𝓐𝓷𝓷𝓲𝓮

Natasha slid into the seat across from Bucky, the chair scraping lightly against the floor. She lifted her coffee, taking a slow sip as her gaze drifted—not to him, not yet—but to the movement around them. People coming and going, voices low, the steady hum of a place that did not care about anything happening at their table.

Only then did she look at him.

He looked wrecked.

His hair was disheveled, like he had been running his hands through it too many times. His face was drawn tight, shadows settled deep beneath his eyes.

Bucky leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, like he had just remembered she was there.

“I’m crazy, right?” he muttered. “To be stressing over this.”

Natasha did not hesitate. She shook her head once. “No. Something’s different.”

He scowled, his gaze dropping to his coffee before lifting back to her. They held there for a moment—long enough that it said more than either of them would. Then he sighed.

“I just don’t get it,” he said, quieter now. “We were getting married… and now—nothing. Like it never happened.”

Natasha did not interrupt. She let him talk, taking another measured sip of her coffee. He did not need solutions. He needed space.

He glanced at her again, jaw tightening. “I know,” he added quickly. “Without her memories, how could she… reciprocate anything.” His hands curled into fists against the table. “But still—I should matter.”

Natasha reached out, tapping lightly against his wrist. It was enough. His fingers loosened.

“You do matter,” she said