Goodnight.

"Is that your boyfriend?"

Lamar's question makes your head break away from your phone, mouth slightly parted as you blink at him. "What?" A boyish grin appears on his face, eyes crinkling like he's discovered a secret, "Your boyfriend. That's who you're texting, right? No one smiles at their phone like that unless it's someone special on the other end." You find yourself unsure of how to respond because while Bucky may not be your boyfriend, it feels wrong to deny he isn't someone special to you.

Lamar takes your silence as a yes.

John shifts uncomfortably in his seat, harshly clearing his throat, "I think that's enough small talk, we should focus on the case," his words slash through the silence, causing you to nod in agreement. You need to focus on what you're supposed to be doing—updating these two on everything you know about the Brooklyn Ripper case, so they can go back to interrogate Brock Rumlow.

It's gonna be a long night.

The next morning when you wake up, the sun is at its highest point in the sky. You manage to find the energy to slip out of bed and into the shower. The water cascades down your body in an attempt to wake you, but it does little to help. You continue your morning routine, nevertheless, putting on a hoodie and pajama bottoms before you make your way to the kitchen. Much to the dismay of the rumble in your stomach, your fridge is empty of everything—even leftovers. You also can't remember the last time you went grocery shopping.

Just as you've resigned yourself to brew a batch of instant coffee for breakfast, there's a knock on your door that stops you. On the other side is Bucky with containers of food in his hands.

"Good morning," you greet him with a lazy smile, trying not to make it obvious you're staring at the way his muscles strain against his workout shirt. He chuckles, eyes raking over your hoodie with a twinkle in them, "Good afternoon, doll. I brought over some leftover pasta from yesterday. Thought you'd be hungry and have no food in your fridge."

You step aside to welcome him in, one word in particular catching your attention, "Afternoon? Wait, how did you know I was awake?"

"Thin walls," he shrugs like that explains everything, "Didn't hear anything all morning, so I figured you slept in." He looks at your hoodie again, "Is that my hoodie?"

You still, looking down at the dark gray hoodie on your body. You know it's not yours, but you're in no mood to give it back, "No." You don't sound convincing, and the gleam in his eyes tells you he's thoroughly enjoying this. You cross your arms, dropping the subject all together, "There's no way I slept in, I don't do that."

You glance behind Bucky at the clock on the wall. It's already noon.

You overslept.

He gently taps your nose to get your attention before you start worrying about what you missed, "Don't be so hard on yourself. Oversleeping is not the end of the world. Just let your boss know what's going on while I get lunch ready, okay?" He heads over to your kitchen like he belongs in that space, the lingering comfort of his gentle tone stays with you as you walk to your room to grab your phone. You notice you have a couple missed calls from Carol, so you send her a quick text before sending Fury an apology and letting him know you'll be at the bureau later. Almost immediately he tells you there's no need, John and Lamar have already done the interview with Beth's parents and are currently following leads from it. So instead he orders you to continue with the routine protocol you follow after the victim's family has been interviewed.

Meaning, it's time for the stakeout.

You head back to the kitchen, a bowl of pasta already waiting for you. You sit on a stool at the kitchen island and Bucky joins you on the stool beside you. "Care to fill me in on last night?" He asks and you do, filling him in on the investigation, the victim, the interrogation with Rumlow and Pierce, and your conference with John and Lamar—excluding the part where you might've lead them to believe Bucky is your boyfriend.

You didn't feel that was necessary to include.

"So I guess I'll have to start co-investigating the Brooklyn Ripper case with the Hydra one," you reiterate, looking down at the bowl of pasta like it held answers to the gut feeling you couldn't shake off.

"You don't seem happy about that," Bucky points out, and you sigh, suddenly not feeling hungry anymore. "It's not that I'm not happy about it. Something just doesn't feel right," you can't find the exact words to describe what about it feels wrong. You feel like you're missing a big piece of the puzzle—maybe one of the most crucial pieces—and not being able to pinpoint it is eating away at you.

"I think I know what you mean. Last night, I went through all of Hydra's communications, but the only time the case was mentioned was when they took in Brock for questioning," Bucky mentions while you move the pasta in your bowl absentmindedly before you reply. "I don't doubt he's done some terrible things. I can see it in his eyes—the look of someone who could care less who lives or dies as long as he gets paid enough to do it. But I don't think he did this. If it is someone at Hydra doing this—it's not him."

Bucky nods in agreement, "Brock's been an asshole since the day I met him, but Hydra wouldn't make their golden boy do this. They'd have someone else do it. Like one of the other Winter Soldiers they recruited when I left." The reminder tastes like acid on his tongue, his jaw clenches, eyes glossing over with the ghosts of his past. Your hand reaches out to gently hold his wrist, the metal cold to your touch and yet it brings him the kind of warmth only you seem to provide him.

"Maybe," you give his wrist a light squeeze, he turns his metal hand over to hold yours, like he needs it to anchor him, "but I have a feeling no matter who the suspect is, the answer lies with the first three women the Brooklyn Ripper killed. The ones without any connections to Hydra."

"The ones the NYPD screwed up embarrassingly?"

"Yeah, those. It was like they had never worked a homicide before. By the time me and Laura were put on the case none of the families wanted to talk, so Fury instructed us to prioritize the most recent victims instead. But even those victims don't make complete sense. They all worked for Hydra, sure, but in different sections for different people—like they were chosen at random. An assistant, an exotic dancer, a housekeeper, a working girl, and the most recent, a club waitress. Asking anyone at Hydra is a dead end, the families won't talk to us, and we always end up with very little to go on. It just feels like were on a wild goose chase while that bastard chooses his next victim," this time Bucky gives your hand a steady squeeze when your frustration gets the better of you.

"Hey, we're gonna get this guy. He might be smart at covering up his tracks, but he's bound to slip up—they always do. And when he does, we'll catch it and get him. Don't forget we're a team, doll. The killer doesn't know you have a Hydra expert on your side, and that is your upper hand," his little pep talk does wonders to reignite that spark of hope in you.

"Let's hope he slips up sooner rather than later," you add before looking at your phone. It's almost time.

"Thanks for lunch, Bucky. I don't mean to cut this short, but I gotta get going."

"Are you heading to the bureau?"

You shake your head, "No, I'm heading out to do a stakeout. Gotta get some pictures for evidence, some protocol Fury wants me to follow. It's usually John and Lamar that go, but they're busy following some leads so Fury's sent me instead." Bucky nods, getting up from the stool, "I'm coming with." You open your mouth to protest, but he shakes his head firmly, "Nothing you say will make me back down from this one. I couldn't be there yesterday, but there's no reason I can't be in the car with you this time."

He's right, there really is no issue with him coming with you this time, and truthfully you feel safer knowing he'd be there.

"Fine. But this is my case, so you follow my lead, alright?"

A cheeky grin grows on his stupidly handsome face, "Yes, ma'am."

"I can't believe you brought Alpine along," you laugh incredulously as Alpine gets out of her carrier and makes herself comfortable on a blanket Bucky fluffed out in the backseat for her. He scratches the back of his neck, before he explains, "She's got separation anxiety." Your eyes dart to Alpine, then to him, and then back to her, holding back a burst of giggles, "She's got separation anxiety?"

"Yeah, she can't stand being away from me for too long."

"Sure, Bucky."

"I swear, doll."

"I'm sure you do."

Bucky's deadpan expression does little to nothing to stop you from laughing. Even Alpine is looking at her dad like don't put this on me.

You and Bucky have been sitting in your car for about fifteen minutes. You're stationed in a parking lot of a small general store a few houses down and across from where Beth Johnson's residence is. It's a quaint brownstone, a little beat up on the outside, but homey nonetheless. The victim lived there with her parents and her four year old son Tobias, or Toby as she called him. If Hydra follows the same pattern, then like the last four victims, Alexander Pierce would come around offering financial restitution for the families. The money in exchange for their silence.

John and Lamar already had the initial interview with the victim's parents, so all there was left to do is wait. A camera laying patiently in your lap for the moment Pierce makes his appearance.

"You're doing it again," Bucky's voice breaks you from your thoughts. You turn to him, even when he attempts to cover his face with a baseball cap and hoodie, his eyes give away just how handsome he is beneath it all. It's unfair.

"What am I doing?"

"Staring holes into something like it'll give you answers if you look at it hard enough," his perceptiveness never fails to make you feel small. As if he could unravel all your secrets and vulnerabilities like it were nothing. You attempt to assure him with a smile that everything's okay, but it doesn't reach your eyes. He looks at you like he wants to help you, but he doesn't know how.

"It's just, this all feels like a waste of time. Sitting here for who knows how long to snap a couple of pictures when we could be doing something else instead. Maybe even find a proper lead for once, one that'll lead us to the actual killer," you hate feeling like a sitting duck. Like you have to wait for the evidence to come to you instead of going and getting it yourself.

"You don't agree with Fury sending you here," he says it as a statement, not a question.

"I don't. We already know what's going to happen. Getting a few pictures won't make Pierce or Rumlow talk. It won't even get the family to cooperate. So what's the point?" You fidget with the settings on the camera mindlessly.

"If the killer is a part of Hydra then it's important to get proof of every shady deal they've made to protect him."

"And if he isn't?"

He mulls it over, "Then it's even more important. That could mean he's been manipulating the evidence in his favor and making it seem like Hydra's behind it."

That's a possibility you hadn't really considered because who could possibly be stupid enough to cross Hydra like that?

You think back to the list of possible suspects excluding Bucky: Frank Castle, Logan Howlett, Wade Wilson, and Brock Rumlow. You recall the details you know of them, but none of them seem to be the kind to place the blame on someone else. Some of them take credit for their kills proudly while others are only on the list because they fit the military profile the Brooklyn Ripper's alleged to have. Plus, Bucky's already done extensive background checks into every single one of these men. If there was something that could've pointed you in their direction, Bucky would've found it already.

"If he is covering his tracks by putting the blame on Hydra, I wonder why they haven't caught him? He's a liability whether he's part of them or not."

Bucky takes your question into consideration, "It's hard to believe they wouldn't know who the guy is by now. If he wasn't one of them they'd have no problem getting rid of him. But if he is one of them, then they either know who it is and he's too high up in the ranks to cut him loose or they have no idea who the killer among them is," Bucky theorizes and you add, "It could be why they're giving the victim's family hush money disguised as charity. It keeps them quiet long enough for them to try and figure out who it is before the FBI does."

You feel like you're going in circles with the same set of clues, turning them over and over again as if eventually they'll give you a different result. You fall forward, gently resting your head on the steering wheel, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. You just need a moment to collect your thoughts. The first few days on a new murder investigation can always be the hardest, so you just need to pick yourself up and move forward.

Bucky places his hand on your back, drawing soothing circles in the space between your shoulders. Your body gravitates towards his touch, leaning into it. "You have shown more effort and dedication on this case than anyone previously assigned to it did. I know you're not used to dealing with victims and families on a personally. You feel every loss on a human level, and that's your strength. It means you're not giving up til the end and you should be proud of yourself for that. I know I am."

Sometimes you remind Bucky of his younger self. The one who had to come to terms that evil exists in this world as the blood on his hands grew. The one who had to make a deal with the devil in exchange for his family's salvation.

He had to pull himself out of a very dark place years ago. He'd make sure you'd never fall into it like he did.

You lift your head from the steering wheel, turning it to lay the side of your face against it. You don't know what to say, but you manage to whisper out a small thank you. You didn't know how badly you needed to hear those words until you heard them. It's hard to not feel out of your element when you're not used to this. You rarely had one on one interactions with victims or families when you worked in counterterrorism. Working in national security was miles away from what you've experienced in this case in the last seven months.

His hand slides up to cup your cheek, his thumb softly caressing it. "Always," he whispers the promise in an oath to you, and the sincerity in his eyes causes you to let out a soft gasp. It's like if you search his eyes hard enough for something you've been searching for all your life, you'll find it.

Alpine suddenly jumps onto the center console, startling you both. You both pull away as if you've been caught doing something wrong, while Alpine stares at something ahead meowing at it. When you follow her line of sight you're surprised to see a black Rolls-Royce pulling up to the victim's residence. You quickly reach for the camera and start taking pictures. "Remind me to bring her along to the next stakeout," you say in awe that Alpine caught that. A few clicks of the camera later and sure enough, Alexander Pierce steps out of the car along with a couple bodyguards.

"Good girl," Bucky praises Alpine as she jumps onto his lap waiting for a proper thank you. He chuckles under his breath, muttering something about how spoiled she is before giving her the attention she wants. He steals a glance at you while you take pictures of the license plate, finding beauty in no matter what you do.

Alpine meows in his lap, as if questioning her dad why he hasn't made a proper move yet. He pets her fur in thought, wishing he could give her an answer as to why.

The days go by in a blur of paperwork and evidence files until the weekend is but a shift way. You've spent the last couple of days studying the Hydra case, familiarizing yourself with it now that Fury has merged your case with it. As expected, after Pierce visited Beth's parents they stopped cooperating with the FBI, claiming they had no further information to share that could help the case.

Having a team to work with had its pros and cons. On one hand, it was nice to bounce ideas off of John or Lamar, and to have someone to go to when you were stuck on a piece of evidence. However, having to report and update them whenever you wanted to do something and needing a majority vote to go through with it—well, let's just say you had a good idea how the rest of the investigations were going to go and you didn't like it.

You were currently in the bureau's record room, returning some of the files you pulled out of evidence in place of taking others. John and Lamar were somewhere in New York investigating a lead in the Hydra case. You felt like you were between a rock and a hard place—not wanting to step on anyone's toes, but also not really seeing yourself fitting in with that duo.

Both of them did things by the book, followed all the rules with no exceptions. They never pushed the boundaries or took risks to get to the truth. It's why they were one of Fury's favorite pairs. He never had to do any extra paperwork or pull any favors to save their asses.

But you? You were secretly working with a vigilante. One wanted by the very institution you work for. If John or Lamar were to find out, you have no doubt in your mind they would turn you in.

You take out your access ID and place it up against the card reader to access the files. You're sorting through them, exchanging some of the ones you had when something on the screen catches your eye.

There's a name that stands out in the history list of who last accessed files for the Brooklyn Ripper and Hydra cases. There beside your name, John and Lamar's is Carol's. You frown at the sight. Why would she need to have accessed them? You don't remember the Punisher case having anything to do with either of those cases.

You make a mental note to ask her about it later.

Back at you desk, you sit in it for another hour looking through files until you can't take the lack of action anymore. There's one lead you have been thinking of pursuing, but you know if you brought it up to John, Lamar, or Fury—they'd all shoot the idea down.

It's a good thing none of them are in the building right now, right?

Beth Johnson used to work as a waitress in Hydra's nightclub The Red Skull. It's owned by the head of the organization, Johann Schmidt, and he uses it as a hub for a lot of Hydra's operations. A logical step to take with that information is to question the people who work there for anything they might know of the victim that could help uncover her killer. The problem? The couple of times John and Lamar have been able to make it past security to question people inside, have only ended with guns drawn the moment they figure out they work for the FBI.

But you, there's only a couple of people that could recognize you, you're not really on Hydra's radar. They don't even know you're part of the Hydra case now. Armed with all the knowledge you've acquired from these files and Bucky's stories, you could go undercover. Find one of the weak links, maybe a friend of Beth's and prod at them until they crack and tell you something you could use.

This is risky, but exactly the kind of action you were hoping to take. No one could find out you were going, not even Bucky. If he found out you were going into the lion's den he'd have a heart attack or insist on going with you, and you'd never agree to that. You're not letting Hydra take him from you as selfish as that sounds.

You were on your own for this one—what's new?

You couldn't go home and change into something more appropriate for a club because if Bucky saw you walking out in a skimpy outfit and heels he'd most certainly question where the hell you were going. You might have to pull a favor with your friend Ava Starr, the head of the undercover and sensitive operations unit at the FBI.

Before you can back out of the plan, you head to her office. She greets you when she sees you, but narrows her eyes at you when she sees your suspicious demeanor.

"Hey, remember when you almost fumbled the Skrulls operation until I stepped in and saved your ass?" You bring up a memory from last year from an undercover operation you did in the counterterrorism division alongside Ava and others. She had made the wrong call and almost put the entire team in jeopardy, but an improvised plan from you saved the day and her job.

"Yeah… Thanks for the reminder," the sarcasm drips from her lips as they pull into a thin line. You close her office door so only she can hear what you say next, "I'm here to cash in that favor."

"Do I want to know for what?"

"It's best you don't."

She gives you a hard look. As your friend, she wants to pry and find out exactly what she's helping you do, but on the other hand, she believes in you and knows if you're telling her she shouldn't know then she won't question it.

"Alright, come on then. Tell me what you need."

By the late afternoon you're inside The Red Skull. Ava had done an amazing job with the makeover, giving you a sparkly black mini dress to wear with skin colored tights underneath. The dress itself was pretty, but stubborn on clinging so tightly to your body that every curve of it is on display. She caked your face in makeup, something subtle yet fitting for a night at the club. You hadn't recognized yourself when you looked in the mirror, but that was a good thing. The more unrecognizable you were, the better.

The only things you weren't used to were the false lashes on your eyes and the size of the heels on your feet. You can't remember the last time you got all dolled up like this, much less the last time you wore shoes that weren't your work ones. You felt like a baby deer learning how to walk for the first time.

To lower the chances of getting caught, you left your FBI badge in your car, keeping the items in your purse simple except for the gun that rests inside for your safety. You weren't sure you were going to make it past security at first. However, you managed to sneak in by flirting with some college guy who was there with a large group of people. You walked with them in line, avoiding being carded by sneaking in as part of their group. You ended up having to follow them to some booth in the back by the dance floor, but you were able to excuse yourself after a few minutes to go to the bathroom.

As soon as you step away you examine your surroundings. Scanning through the sea of people to locate all the entrances and exits, where the main office is, and where all the employee rooms are. The boom of the bass from the speakers shakes the room, the lights and music bounce off the walls, making you feel the liveliness of the party on every inch of your skin. The smell of alcohol, smoke, and substances much worse permeate the air into a toxic cloud you have to be careful not to inhale in too deeply.

You had a handful of people in mind you wanted to approach before you came in. The club itself is too dark to make out a lot of the faces from afar, but you know for certain there's someone working the bar you might be able to get answers from. One of the bartenders, Pietro Maximoff, has a sister Wanda Maximoff who also works as a waitress in this club, just like Beth did. Wanda and the victim could have been friends, and you know her brother must be feeling extra protective after what happened to Beth.

It was all you had to go with to try and get some answers.

You saunter over to the bar, sitting on one of the seats across from Pietro when you locate him. His eyes land on you and he flashes you a charming smile that you return with ease, "What can I get for you, gorgeous?" You play up the charm with a flirty giggle, "Just a whiskey on the rocks, please." His eyebrows lift in pleasant surprise, "And here I thought a pretty girl like you would order one of those fruity drinks, something as sweet as you." He lays it on thick, probably hoping for a good tip. You look at him through your lashes, "What can I say? I'm full of surprises." He hums in approval, grabbing one of the bottles behind him to prepare your drink. Things seem to be going smoothly so far, even if your undercover skills and flirting tactics are a bit rusty.

"So what brings you here tonight? Waiting on someone?" He asks you while handing you your drink. You pretend to take a sip of it, shaking your head, "I'm not waiting on anyone. I'm looking for something." Your vagueness intrigues him. "Something or someone?" There's temptation dripping from his lips, the blue of his eyes stormy in a way that tries to pull you into them until they're the only thing you can look at.

Too bad you're not into blondes.

"Something," you repeat, giving him a sly smirk while reaching into your purse, "Something maybe you can give me." You've piqued his curiosity with that, and he watches your every move as you brush past the cool metal of the gun in your purse to take out your phone. You have to hope this doesn't backfire or things could get ugly real fast.

You unlock your phone, opening up your gallery to a picture, and turning it over so he gets a clear view of it.

A picture of Beth with her son Toby, the one from the polaroid.

His expression falls, an iciness to it that crawls up your spine when he sneers, "You're a fucking cop?" You keep your cool, shrugging nonchalantly, "I prefer to give you plausible deniability on that."

He scoffs, leaning forward on the bar table separating you. He's so close the iciness in his stare contrasts the heat of the anger that radiates off him, "So you are. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't get you kicked out of here—or worse?"

"Because I'm here for her," you grab your phone to put the picture back in his view, "I came for answers, and I know you can give me some." He avoids looking at the picture, it's like he can't stomach the thought of her being gone.

He clicks his tongue, "Stop acting like you care about Beth. You don't care about her, you don't care about any of them. You just want to get your job over with, maybe even get promoted."

"Olivia, Alice, Karli, Sharon, Ruby, Ophelia, Aida, and Beth," you list out the names of every single victim, catching him off guard. "I remember all of them. Each one of those women aren't an assignment to me, or some statistic I'll write in a report at the end of the year. Those women were like me. They were mothers, daughters, sisters, friends—they were people. And I have to go to bed every night knowing I've failed them." Your voice breaks at the end, opening an album on your phone to show him the images you've kept of every single victim. All pictures of happier snapshots of their life, reminding you who you're working so tirelessly for.

He takes a step back, staring at your phone like the pictures would haunt him if he stares at them for too long. "I need to get justice for these women. I want to give their families answers as to why this happened. I want the bastard to pay and face the consequences of what he's done."

You land on Beth's picture again and he looks away like it's too painful to see. "I can't help you, I—" you cut him off, "Wanda's your sister right? She works here as a waitress just like Beth did. They were probably friends, weren't they? What if she's next?"

He looks almost offended you would say that, "Don't say that. I'd never let that happen."

"I know you wouldn't. But I'm sure if you ask any one of the family members of these women they'd tell you the same. People always think something could never happen to them until it does. Wanda has you looking out for her, but this killer is smart and covers his tracks well. Your employers don't seem to give a damn about protecting the women working for them, so Wanda could very well become his next target."

"No, she wouldn't. I'd never let her get involved in that."

"Get involved in what?" Your question makes him realize what he said and he curses under his breath. "Please, just give me something I can investigate further. Do it for them, not for me." You show him the picture of Beth one last time before shutting your phone off, the bar was starting to get a bit crowded and you didn't want the wrong people finding out what you're discussing.

He takes a deep breath, searching your eyes for your true intentions. There's a genuineness there that makes him feel like he can trust you. He subtly scans the bar, taking your drink and pouring it out before getting you another one to blend in. He leans in close, resting himself on his arm on the bar table like he were having an intimate conversation with you.

"Hydra runs two escort services. The one you probably already know about is run by a madam named Agatha Harkness. It's mainly used for making easy money off of cheating husbands and other degenerates," he says this with distaste on his tongue, "Then there's the other one. Hydra keeps this one under wraps, the only evidence of it existing is if the women have any. It's used to blackmail important figures, government officials, world leaders—you name it." You're grateful the necklace Ava gave you is recording constant audio because he's giving you lots of crucial information.

"The madam that runs it is Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. She has her own escort service, but she integrates it with the Hydra one. There's only a small group of women from Hydra that work for her. She usually approaches girls that are in need of money, preys on them, and gives them loans in exchange for sleeping and dating whoever Hydra wants to get dirt on and under their control next. A few months ago we were hard on money and Valentina approached Wanda about joining, but I refused to let her," you can hear how protective he is of his sister in the way he speaks about her, "I picked up extra shifts at the bar instead. The only reason I know about this service is because my sister told me."

"There should still be some sort of digital footprint of all of this though, no?" You ask yourself more than him. If there was one, Bucky would've found it already. Pietro shrugs, "All I know is that it's super secret and no one openly talks about it. I picked a fight with my boss about it when Wanda was approached and he told me to drop it for both our sakes." You try to absorb all the information he's given you. It's a bit to take in at once, especially when there's multiple questions you want to ask you know he doesn't have the answer to.

He pulls away to get back to work when you go silent, "You're one of the good ones, I can tell. Cops usually look the other way when things happen to people like us."

Before you can respond, he glances at something behind you and curses under his breath, "You need to go—they know you're here." You pretend to take a swig of your drink, turning your head to see from the corner of your eye two big burly men whispering to each other while looking at you.

You reach into your purse to grab a couple of bills, with your business card tucked between them. You hand them to him, "Thank you for your help. I promise I won't stop until I get the guy. You and your sister stay safe, okay?" He takes the money and notices your card, slipping it into his pocket along with the bills. "We will. Now go, get out of here. There's an employees only exit down the hall from the bar. Take it."

You thank him for the tip, getting out of your seat as smoothly as possible to avoid further suspicion. You make it seem like you're heading towards the bathrooms, but using the line outside of them to slip between the people and cover yourself from being noticed taking the exit Pietro had suggested. You don't know if you're being followed, but you're not looking back to find out.

You're able to make it down the hall and to the exit, stepping out into the autumn rainy night. You find yourself in the alley at the back of the nightclub. You would have to walk about a block in the rain to your car. Luckily, it's only a light pour, so your view isn't obstructed.

You're about to head in the direction of where you parked when out of nowhere, someone grabs your arm. You swing your arm and hit them with your purse, the stranger calling out your name with a familiarity that causes you to still. You look over and hiding below a blue baseball cap is a pair of cerulean eyes you know all too well.

It's Bucky.

"Bucky? How are you here? How did you find me?" You're relieved to see him, even if a part of you doesn't believe he's right in front of you. "Did you seriously think you were going to fend off a possible attack with a little black purse?" He looks at you like he can't believe your first defensive move was a purse hit. Especially after everything he taught you.

"You caught me off guard. You're lucky I went with the purse and not my gun," you retort, watching the way Bucky's body is tense like he's prepared for anything. He lets go of your arm, shrugging off his jacket and placing it over your shoulders. "You're lucky the bouncers didn't search your purse before letting you in."

Seems like you were both favored by luck tonight.

"Let's get out of here, my car's a few blocks away," he says, grabbing a hold of your hand and pulling you in the opposite direction of where your car is parked.

"My car's closer, let's just take mine," you tell him, trying to keep up with his pace. He notices and slows down a step, "There's a lot we need to talk about, but there's still a possibility we might be followed, so just trust me and follow my lead, okay?" You nod, continuing your walk down the narrow street, one hand in his and the other holding his jacket close to your body. It smells like his cologne, a woodsy scent with a hint of leather.

You make it down the street just fine, but when you round the corner you can tell something's wrong by the way Bucky tightens his hold on your hand. He lets go of your hand in favor of wrapping your arm around his for a closer hold.

"Don't look behind us, but we're being followed. Just stick close, and try to keep up as best as you can," he whispers the instruction before picking up the pace. You balance your weight on your heels to keep up. You don't look back, but you can hear the slight thump of footsteps a few feet behind you.

Your heels click against the asphalt in time with the rhythm of your heartbeat. You lean into Bucky's side to steady yourself, the moisture on the ground from the rain making it harder for you to get stable footing. You don't question Bucky for every turn he makes, every street he crosses, or any shortcuts he takes. You're not exactly in the nicest part of the city, and you trust him to know his way around enough to get you back to safety.

The footsteps behind you never falter no matter how swift Bucky is at changing directions. The rain starts to pour down harder, lowering visibility and causing you to stumble. Bucky steadies you, taking off his baseball cap to place it on your head. You can see better now, and notice that you're headed toward a park.

The ground beneath you softens, and the trees make a decent shelter from the rain. Bucky turns his head to scan the area behind you and his shoulders relax. You're not being followed anymore.

Lightning strikes the sky before the world seems to shake from the thunder. Bucky leads you to a small wooden gazebo to catch your breath. Letting you go in first while he scans the park one last time. A breathy laugh escapes you, whether from the nerves or the adrenaline of being followed—you're not sure.

"You find this funny?" Bucky joins you under the shelter, water droplets falling from his hair after being smothered by rain. You frown, crossing your arms, "No, of course not. I get the severity of what just happened, the laugh just slipped out."

"What the hell were you even thinking back there? Do you understand what would've happened to you if I had arrived a second too late?" Bucky's voice shakes with a desperate anger, his eyes swimming with a despair that makes your heart squeeze in your chest. It's still trying to catch up from the run, and the look Bucky is giving you isn't helping.

"But nothing happened, Bucky. I'm okay," you assure him gently, like he's a frightened animal you're trying not to scare off. Bucky shakes his head, his eyes shining from the rain or with tears, you're not sure, but it's devastating either way.

"You're okay because I was there. If I hadn't been…" His voice trails off like it hurts to finish that sentence. He runs his hand through his hair with a frustrated huff, "God, the worst part is I know exactly what would've happened to you. And I would have had to live with that for the rest of my life."

You bridge the space between you, taking his hands into yours, "But nothing happened, Bucky. If something were to happen to me you can't put the blame on yourself like I'm your responsibility."

Your name leaves his lips with a longing that causes your heart to skip a beat, "You know that's not what this is about," he lets go of one of your hands to motion between you, "We can dance around this all you want until you're ready, but don't pretend like you don't know what you mean to me. I can't lose this. I can't lose you."

You feel an overwhelming surge of emotions you've held back for so long fight its way to the surface. You hate seeing how upset he is at the thought of losing you, but you get it. You'd be lost without him. And it would be the end of him if he lost the one person he opened up to after years of isolation and managed to make a part of him he thought was broken whole again—you.

You go to embrace him, needing to feel close to him and hoping to convey with your hold what you want to say, even if you're not ready to say it. He reciprocates your hug immediately, holding you just as tightly—like you'd disappear if he let go.

The rain patters against the roof of the gazebo creating a calming atmosphere around you. It's like you two are the only ones who exist in the world right now. You've never felt safer than here in his arms, so you savor it for as long as you can.

Until the thunder rattles the gazebo, reminding you of where you are.

"Is this a bad time to mention I got a good lead?"

He laughs in disbelief, "Of course you fucking did." You laugh with him, catching his eye and seeing a twinkle in them. "Is this a bad time to ask you who told you that outfit was a good idea without checking the weather?" You roll your eyes and playfully smack his back, "Shut it."

You're about to pull away, but his hold stays. "Give me a minute, doll. Just stay with me for another minute." The plea in his voice is gentle, like he'd let go if you really asked him to, but you won't. Clearly, you both need this pocket of peace to last a little longer. So you stand there in your shelter from the rain and hold each other like it's your only lifeline in this world.

Bucky and Alpine came to your place that night for an impromptu sleepover. You both showered in your own apartments before reconvening at yours. There was a lot you needed to discuss, which you did over chow mein and pot stickers from your favorite Chinese restaurant across from your apartment, Uncle Lou's. You told Bucky what happened from the moment you decided to go undercover, to why you did it, what Pietro revealed to you, and everything else leading up to when he met you outside the nightclub. He still wasn't happy about it, but what's done is done.

Bucky on the other hand explained he had heard your full government name in one of Hydra's communications, apparently one of the patrons recognized you although the name of the patron wasn't disclosed. That's how he knew you were there. He has your name flagged in the system for safety reasons, and it's a good thing he did because as soon as your name was mentioned an alarm went off on his phone. He was able to access the security cameras at The Red Skull, and when he confirmed you were in fact there, he rushed over as quickly as possible.

He knows how Hydra operates, so he had a tow truck arranged to get your car from the nightclub's parking lot and tow it back to the bureau out of an abundance of caution. There was no guarantee that you could drive your car safely back home without being followed. He parked his car at the park where the gazebo was, somewhere out of the way enough where he could shake off anyone that attempted to follow you.

Bucky had thought of everything.

He wasn't surprised to hear about the secret escort service, although it wasn't around when he was there. He didn't recognize Valentina's name, but he had a vague recollection of Agatha's. You play the audio recording from your necklace on your laptop, so he can get a better idea of everything that was said. To say he didn't appreciate having to hear you flirt with another man is an understatement.

The rest of the night was spent researching and bouncing off theories to each other. You ended up falling asleep on the couch, your feet resting on his lap. He dozed off right after, with Alpine curled up in the space between you.

The weekend is spent collecting as much evidence as you can, so that following Tuesday you can face Fury and hopefully keep his anger at bay as you tell him about your unofficial undercover mission. You hope the discovery will be enough to not be reprimanded too harshly.

But Fury truly lives up to his name.

Things don't start off as smoothly as you hoped when you tell him what you did, sitting in the chair on the other side of his desk, laptop in your lap at the ready with a presentation of evidence displayed on the screen. You've lost count how many times he's cursed in the last five minutes. Going off about if he's just a painting on the wall and does no one understand what the title of director means?

The worst part is how he looks at you like a disappointed father would, making you feel like a scolded child. He exhales heavily, sitting down in his chair, "You recognize what you did was stupid and reckless."

"Yes, sir, but I—"

"And that you could've very easily gotten killed and jeopardized not only your case, but the Hydra one as well."

"Yes, sir."

"You also recognize that while it was extremely reckless it resulted in obtaining the biggest lead we've had on the Brooklyn Ripper case since we've had it."

You can breathe again, "I do, sir."

He nods, approving that you understand, "Alright. While you did manage to get a good lead, this can never happen again. From here on out, everything you do with this case goes through me, got it?"

"Yes, sir." you reply, but he doesn't see the way you cross your fingers in your lap.

"Good. Now, show me what you found." It seems in the pursuit of taking Hydra down, Fury doesn't care what methods are used.

You start from the beginning. How you came to the conclusion of checking out the nightclub, and how you infiltrated it—omitting the part where Ava helped you look the part. You tell him what Pietro told you, letting him hear some of the audio clips for himself. You don't mention being followed afterwards, instead sticking to a story that you left as soon as Pietro gave you the warning and took a taxi home while your car was towed here out of precaution. Fury praises you for the quick thinking and you have to stop yourself from giving Bucky the credit he deserves.

You then go in on the finer details. You dive deeper into Valentina and her off the record escort service she runs with Hydra. You mention how Valentina has been arrested twice for promoting prostitution, but was released with a warning both times. Word on the street—what Bucky discovered—is she's got plenty of blackmail on enough cops in the NYPD to keep her out of jail. She has no official ties with Hydra, but she does get paid to take a few girls from them, teach them the works, and offer them to higher paying clientele. If your speculation is true, then every woman killed connected to Hydra was part of this underground escort service. Whether Valentina knows it or not, the girl's Valentina is taking in from Hydra become the Brooklyn Ripper's preferred victims.

Fury takes in all the information you give him, "We need to bring Valentina in, but without giving away what we know. I'll get a detail on her to locate her whereabouts. As soon as she slips up, she'll be arrested. We'll have to have her brought to a trusted police station, and instead of one of the local detectives interrogating her, it'll be one of us. We can play it off like we're making sure she's safe from Hydra."

Fury's plan seems like the logical play. Getting a one on one chat with Valentina could prove to be crucial to uncovering the identity of the Brooklyn Ripper. She probably even knows who it is without knowing it's him, and having her in custody would help in getting warrants to access her personal property. You would be able to get a hand on all the numbers and channels she uses for her communications that Bucky could then investigate deeper. There's also a possibility she might still have messages or other evidence on her devices that could connect her to the victims.

"You said one of the patrons recognized you?" Fury breaks your thought process with a question.

You nod, "It must have been. At the time I was in the nightclub, Pierce and Rumlow were located to be in different parts of the city, so they couldn't have recognized me. I'm not working the Hydra case close enough for anyone else there to have recognized me. I didn't have my badge on me, so whoever saw me knew me from somewhere."

He taps on his desk like he's mulling something over, "You have to be more careful then. If this escort service is being used to blackmail high profile people, anyone you've been in contact with at the any of the city's charity galas or events throughout the years could be a client of Valentina's. We'll have to be more discreet from here on out."

There's an uneasiness that settles its way into your heart when you think of all the people you know and how any one of them could've been so cold to rat you out like that. Especially knowing what Hydra would have done to you.

After another brief exchange, Fury dismisses you as he has a virtual meeting to attend. You walk back to your desk, letting out a breath of relief. John is sitting in his when you approach, giving you an are you okay look, "Everything okay? That sounded intense for a minute there."

You sit down at your desk, a heat spreading on your face when you realize your coworkers most likely heard Fury reprimanding you. "Yeah, I kind of went over his authority, so the yelling was warranted…" John's expression is one of surprise, not thinking of you as someone who would break the rules.

If only he knew about your vigilante partner.

You quickly summarize the events to John. You'd tell him a more detailed version of it later when you both reconvene with Lamar, but for now a more condensed version is all you can give with the energy you have left after being yelled at. John's demeanor shifts immediately, "That was extremely dangerous, you could've gotten really hurt." He scolds you, his disappointment matching Fury's, but somehow coming from John it doesn't feel as serious.

"I went in knowing the risks, but I'm here now aren't I? It's all good," you try to brush it off, not wanting to hear another lecture. His eyes narrow, "No, it's not. The few times Lamar and I have gone up to The Red Skull while chasing a lead—we've never come out without having to get into a fight with security and have their guns drawn on us. It's a miracle you came out unscathed."

"Not a miracle, I just got lucky."

"Lucky or not, some of us really care about you," he follows his statement with the mention of your name, "And we—me, honestly I don't know what I would have done if you got hurt." The heavy weight of the sentiment beneath the surface of those words sits in your chest uncomfortably. Carol's words echo in your mind, but beyond that, there's a wave of nausea that hits you. You always considered John a good colleague and friend, and you'd be lying if you said you'd ever thought of him in any other way.

This is the man who showed you the ropes when you first got transferred here. He's the kind of guy that would get up mid conversation to hold the door open for someone on the other side of the room and the kind of partner that would take a bullet for you—he's done it twice for Lamar. He does have his quirks. Saying things that come off wrong, on bad days being impatiently temperamental, and walking around with the confidence of a man who thinks he's owed attention. Sometimes he's not the best guy, but he's always been a good friend.

You feel like you've been put between a rock and a hard place. Made even worse by what he says next.

"There's actually something I'd like to talk about with you—maybe over dinner or coffee?" There's a hope in his voice that's hard to miss, and you wish the ground would swallow you whole then and there. You've never been put in this position before. How do you stay truthful to how you feel, but not make things awkward or lose a friend?

"John I—I don't… Could we hold this conversation off until I'm done with this case?" You try to buy yourself some time. Hopefully enough to figure out the best way to turn him down.

"You're allowed to live your life outside of here."

"I know, but it wouldn't sit well with me."

John give you a tight smile, like he already knows this is going nowhere, "Okay, I get it. Don't worry about it, okay? Have a good rest of your day." He gets up from his desk and walks off, out the doors and out of sight.

There's a pit at the bottom of your stomach when you watch him walk away. You find yourself getting up from your desk as well. Looking across the room and feeling relief when you notice Carol is at hers. It's almost like she can sense your distress the way her eyes look up from her computer and lock with yours. You beckon her to follow you into the break room and she doesn't hesitate to get up and scurry along to meet you there. And when you tell her what happened with John, her I told you so is as smug as it is jovial.

"Jesus Christ, I cannot believe he finally asked you out and you turned him down like that," she says almost in awe, like she's sorry she missed the interaction.

"Carol, I thought it was clear I don't date divorced men."

"But John's also your friend."

"Yes, my divorced friend."

She tilts her head like she's recalling something, the curiosity in her eyes evident, "Did you say no because of that or because of this secret man you have everyone talking about?"

You do a double take. Surely, you misheard her. "Excuse me, what? I have a secret man that everyone's talking about? What do you mean by everyone?"

She snickers, enjoying how flustered you're getting, "Well, rumor has it you have a boyfriend—a secret lover." Her tone is playful, so you don't know if you can take her serious or not.

"Carol this isn't funny."

"Oh, it's not. I'm the closest friend you have and you didn't tell me that you're seeing someone? I should be offended."

You roll your eyes at her dramatics, "There was nothing to tell you because I don't have a secret boyfriend." You then add with a hint of panic in your voice, "Is this like a big rumor in the bureau?" She shakes her head, "No, I was just teasing you. Lamar told me you were texting someone special." You let out something between a groan and a sigh.

"God, you're the worst."

"Oh, you love me."

You chat with her for another few minutes, but the conversation mainly consists of her teasing you and taking jabs at John. When the laughter quiets, a memory comes back to you.

"By the way, have you tried accessing any of the Hydra or Brooklyn Ripper files recently?" You ask her, recalling her name in the access history. She thinks it over before shaking her head, "I don't think so. My card only works like half the time I try to access any of the Punisher files. Why?"

"It's nothing, it's just your name popped up under the history of those who last accessed the files," you mention and she scoffs sarcastically, "Great, so now my card is glitching out the system. If only Stark weren't such an ass about the budget." You hum in agreement, at ease now that that's cleared up.

"That was a good attempt at changing the subject, but you're not getting away from telling me all about this guy," she looks at you expectantly, like you better not even dream of hiding anything from her.

"There is no guy, he's just my neighbor." Your very handsome neighbor who you're in love with and who you're almost certain returns your feelings. Who's waiting on you patiently for something that can become the greatest thing to ever happen to you, but you're not ready to accept you deserve.

That all seems too complicated to explain, so you'll go with neighbor for now.

"Shut up, there is a guy and I want to hear all about it," Carol is determined to get all the details out of you, but your gossip session is cut short when Special Agent Maria Hill walks into the break room. Seeing as she's Fury's right hand woman you and Carol end your chatter there, heading out of the break room and back to work.

However, the look that Carol gives you lets you know this conversation is far from over.

When you go home that night, there's a tension in the air that's palpable enough to feel it in your fingertips. The kind of unrest that makes you want to reach for your gun and be prepared for anything that might happen next. The wind seems to whisper warnings of what's to come and it travels up your spine, making you shiver.

You find yourself picking up your pace, wanting to enter your apartment with the haste of someone who's being chased. In a moment of deja vu, Bucky opens the door to his apartment when he hears you about to enter yours. Alpine isn't in his arms this time, and there's a grim look on his face that makes your body grow cold.

"Come with me. I need to show you something," the urgency in his voice has you entering his apartment without question. Once you're inside he leads you to his living room, and suggests you take a seat before he talks. Alpine jumps on the coffee table, pacing it like even she can feel there's something wrong.

"There's no easy way of revealing this, so I'll just show you," He hands you a manila envelope, it's outwardly unassuming at a first glance. You take it from him, noticing the way there's nothing written on the outside of it. "Yori ended up getting our mail mixed up again. I found that envelope in my mail pile. There was no name written on it, so Yori probably assumed it was mine. When I went down to ask him who delivered it he couldn't remember, and coincidentally the security cameras were down when it got delivered," Bucky explains as you open the folder, reach inside, and find a multitude of pictures inside.

Pictures of you.

At the grocery store, walking into and out of work, at the coffee shop you love by the bureau, getting food from a delivery driver outside of your building, pictures of your window where you can be seen reading and cooking—all candid pictures of you dating back months ago. Even Bucky can be seen in some of them with you, but they're all mainly of just you.

Someone had been watching your every move for months.

And that someone would most likely be the Brooklyn Ripper.

The blood drains from your face, your stomach churning the more you stare at the photos. You've had moments where you felt like you were being watched, but you brushed it off thinking this case had you unjustifiably paranoid. At first glance, you thought the pictures were taken by someone working for Hydra, but after analyzing the changes in your hair, your clothes, and the environment around you—these pictures go back to over half a year ago. Almost to around the time you were assigned to this case.

"Did you ever notice you were being watched or followed?" Bucky sits next to you on couch, his stance protective, like if he could somehow protect you from this dark reality he'd do it in a heartbeat.

You shake your head, "No, but I should have. I'm trained for stuff like this, I shouldn't have missed all of this. I'm so off my game, I can't believe I let this happen." Your grip on the pictures tightens, and Bucky has to pry them out of your hands. "Don't blame yourself, doll. This guy is a professional fucking creep and he knows how to do this without being caught. I'm trained to notice stuff like this too and I didn't catch it either."

"This picture here," you grab the one that has you and Bucky walking down your home street, "the dress I'm wearing in it is the one I wore to your birthday dinner. That was seven months ago, around the time I was assigned the Brooklyn Ripper case. If he's been watching me this whole time, then why hasn't he done anything?"

Bucky grits his teeth, "Because this is some kind of sick twisted game to him. He kept an eye on you even though he was sure you'd never catch him—but that was before. If he had the guts to send you these pictures now and show his hand like this, that means you're getting close to finding him. This is his way of scaring you off." You like the idea of the killer getting nervous you're onto him, even if it meant having to face being stalked.

"You said the cameras were down when the envelope was delivered?" You repeat, and Bucky grunts in annoyance, "They were compromised. Someone managed to cut the wires at the exact moment the mail is usually delivered. It wasn't a hard fix so I fixed them up for Yori. I even went over and hijacked the cameras from Uncle Lou's restaurant across the street to keep on eye on the windows."

Your lips part, "Bucky, you did not."

He doesn't look one bit ashamed, "I did too. I don't take your safety lightly, doll. Which is why you're staying here tonight."

"I own a gun, Bucky. I'm sure he knows not to get too close," you say to lighten the tension, but in all honesty, you're not against staying here with him tonight.

"Don't make me beg, doll," he regrets those words when he sees your smile widen, giving you a look like it's not the right time to mess with him. Although, he'd prefer to see a smile on your face than anything else, so if you wanted to tease him right now, he won't complain. Even Alpine comes over and jumps on your lap to give you the prettiest eyes that ask you to stay.

Yeah, you weren't saying no to either of them tonight.

You were still shaken up from the pictures when Bucky accompanied you to your apartment to get a few things for the night. You had lost your appetite, so after showering at his place and changing into a comfy pajama set, you were ready to call it a night. Bucky had brewed you an herbal tea before bed to calm your nerves, one he said his mother made him when he was anxious. You discussed how the talk with Fury went over tea, and what the FBI was planning to do with Valentina. Bucky agreed it was a smart move, and mentioned he'd be able to get access into her private files as soon as the FBI obtained her devices.

The weight on your shoulders feels lighter after the tea and the talk with Bucky. A new sense of hope you haven't felt in a long time settles in your chest. Bucky notices you start to blink slower and your yawning gets more frequent, so he tells you to go to bed. You don't resist, sleep is calling your name like a lullaby.

You make your way to the living room, prepared to set up the couch when Bucky stops you. “You're sleeping in my room. I’m taking the couch.” Your eyebrows raise, eyes darting between him and yourself. Out of the two of you, you'd surely be more comfortable on the couch than him. “Bucky, the couch is perfectly fine for me.”

He points to Alpine, "She’s sleeping with you tonight and she always gets the bed so,” he shrugs like that explains everything. As if on cue, Alpine makes her way over to you and paws at your feet until you pick her up.

“She’s also—she’s good for nightmares,” Bucky utters quietly and you freeze in your spot. How did he know? You've never told a soul about them, not even Bucky who you trust the most. It was a sore subject for you that stung like an open wound. You rarely had nightmares before, but they became more frequent after seeing the first victim you worked on for the Brooklyn Ripper case back in May. What you've seen since then stays with you even in your sleep.

"I get them too, sometimes. I can tell," he whispers, reading your mind all too well and sharing another piece of himself he finds he doesn't fear giving to you. You appreciate him sharing this with you, this shared vulnerability that establishes a gentle solidarity between you on the subject. “Thank you, Bucky," you reply softly, holding Alpine a little closer to your chest, like hugging her could fix a part of you that you don't acknowledge as broken. You follow up with a small goodnight which he returns. Parting from each other reluctantly, with neither of you voicing the one word that could bring you back together.

You enter his bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar so Alpine can go in and out easily. You lay her on the bed gently, the moonlight coming in through the blinds casts a soft light in the room as you settle in the bed. His sheets smell of lavender detergent and something uniquely him. The scent wrapping around you like it were the blanket itself.

You close your eyes, in the darkness, the last thing you feel before falling asleep is Alpine cuddling into your side. You always seem to get a better nights sleep when Bucky is around, so hopefully tonight is no different.

Bucky was right about one thing, Alpine is good for nightmares. Minutes into falling asleep you fall into a deep slumber. One that seems will not be interrupted by any bad dreams tonight.

Alpine is, however, not good for things that go bump in the night.

It was around three in the morning when you first heard it. A loud crash in the room on the other side of the wall of Bucky's bedroom. The noise startles you awake. You sit up in bed, your heart hammering in your chest. You wonder if you hallucinated the sound, simply paranoid after the stalking revelation. Poor Alpine had jumped on the other side of the bed when you woke up so abruptly. You're about to reach out for her to comfort her when you hear something else.

A heavy continuous thump on the other side of the wall that might be footsteps, and then a rustling you can't tell what it is. The goosebumps that cover your skin happen at the realization that the room on the other side of this wall is your bedroom.

The Brooklyn Ripper is in your bedroom.

On any other day you might have believed what you heard to be a random break in. But after those pictures you received, there's no doubt in your mind who's in your apartment right now.

If you can hear him, then that means he can hear you. You're careful when getting out of bed, every step you take is as light as possible as you exit the bedroom. You open the door just enough where you can slip through. Your gun is in the duffel bag you left at the foot of Bucky's couch earlier in the night. You have to get to it, this is the closest you ever have been to catching the killer.

Through the warm glow from the lamp Bucky left on in the living room, you see him sprawled across the couch, snoring lightly in his sleep. He's shirtless, muscular chest on display with only his dog tags decorating it. The blanket messily strewn over himself barley covers the way his gray sweatpants are riding lower in his sleep.

Focus, there's a killer in your room.

As you step closer to the couch, the floor board creaks beneath you and his eyes shoot open. They take a second to adjust in the darkness before they land on you, squinting at you quizzically.

“I think the killer is in my room,” you whisper loud enough for Bucky to hear, his expression hardening. You reach for your bag, grabbing your gun and pulling it out while Bucky gets up from his couch. He's quick on his feet, grabbing his own gun from a safety box in the broom closet in his hallway. He prefers to act first, ask questions later.

You join him in the hallway, "I thought I was hearing things at first, but then there were more noises on the other side of wall," you whisper, grabbing Bucky's arm and leading him into his bedroom. You're both careful to not make the floor creak the closer you get to the wall. Alpine is gone from the room, and it's dead silent inside. Your ears strain to pick up any sound on the other side and after a few breaths of silence you hear it, the rustling is back.

Bucky wasn't kidding when he claimed the walls were thin.

You both leave his room with minimal sound. Back in the hallway you whisper, "We have to get in there, Bucky. This could be our chance to catch him." He firmly nods, "Alright, but only if we stick together. We don't know what we'll find when we get in there or what kind of weapons this guy has."

You agree, shuffling over to your duffel bag to grab your keys, taking off the one for your apartment off the ring, to avoid the extra noise. Careful with every step you take, you make it out into the hallway. You hope none of your neighbors are awake to step out and see you and Bucky with your guns drawn, you don't know how you would explain your way out of it without alarming anyone.

Bucky is right behind you when you put your ear up to your door. You listen in for a few seconds, but when you're met with silence you put the key in the lock and open the door. The lights are off just like you left them. The moonlight filtering in through the windows gives you enough light to make out your surroundings. Bucky closes the door behind you quietly, stepping forward first, his military training coming in handy making his steps featherlight.

You're one step behind him, covering his back. Your hands are outstretched with your gun at the ready, eyes darting around your home for any sign of danger. Your one bedroom apartment is small enough that there's not much space you have to clear before heading over to your bedroom.

You're both up against the door, staring at each other while you wait for a sign that the killer is still there. The silence stretches for what seems like forever, until you can't take it anymore and nod at Bucky to know you're ready to head inside. He counts to three on his fingers before you both barge in to the room.

"FBI! Show yourself!" You identify yourself, flipping the switch on your tactical light on your gun to see your surroundings better. Your window is wide open, the small plotted plants you had on your windowsill knocked over and broken on the floor. Your entire room is covered in bright orange flyers—there must be about a hundred of them, crinkling again the ground with every step taken.

Regrettably, you receive no response. Whoever broke in is now gone.

You curse under your breath while checking your closet, but the killer is not in there. You step towards your window, swearing you had it locked shut before you left for work in the morning. You don't see anyone out on the street, but he could be hiding somewhere in the shadows.

He could even be watching you right now.

You shut your window, locking it a few times before you're certain it stays. You close the curtains and turn around to look at the haphazardly thrown flyers covering every inch of your bed and floor. Bucky has one is his hand, scowling at it like he can't figure out what it means.

You pick one up at your feet. It looks exactly the same as the one on the pizza box from last week. The only difference is that this one has a bright red circle on the date, October 25th. You shine the light from your gun on the flyers, they all have that date circled.

Why would the killer go through all that effort to do this?

Bucky grabs a handful of the flyers catching your attention. He puts a finger to his lips as a warning to keep quiet, before tapping on his ear and you put two and two together. The killer had been in your room long enough to plant these flyers and maybe something else. He could've planted something in here to listen in or keep watch.

The chill that runs through you has nothing to do with icy floor beneath your bare feet.

After another quick check you leave your apartment and head next door to his. He turns on the big light to get a better look at the flyer while you put away your gun.

"First thing in the morning I'll check your entire apartment to make sure that creep didn't plant any bugs or cameras," he promises, assuring you the killer won't get to have anymore access to you. You nod along, but all you can think about is what would have happened if you hadn't stayed at Bucky's place tonight.

"Do you know why he would leave dozens of these in your room? What is it for?" He asks, holding up the flyer. You blink at it, "I don't. It's a flyer for the autumn carnival they host in Queens." That only causes more confusion to appear on Bucky's face, "Have you mentioned wanting to go to someone?" You shake your head, "No, not that I can think of. The only time I've ever seen that flyer was when I was talking to John and Lamar the night the last victim was killed."

"You had this conversation at work?"

"Yes."

Bucky glances at the coffee table where your phone lies. He strides over to it and powers it off. "This guy has been watching you for months. He might have tapped your phone and your devices at work. I'll check your phone in the morning too and see if its been compromised." You're feeling sicker by the minute.

"He's starting to escalate, sending the pictures and then breaking into my room. He must have figured out I wasn't there tonight and that's why he left all those flyers instead," you conclude based on everything so far. Bucky's hand balls into a fist when he thinks of what could've happened if he hadn't offered for you to stay here tonight. It's not a thought he wants to dwell on when you're standing here with him, safe.

"You're close to getting him," he motions to the flyer in your hands, "he circled the twenty fifth. I have a feeling he'll be there that day, and he wants you to be there too." You came to the same conclusion. The Brooklyn Ripper wouldn't exert all this effort for nothing. It was clear he was inviting you on some sick twisted kind of date, one to end things once and for all.

For you or him.

"If that's what he wants then that's what he'll get. I'm sick of this guy and I'm ready to put an end to this." Nothing would stop you from being there on Saturday.

"You'll want to send in back up to monitor the entire perimeter. Maybe even an undercover operation on a larger scale," Bucky suggests, but you shoot that idea down instantly, "No. The FBI can't find out about this."

"Why?"

You gnaw on the inside of your lip, "There's been something nagging at me from the moment I saw those photos. Especially the one from the day of your birthday dinner," you walk over to the TV stand, the photos from the envelope are neatly stacked in one pile on top of it. You look through them, finding the one you're looking for and then handing it to Bucky.

"This picture is from March. The only people who knew I was assigned to this case were part of the FBI. The public knew the FBI took over the case, but only the agents at the bureau knew me and Laura had been assigned to it." Bucky takes the picture from your hand and goes down the same line of thought you have, "Then the killer might be working for the FBI. That would explain why he's so well at covering up evidence, and why he always seems to be five steps ahead of everything."

"I'll have to do this off the record without FBI involvement. At this point, I have to assume anyone at the bureau could be a suspect—even Fury," thinking about one of your colleagues being the killer makes your heart sink all the way to the bottom of your stomach. The way you could have passed them through the halls or had small talk with them in the break room, all meanwhile they were planning their next kill. Any innocent inquiry of your day or about the case could have been their way of taunting you. It was a hard pill to swallow.

"Then, I'll be going with you. You'll need the backup," he states, crossing his arms like he's ready to hear you protest, but you give him none. Instead, you give him a condition, "Only if you promise me you'll run if at any point your identity could be compromised." Catching the Brooklyn Ripper was important, but not worth jeopardizing Bucky's entire life over.

He takes a step closer to you, if he reached out he could touch you, "Not if it's between choosing saving my ass or yours. I'm choosing you every time."

"James."

"No," he echos your name like you did his, "If I get caught then let me face the consequences of my own decisions. I'm choosing to help you. I'm choosing to be there. It's my choice." His stance on this is unwavering and your voice comes out quieter than you wanted to when you reply, "I'm asking you to promise because I care about your safety too. I won't let this monster take away something else from me or anyone else. He's taken enough."

His eyes soften, and he takes another step to shorten the space between you. Yours instinctively rest on his chest, while his right hand raises to cup your face, "I know, doll, but that's something I can't promise, I'm sorry." You sigh, your head falling to his chest, the heat of his skin warming your own.

"Sometimes you can be really stubborn and it's frustrating."

He chuckles, "I can be stubborn? Have you met yourself?" Your reply is a pinch to his hip causing him to laugh again, "Someone's grouchy when they're tired. Go back to bed, doll. We can continue this conversation tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah. Goodnight," you're about to dismiss yourself, finding yourself annoyed at him, but he stops you by gently grabbing your wrist and pulling you into him so you're close enough for him to plant a soft kiss on your head.

"Goodnight."

You're able to sleep just fine the rest of the night.

The next morning, Bucky checks every corner of your apartment, and fortunately finds the Brooklyn Ripper didn't plant anything anywhere. He cleans the mess the killer left behind, changing the lock on your bedroom window, and making a mental note to buy you new pots to replace the shattered ones. In the meantime, he salvaged what he could and gave the plants temporary homes in plastic cups.

Bucky had also scanned your phone and found it wasn't tapped, furthering the theory that the killer is one of your colleagues. You checked in on Laura while Bucky was busy in your apartment, feeling guilty you had forgotten about her this past week. As discreetly as you could, you tried to pry and figure out if she had received anything interesting in the mail too. You were relieved to find out it seemed the Brooklyn Ripper had only been after you this whole time.

Now you were busy preparing pancake batter for breakfast. Bucky came back by the time you were starting on your first pancake.

Bucky had to take a second when he saw you in his kitchen, morning sunlight highlighting your features to make you shine like an angel. You looked peaceful, happy for once like the weight of the world wasn't on your shoulders.

He'd do anything to keep you like that.

When you notice him, your face lights up making his heart stutter in his chest. You call him over and you fall into easy conversation as he steps in to make some scrambled eggs beside you. The case eventually gets brought up. and Bucky asks you if there's anyone at the FBI you suspect.

"I can't really think of anyone. But there is this one weird guy in the tech department, Quentin Beck," your nose scrunches in disgust when you think of the guy, "He's known to be sleazy, always trying to get women drunk at office events to get them to sleep with him, and now that you mention it, my friend Carol, her access ID stopped working half the time, and the system recorded her ID accessing some files she hadn't."

Bucky stirs the eggs in the pan, "The magnetic stripe on the card could've been messed with. Someone like him would know how to duplicate her card." The idea of the killer being one of your coworkers solidifies itself more and more, getting harder to stomach every time. Bucky can see the shift in your demeanor, so he decides to change the subject.

"You know what this reminds me of?" he says softly, reaching in to the cupboards to grab another pan to start on the bacon.

"Hm?"

"To the day we first met."

You look down at the bubbling pancake and laugh, "That's right. When Alpine snuck into my apartment through the window and scared the living hell out of me. She caused me to burn a perfectly good pancake.

He scoffs, "She did not. She's innocent."

As if knowing she's being talked about, Alpine meows in the distance like she agrees with Bucky. You shake your head at both of them, "She is not! She even caused the fire alarm to go off. You were so grumpy when I told you what she had done."

"That's because you woke me up almost knocking my door down the way you we're banging on it," he justifies his attitude back then, remembering with a smirk, how flustered you were that day when he opened his door in only his boxers. In his defense, he really had just woken up.

"Now you're just exaggerating."

"I'm pretty sure there's still a dent on the door from that day."

You both laugh at his teasing. The memory of that day now fresh in your minds like it happened yesterday. When the laughter dies down to a comfortable silence, you can't seem to look away from each other. A fondness in both your expressions that makes time stand still. He leans into your space and your heart skips a beat. Your eyes fall to his lips for a split second and he notices. The corner of his lips tug into something coy—something magnetic—and when his arm reaches around you, you think you know what's about to happen next.

He uses his wooden spoon to turn the half burnt pancake in the pan.

"Try not to burn these pancakes too, doll," he winks at you, grinning cheekily like he knows exactly what he's doing. You gawk at him as he takes a piece of cooked bacon and eats it, continuing as normal. Even when his expression gave away just how much he was enjoying this.

Bucky will kiss you eventually. This isn't the frist time he's held back from doing so, but he knows the first kiss between you has to come from you. You haven't been as forward as he has with affection, and he doesn't want to push you into anything you're not ready for. So, he'll patiently wait for your move, and when you make it—he'll stop holding back and show you the kind of passion they write about in books.

The rest of the morning into the following days are filled with small moments of normalcy stuffed between extensive hours of planning, prepping, and collecting all the evidence of the case into one new theory. The one involving one of your colleagues being the killer. You end up having to lie to Fury and call into work sick with the flu to give you extra time to prepare for Saturday.

Fury is upset about this as he wanted you to be in there with him to question Valentina, but he wishes you a quick recovery. When they manage to get her on Friday over a parking ticket violation, John and Lamar are the ones to question her. And to no ones surprise, she lawyers up as soon as she's in police custody.

Her counsel? Alexander Pierce.

Fury is not happy about that at all.

The envelop filed pictures, and apartment break in proved to be a better lead than Valentina could have provided anyway, so you aren't mourning the loss of that lead.

In addition, there's one thing that Bucky discovered before Saturday comes that will prove to be crucial for Saturday's showdown.

He reviewed the security footage from Uncle Lou's restaurant from the night of the break in. The suspect was covered in a black outfit from head to toe—gloves and all—so Bucky wasn't able to get a good look at him. However, what he did catch was the suspect getting injured on his way down. As he raced down the fire escape, the drop down ladder got stuck, causing him to have to jump down to get away. The distance itself wasn't high enough to cause a serious injury, but it was high enough that he had to be careful with his landing.

Fortunately for you, he wasn't. It's clear from the security footage he doesn't make the landing right, and slips on his way down putting the most pressure on his right knee and shoulder to break his fall. When he gets up to leave, he clutches his shoulder and there's a limp when he attempts to run. The injuries are severe enough that they won't be healed by Saturday.

This discovery might have just saved your lives.

You hope the next time you go to an autumn carnival is under better circumstances than today. The sun is well past the horizon, with the full moon taking it's place in the sky. There's colorful fairy lights strung to illuminate every path, although the multicolored lights from the rides are enough to light up the entire carnival with its festive glow. Children's laughter blends in with attendee's screams of thrill that invite you to come in and see what the fun is all about.

You and Bucky are dressed in your average fall attire to blend in. To everyone else you look like a couple on a date. However, on the inside of your leather jacket you had your gun and badge neatly tucked into a pocket. As for Bucky's leather jacket, who knows what's hiding in it. Even after all this time, you don't know the White Wolf's preferred method of weaponry.

Your first plan of action is to roam the grounds, scan the place, and get familiar with it. Just enough to locate and block out the different sections: food, games, and rides.

Starting at the entrance, you are greeted by rows of booths with carnival games and smaller rides that taper out to the bigger ones on the outskirts of the carnival. In the middle is a large red and white striped tent with magician and clown shows playing at every hour. And at the very far end is a large family area filled with picnic tables to sit at by a large wall of food trucks and stations with endless amount of choices for food to pick from. All in all, the festival was large, but nicely organized in a way that you and Bucky could make a mental map of it the first time walking around.

Sometimes you thought you caught a glimpse of someone you recognized from work, falsely placing the association on a random stranger if you didn't look close enough. To say you were on edge is an understatement. Meanwhile, Bucky seems to be more composed than you. Even stopping to buy some cotton candy from one of the vendors. He offers to buy you one, but you decline, so Bucky resolves to sharing.

He looks like a kid with the boyish grin he's wearing as he takes a bite of the pink sugary fluff. "You sure are enjoying yourself," you tease him with mirth. He hums pleasantly at the taste, not hiding his delight.

"I'm blending in."

"Right."

"You should try it," he tears away another bit of fluff before offering some to you. You can't remember the last time you had cotton candy, so decide to take a page out of Bucky's book and enjoy yourself for a bit. You pull at the sticky treat, getting a nice little ball of fluff to try. The sugar strands melt in your mouth as soon as it hits your tongue.

"Good right?"

"It's pure sugar, Bucky. Of course its good," you giggle, and Bucky's grin only widens with your response. You're on the second round of walking through the carnival grounds, sharing the fluffy treat when Bucky spots you looking at some of the prizes offered in the carnival games.

"You want one?" He points to the prizes.

"A prize? No, they're like impossible to get. All those games are rigged." You don't think it's worth the money while Bucky looks at you like you've challenged him, "Nothing's impossible when you've got the right skills. Tell me which one you want and I'll get it." You don't take him seriously until he stops walking and waits for you to choose one.

So you stop and look around, there's your generic animal plush prizes, the franchise licensed ones, the ones that cater to kids, and the autumnal themed ones. You skim through them, only one of them catching your eye.

"The bat," you point to it, a plush prize for one of those balloon dart games.

He looks to where you're pointing, "The bat? The one with the grumpy face? You sure?"

"Yeah, it's cute, looks like you," at your comparison, Bucky's face falls and you can't help but laugh. He looks even more like the bat now.

"See, you've got the same expression and everything."

Bucky grumbles something under his breath about how there's no way you just described him being as cute as a bat. He honestly doesn't know if he should be offended or flattered.

You both head over to the game stall. He hands you the almost fully eaten cotton candy treat while he tells the game operator he'd like to play and points to the bat as the prize he wants to win. The operator explains to win the bat, Bucky has to at least pop two balloons in a row. While you do have faith that Bucky is excellent with his aim, you have no faith that this game is set up fairly.

And yet, you should never underestimate a man on a mission. Bucky is handed two darts and throws them back to back, popping two balloons in a row leaving the operator stunned. He gives the bat to Bucky and Bucky hands it to you proudly.

You hold it like it's something precious, the polyester smooth to the touch. No one's ever won you anything before. "I can't believe how fast you won that. Even the operator was shocked," you comment, squishing the bats face over how cute it is. He shrugs like it was nothing, adoring the joy it's brought to you, "Would never want to disappoint you, sweetheart."

Your heart does a little flutter at the term of endearment. As a thank you, you plant a quick, but sweet kiss on his cheek. "Thanks, Buck." You don't miss the way his ears tinge pink, and he smiles at you like you're the only reason for his happiness, "Anytime, doll."

You take his hand, leading him down the rows of carnival games to keep looking around. Every step you take is a little lighter, almost forgetting why you were here in the first place.

By the time you make it back to the family area, Bucky excuses himself to take head to the bathroom quickly. You agree to wait for him by the funnel cake stand while you scan the area for something to eat. When Bucky is out of your sight, you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand.

Someone's watching you.

You examine the droves of people around you, no one seems familiar to you, but you know you're not being paranoid, someone is definitely watching you. And they waited for you to be alone to make themselves known. It's not until your eyes dart back to the entrance of the family area that you spot him. Your first instinct is to smile at him, and you're about to wave him over, but something stops you.

He's not smiling back.

His expression is unreadable, but his eyes rake over your body like he's trying to get one last good look at you.

And most chilling of all? When he turns to leave there's a limp to his step that confirms your worst fears.

It's John Walker. He's the Brooklyn Ripper.

In your state of shock, you lose him in the crowd.

Your feet move before you can reconsider your actions. It shouldn't make sense—John being a cold blood killer—it shouldn't, and yet it does. As you push through the crowd of people to catch up to him, all that races through your mind are the pieces of evidence connecting themselves to each other with red threads.

Carol's card, Hydra's connections, his dates that always seems to go bad, the many times he insisted helping you with the case, the frequent check ins to make sure you were doing okay really being excuses to see what you knew about the case, and the way he got upset when you found out about Valentina. Logically, it makes sense, but your heart is lagging behind on reconciling the reality that a friend of yours—someone you would have trusted with your life—was the killer you were searching for all along.

Your head whips around frantically as you try to locate John. Some of the people around you look at you strangely, you must look like such a sight right now.

Should you call Fury? Carol? Should you warn them? Calling in backup means surrounding this place with law enforcement and putting Bucky at risk. That might have to be on the back burner until there was no other choice. To accuse John of being the Brooklyn Ripper requires solid proof, and right now you have none. And it's not like you won much merit with Fury after disappointing him so many times.

Plus, you still don't have a lot of answers like his motive, why the first three victims were different, or what caused him to break. John was in the military before being recruited to the FBI, so he does fits some of the profile, but the rest? The rest are pieces of a puzzle you don't even know if they fit.

By the time you get out of the crowd you worry you've lost him, but the rambunctious shriek of clown laughter catches your attention. You manage to catch John heading inside a funhouse while the teenager who runs it yells at him. John has already made his way in by the time you make it to the clown head entrance.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but you can't cut the line and you can't go in there right now." The teenager who is most likely not getting paid enough to deal with as many problems as he has tonight, stops you from going in. You reach into your jacket, taking out your badge and it flashing to him. He looks like a fish out of water.

You glance at the name on his tag, "Peter, is there anyone else in that funhouse besides the man that just walked in?" He shakes his head adamantly, "No ma'am. I'm not supposed to let anyone in while it's not fully operational. One of the generators went out, so no ones allowed inside until maintence is done fixing it." You're relieved to hear it'll only be John waiting for you inside.

"Okay, listen here, kid," he straightens up at your words, "The man that just went in there? He's a possible suspect, so I'll be going in to arrest him. How long does this funhouse take to get through?" Peter has an answer right away, "Twenty to thirty minutes depending on how fast you go."

You nod, making a mental note of that while reaching into one of your pockets and taking out your business card. "If I don't come out in twenty, you call this number," you point to the number below yours, the FBI tip line, "You give them my name and you tell them I need backup urgently. And absolutely under no circumstance do you let anyone go into this place, do you hear me?" He takes your card with a shaky hand, "Yes, ma'am."

"Oh and kid," you give him the grumpy bat Bucky won for you, "hold onto this for me. You guard this bat with everything you got or so help me I'll lock you up myself." Peter's eyes go wide in fear, "Yes ma'am—of course, ma'am." He hugs the bat so tightly to his body it's like he's trying to make it a part of him.

You face the funhouse, looking up at the enormous clown head, it's mouth an open wide entrance. Never having been inside a funhouse before, you have no idea what awaits you.

You step inside, pulling out your gun in perfect position as you walk forward. The clown's mouth leads to a neon spinning tunnel. The glow and the dark green swirls contrast with the blues and purples. They spin round and round, encircling you with the intention of making you dizzy as you walk across a metal platform. Peter mentioned there was only one generator out, so you had to hope which ever ones were fine powered enough things inside to help you get through the funhouse and catch John.

You have no idea how far in he is already, so you push onward. Switching on the tactical light on your gun to light your surroundings better. You're halfway through the metal platform when your phone buzzes in your pocket. You know who it is, you know it's Bucky, but you don't have the time for a call. John could be watching you right now. So instead, you quickly take out your phone—ignoring the five texts Bucky sent you prior to calling you—and you send him your live location. He'll be able to find you in no time.

The tunnel isn't hard to get through, and it takes about a minute to complete. The end of it is the start of a mirror maze that seems to have been impacted by the power source. It shuffles through solids colors sporadically—some lasting longer than others. And unlike the tunnel, there's carnival music being played, but it's faint, like someone forgot to turn up the volume.

Your light glares distractingly against the mirrors, so you turn it off before heading in. The strip of lights on the ground are red, your figure reflecting on a myriad of prisms. In the distance there's something that's akin to a chorus of laughter, but you're not sure.

You keep your arms outstretched, using the barrel of your gun to tap on the space in front of you as you navigate the maze. You swipe your legs strategically to feel for what path to take. And it's in the midst of the lights changing from red to purple that you hear someone call out your name.

You whirl in the direction of the sound and three reflections of John stare back at you. You point your gun on them, but you can't tell which one is the real one. He disappears before you can find out.

"John!" You yell out, picking up your pace and accidentally bumping into a wall, "Tell me it's not true. Tell me you're not who I think you are!" You're demanding answers. Not from the killer, but from the man you thought was your friend.

The lights switch to blue.

"You know who I am. You've known me long enough to know." His voice sounds like it's somewhere to your left. You can't rely on your sight in here, so you'll have to rely on getting him to talk to follow his voice.

You bump into another wall, but you brush it off quickly. "I thought I did! A part of me still doesn't think it's true, but tell me John, how did you injure your foot?"

There's a loud metallic clink that echoes to your right—or was it your left?

"You're asking me, but you sound like you already know how," he sounds closer, the lights flashing to green, then yellow, then back to red in a matter of seconds. It's jarring.

"Do I?" Do you?

"You do," there's a sinister undertone to his words that you can't mistake for anything else. John is showing you his true colors and it's hitting you like a slap to the face.

You grow frustrated, whether it's at yourself for not seeing what was right in front of you or at him for betraying your trust, you can't tell. It's probably both.

"But why? How could you do that? Those women didn't deserve it!"

"They did! Those bitches got what they deserved and so will you!" The malice in his shout startles you as much as the crash following it does. It's easy to locate the source, one of the mirror panels was shattered with bits of glass all over the floor. In his anger, he must have punched it, there's a blood smear on the area of impact. That's good. The more he injures himself, the easier it'll be to take him down. You're not military trained like he is, so you'll take any advantage you can get.

The exit to the mirror maze is up ahead, the laughter getting louder the closer you get to it. Past the mirror maze is a room that looks straight out of a clown horror movie. There are big sacks of what looks like cotton candy, swinging back and forth forcibly like it's purpose were to knock you into the wall. They're sticky to the touch, and hung randomly from the ceiling like they were a maze of their own.

If that wasn't enough, there was a constant strobe light illuminating the room in harsh flashes while carnival music blasted in your ears with hounding waves of clown laughter. The room was designed to be disorienting and overstimulating, and you were feeling that and more right now.

You move throughout the room as best as you can, trying to doge every swinging obstacle, but still managing to get hit a few times. You can't tell if John is still in the room with you, so there's an extra edge of fear to every movement you see in the corner of your eyes.

Toward the end, the big puffs of cotton candy stubbornly stick to your body like they're trying to drag you back into the room. The music and laughter seem to be getting louder and the flashes of light more bold and frequent—it's throwing you every which way—you're losing your sense of direction.

When you step into the next room, you are welcomed by darkness. Your eyes are having a hard time adjusting after being battered by lights, the ghosts of them lingering behind your eyelids with every blink. The laughter and music are now faint and blocked out by the partition separating the rooms. It's so silent, the ringing in your ears is the loudest thing in here.

You switch the tactical light on your gun back on, the spotlight reveals a sight that has you grateful you didn't step further into the room.

The entire floor is a ball pit.

From up above you can't tell how deep it goes, but it's at least twenty to forty feet long—about your average pool size—or at least that's what your scattered mind comes up with. It's like a giant rainbow sea, one big enough to hide a man like John inside, and you have a gut feeling that while you were navigating the previous room, he hid somewhere in here—ready to catch you off guard.

You crouch down, slowly making your way inside the ball pit—feet first—knowing you had no choice but to go through it. Whatever twisted game John was playing with you, he was clearly enjoying. He couldn't outrun you and he has too many injuries to take you down as easily as he's used to with his previous victims. He needed to give himself the element of surprise to get the upper hand on you.

The light on your gun reflects off the obnoxious yellow colored walls surrounding the ball pit. You submerge yourself all the way in, the plastic balls surprisingly icy to the touch and coming up all the way to just below your chest.

As if the light wasn't enough for him to know your exact location, you couldn't take a step in the pit without making noise. There was no way you could navigate your way through this quietly. So you needed to do something to make him reveal his location, to make him slip and take away the advantage he has right now.

You swipe at the colorful balls at the surface, they bounce off each other like waves and land somewhere a couple feet ahead of you. You scan the pit with your light, eyes focusing hard on the slightest movement, but you get nothing.

You're going to have to do something riskier like provoke him. John was never good at taking criticism, and if you go at him hard then maybe that would be enough to rattle him and reveal himself.

You take a step forward, firmly gripping your gun, "You know, I didn't believe it at first, but the more I think about it the more it makes sense. You don't have many friends at the bureau, and even the ones you do don't like you. Carol always thought you were pathetic loser for never getting past the first date with someone. She was right."

Another step in the pit, another moment of silence.

"Is that why you killed them? Because they didn't give you enough attention?" you spit out the question, another harsh swipe of the plastic toys.

Nothing.

"You couldn't keep a date, so you had to make it everyone's problem? Not man enough to keep a woman by your side, are you?" you taunt him, but it's clearly not enough. You have to hit him somewhere it really hurts.

A few more steps in, you're getting nearer to the halfway point, "And to think you have a son," you scoff, "What is he going to think, John? What will he say when he's old enough to know about all of this and realizes his dad wasn't the hero he claimed to be—just some dead beat fucking loser?"

You think you hear a heavy exhale, but it was too quick and quiet, you honestly could have imagined it. Or maybe it was your own breathing that seems to get heavier by the minute.

Another scan with your flashlight, another step, "With such a poor excuse of a father and man that you are—no wonder Olivia divorced you."

That right there hit a nerve. Everything after you said that happened fast, like if you had blinked in that moment you would have missed it.

There was a slight rustle, a shift in the ball pit to the right of you. You whip your gun in that direction, the light barley catching his eyes from where he was hidden underneath. That slight glint in them visible from where you stood, was the last thing you saw before you felt your feet being swiped from under you.

You're being pulled down into the pit, hands scrambling to get a steady grip on something to pull you up from drowning. In the midst of being pulled you drop your gun, its location visible to you only by the light on it. You don't have time to panic, you push your way through the pit, swiping furiously to get to your gun. Then you feel John's hand grab your ankle and pull you harshly to drag you towards him. You kick back, but he's able to get you close enough to hook an arm around your waist. You kick and elbow him blindly, your lack of visibility affecting you in this moment.

You know his M.O., he'll be aiming for your neck.

You can't let him get that final grip or it's all over.

If there's one thing you're not about to do, is go down easily. You thrash harshly in his hold, ignoring any strain it causes on your body, only focusing on how it detriments him. You recall the locations of his injuries, and try your best to aim your attacks there, but you miss more than you'd like in the dark.

"You think you know everything don't you?" he grunts, scrambling to get a good grip with his injured hand, "A goody two shoes pretentious know it all, who's really just a good for nothing agent that couldn't tell her killer was sitting right next to her every day," his cold ridicule unfurls an insecurity in you like taking off the bandage on an unhealed wound. "I didn't even have to try that hard to gain your trust. Practically offering it to me on a silver platter just because I was fucking nice to you. You want pathetic? Honey, I'm looking at it," he snarls into your ear, shaking you, and it's enough to get you to lash out at him, your anger fueled. You grab a few balls from the pit, twisting in his hold to shove them in his face. They're plastic, so they won't do much damage, but it's enough to disorient him for a moment.

You use that moment to land a proper punch to his face. Unfortunately, it wasn't with your dominant hand, so it's not as powerful and you'll definitely be feeling it later, but it does the job. He barks out a curse, head thrown back and grip loosening slightly. You don't let him catch his breath, almost instantly after, taking as much force as you can muster to side kick him in his injured knee.

The pain knocks the wind out of him and he cries out, no longer being able to properly hold you. You push him forcibly, scrambling to locate your gun and lunging at it when you do. But he only takes a fraction of what you thought to recover, nails scraping at your shoe while you try to kick him off, throwing waves of the balls around you at him like it were water. He uses his good foot and shoulder to propel himself forward practically pouncing on you. You swipe at his face, but he gets a good grip on your hair, good enough to pull you up with him.

You cry out at the pain and in a matter of seconds, his right arm wraps around your neck, his elbow under your chin. His other hand cradles the back of your head, your entire life in his hands. Your hands shoot up to grab him arm and tug at his jacket, but he gives your neck a light squeeze as a warning for you to behave. You go still.

"You have been a pain in my ass since you started to go off script with this case," he grits in your ear, causing you to shiver. "You weren't supposed to do that, darling. You were always a good girl, followed the rules, did everything by the book before you got transferred—what changed?"

You're shaking, both out of ire and fear and he can feel it, his left hand petting your hair in his sick attempt to calm you , "It was never supposed to go down like this. As long as you were kept in the dark you were safe. When Fury connected the cases I thought I could finally pin this on one of those Hydra bastards once and for all now that I would know your every move."

He pulls in his elbow, tightening the grip on your neck for a second to cut off your blood flow. He lets go, laughing sardonically—he's toying with you—relishing the power he holds.

"You know, that Hydra case was supposed to be my big chance at a promotion. The kind that would get my wife to stop bitching about our finances. I worked my ass off for my wife and kid. I stayed back for longer shifts, putting in more hours in the field than any other agent. I did all the shit no one else wanted to, and for what? No matter what I did, it was never good enough." The hollowness in his voice speaks of years of this hatred building up in his heart.

"John, this isn't—" he doesn't let you finish, the hand that was cradling the back of your head now being slapped over your mouth. "You got your chance to talk honey, it's my turn."

He shakes his head, "You're all the same. Never appreciating me, never letting me get a word in," he goes off like a mad man, like he's lost it—letting out what's always been within. "Not my wife, handing me divorce papers on my fucking birthday. Not Valentina's pretentious girls who always charge extra for mediocre shit. Not Fury who calls me in at any goddamn hour because I'm so reliable, but can't even give me a pay raise. And not you, sabotaging my plan to connect the cases so that Hydra went down for it all and I'd finally get the promotion I'm owed. But that's okay, I'll use your death to bury the truth. When I tell Fury one of Hydra's lackeys killed you, and I witnessed it all bravely trying to save you, I'll get the recognition I deserve, " He says that last part with a heated hatred for you. For ruining the one and only chance he had to fulfill his purpose. And yet, being the one thing that can save it.

He's seething, you can practically feel the heat of his anger roll off of him in droves into you. His grip around your neck tightens and you let out a strangled gasp. You think this is it, he's finally going to do it. But he either backs out or something else happens, because he doesn't get to hold you long before you're falling forward into the pit.

The balls break your fall somewhat, and you're stumbling to get a grip on what's going on. You register John crying out, a bit of groans, and the sound the plastic clashing from flying everywhere from an obvious struggle. You don't know what's going, but the light coming from your gun gives you something to focus on. You crawl your way to it, feeling relieved to finally have it back in your hands. With shaky footing, you stand up, gun pointed to the struggle, and you could start crying at the sight of your savior.

It's Bucky. The bottom half of his face is covered by a black tactical mask, but you know those eyes anywhere. Neither of them are getting many hits in, but they're also not going completely unscathed either. Bucky seems to be wrangling John in like he's some wild animal losing control, while John scrambles to get rid of whoever is in his way. He might be injured, but he's still putting up a fight.

Their struggle is a blur and you can't get a clear hit to John without getting Bucky caught in it too. Your mind races on what your next move should be when suddenly, something shiny reflects in John's left hand. It's a knife, most likely the one he's used on every single victim and your heart sinks at the sight of it. You know he intends to use it on Bucky, so you have to act fast before it's too late. Thinking on your feet, you shoot a round at the wall that causes them both to stop at the sound. You take that opening to shoot John in his injured shoulder. He wails out a curse before falling backward into the pit. You ease knowing he won't be able to get out of here on his own.

The gunshots still ring in your ears, but you don't care, you're already trudging over to Bucky when John is out of sight. He does the same, rushing over to you like his life depends on it. You practically throw yourself on him in an embrace, and Bucky holds you so tightly you doubt he'll ever let go again.

"I told you not to do this again, doll. You had me thinking the worst," his voice is muffled by the mask, but you can hear the anguish in it. You start tearing up, your entire being finally catching up to what just went down. "I know, I'm sorry. He just appeared out of nowhere and I felt like if I didn't act right away I'd lose him."

The lights in the room turn back on, and you have to blink a few times to adjust to the difference. You both inspect each other at the same time in the light, desperate to find out if the other is okay. Bucky pretty much looks unscathed, but his eyes harden when he notices the redness and swelling on your hand from when you punched John.

"So that piece of shit, he's been the Brooklyn Ripper this whole time?" He says it like he's sorry he missed it. Like if he knew he would've gotten rid of John a long time ago for you.

He knew he never liked the guy for a reason.

"Yeah, he was, and I…I mean it's—it's all over," your energy depletes as the adrenaline starts to wear off. A hint of the pain that's coming your way from exerting yourself in the fight starts to show itself. You fall into his embrace again like it's the only thing you need right now to keep you from falling apart. He can feel the way you sag against him, and it makes him wish he would've gotten here sooner.

Your reunion is sadly cut short when the music is shut off from every room in the funhouse, letting you hear the sound of distant shouting and sirens. You pull away from Bucky, scurrying to push him out of the ball pit. He finds it amusing that you can barely make him budge, even more so when you glare at him.

"Do not fight me on this," you warn him, thinking back to the one thing he wouldn't promise, "This place is about to be filled with federal agents, and I'll be dammed if I lose you to this, James Buchanan Barnes," you whisper his full name so only he can hear it. It should intimidate him, but it doesn't. Instead, it makes his heart jump in his chest like it's trying to escape and run home to you.

"You won't, sweetheart. I'm with you till the end," he declares softly, eyes shimmering with the kind of promise only pure devotion knows the language of. It leaves you speechless, giving him the kind of look he would only dream of before. The thumping of boots quickly approaching gets louder, and he hesitantly makes a swift exit. His parting words sticking with you when Fury, along with a team of agents, make their way inside the room, guns drawn.

You know you must look a sight, disheveled and torn in the middle of a children's ball pit.

"What in the hell is going on?"

From the moment Fury asks this question you act on autopilot. Switching to a more detached version of yourself, the one you were used to dawning on before working on this case. A professional version of yourself that helps get you through the job.

Maria and Fury help you out of the ball pit, back into the room filled with puffs of cotton candy, expecting answers and yet not being prepared for the ones you give them.

You tell them about the stalking, the break in at your apartment, and how the suspect injured himself in the process. How the Brooklyn Ripper challenged you to be here. You tell them how John Walker exposed himself as the killer, and during a fierce struggle, revealed to you a lot of damning things. You start to connect the dots for them. The divorce, the connections between cases, how the evidence lined up, Carol's card, the stalking—reliving it all was making your head throb. There was still a lot to make sense of, but those are questions John would have to answer for.

John Walker, a man who chose his vices and then punished them for not filling the void inside him. Drowning in his own insecurities and who was now being carried out on a portable stretcher by a team of paramedics. He's lethargic, mumbling incoherences about a monster in a mask.

The Brooklyn Ripper doesn't seem so scary in this light.

"When I asked you to never do anything like this again, I meant it. This is the second time you've disobeyed me," Fury dawns on that disappointed father demeanor again, but this time you're too exhausted to care. "I know, but once there was a suspicion it could be anyone at the FBI, I had to do this alone."

He sighs, crossing his arms, "We'll have to get your story straight later for the report and the higher ups. You did a good job tonight, but if anyone asks, this was my idea." You hum displeased, but you know why he's saying that. He's saving you from getting fired. An insubordinate agent isn't one the bureau would want to keep around, and even Fury has someone he has to report to.

"Yeah, I get it."

Fury gives you a couple orders he's not letting you disobey tonight. He instructs you to go get checked by one of the paramedics, he'll send a member of the crime scene unit to get photographs of all your injuries for evidence, and then you're heading straight home once you're cleared. John's injuries will have him stay overnight at the hospital, and he might not be conscious for an interview until tomorrow. So for now, Fury will stay behind with the crime scene unit and collect as much evidence and witness statements as they can. You have no issue following these orders.

You walk out of the funhouse, every step feeling heavier than the last. You catch Peter's eye and he grins proudly, showing you the bat in his arms all safe and sound. You had almost forgotten about it.

"I kept it safe, just like I said I would." You grab the bat from his hands, feeling a strong urge to hold it close. "Thanks, kid. You keep my card, okay? If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to call." He thanks you in wonder that you'd offer him that.

You don't know how you make it over to one of the ambulances, but eventually you're sitting on the edge of one with an EMT scoping out your injuries and giving you a routine check based on everything you told him happened. Just like Fury said, a crime scene unit member comes over to collect evidence of tonight's events. By the time they're all done taking pictures, swabbing, and prodding at you—you're at your limit.

You're eventually cleared to go home. You look at the chaos across the field, flashing colored lights from the law enforcement vehicles dance across the faces of the evacuating guests of the carnival, the people recording on their phones for social media, and the local news station reporters. All a symphony of chaos you want to run away from.

And then in the field approaching you is your solace and refuge all in one.

"I want to go home," you whisper, and Bucky reaches his hand out for you to take. "Come on then, let's go home," he says softly while you take his hand, the gentleness in which he holds you is such a contrast to the stories the scars on his hand tell. You run your thumb over them absentmindedly, causing Bucky to glance at you and notice something.

"I'm glad to see the bat made it out okay," he comments to lighten the mood. You look down at it, "The kid managing the line kept it safe for me. I knew things would get rough in there with John, so I had to make sure he was safe. I mean, John even gave you a hard time," you point out and Bucky scoffs like you insulted him, "Sweetheart, make no mistake, that was me going easy on him. I could've killed him for laying a hand on you." You frown, not understanding why Bucky would hold back, putting himself on the line if he could have ended things quicker.

His car is in sight when he notices your confusion, "I went easy on him because if I hadn't there would be a lot of injuries you wouldn't have been able to explain and you would've gotten in trouble. John is only alive for your sake." The sincereness in his tone should frighten you, but it doesn't. Not when you think back to the way John had intended to fatally wound Bucky with the knife. If John had been successful, would you have been able to stop yourself from pulling the trigger?

You'll never know for sure, but your heart knows what you would've done.

Bucky doesn't expect you to say anything, but the way you lean into his side before you reach his car is enough to assure him he didn't scare you off. Things had been easier between you before this case. He was the one who was hard to get close to at first, who had too many shadows of his past haunting him. And yet, you never gave up on him even when he wasn't ready or willing to open up to you. So when the tables turned, he always tried to be the light in the dark you had been for him, and patiently waiting for the moment you would let yourself live again.

He hopes you can find yourselves back to that place now that it's all over.

Bucky opens the passenger door for you, helping you inside and then heading over to the driver's seat. He starts the car in no time, keeping one hand on the steering wheel as he pulls out of the parking lot while the other reaches over to keep your hand in his.

You don't let go.

Bucky's apartment is starting to feel more like home to you than your own. You're staying there tonight, of course. Neither of you had to mention it to know it was happening.

Bucky leads you to his bedroom. You sit on his bed putting the bat beside you on the nightstand. He heads over to his dresser, taking out a pair of sleep shorts and a shirt for you to change into. He puts them next to you on the bed before grabbing a pair of black sweatpants from his dresser and stepping out of the room to give you privacy.

You barely make it past shrugging off your jacket when your starts to protest. It's the only thing you manage to take off when attempting to lift your shirt over your head, burns your skin with an intense ache. Every movement you make suddenly feels like you need double the strength and effort to do, as if you had been hit by a truck.

When Bucky comes back into the room he's half surprised to see you still haven't changed clothes, until he sees the way you wince when turning to face him, and a somber expression overtakes him. He walks over to you, gently brushing your hair out of your face, "Want me to help?"

"Yes."

Bucky gently, and very carefully, helps you out of your clothes, the act intimate in a way only soulmates would know. He softly brushes past parts of your body that are tender and hold signs of how hard you fought before he got there. He swallows hard, looking at the signs like they've stung him.

"Don't do that. Don't blame yourself." It's written all over his face.

"I can't help it. I'll always blame myself for stuff like this." You sit with the weight of that as he finishes helping you get into his clothes. His dog tags dangle from his bare chest when he tucks you into bed.

You grab his wrist before he can leave, "Stay with me."

"Always."

Bucky turns off the lights, joining you on the bed and pulling you into him. You lay your head on his chest, his arms wrapping around you like a safety net. You feel like you can finally breathe—like you're finally allowed to. And then it all hits you suddenly at once, everything you've been holding back from tonight crashing full force into you.

Bucky can feel the shift in you, the way you start to tremble in his arms before you let out the first sniffle. His hand brushes up to wipe a tear away, whispering your name like an oath in the dark. "It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay. You're safe. I got you, doll. I got you. You can let it out." The soft spoken assurance of his words release the floodgates. Your sniffles turning into sobs as you cry into his chest. He holds you close, rubbing soothing circles onto your back and whispering sweet nothings into your ear that come out as an I love you and I'm here in more ways than one.

Time seems to drag on while all your emotions drain out of you. You don't know how long it takes for you to calm down, but when you finally lift your head from his chest, you feel a familiar longing ache in your chest. You lean into him silently asking for something you've both wanted for a long time. He looks into your eyes as if searching for an answer, and all he finds is a plea that falls between an I love you and I need you.

In the end, you don't know who kisses who first. It's pure and ardent all in one—like it could consume you both if you let it—getting lost in a haze that's all you and him. A kiss that promises the kind of future you've been looking for all you life, but is your salvation for now. Something to tether you to this world and remind you there's still good in it. Nothing outside matter right now except what finally falling into place between you now.

You pull away to catch your breath, snuggling into his chest to listen to the beat of his heart—a beautiful lullaby. He feels you melt into his arms, lowering his head to plant a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"Rest now, you deserve it." he whispers of something far more then just tonight, and it doesn't take long after that for you to fall asleep.

There is no rest for the wicked or those who live to stop it, but tonight, you may rest.

Tomorrow will be a new day.

a/n: I always appreciate any kind of interaction, but I would really love to know your thoughts on this one! 🫶🏼 Did you guess who are killer was? 👀

Thank you all again for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡

lovelies who asked to be tagged: @star-yawnznn @sebastians-love

bucky masterlist || fic playlist || trick or treat event

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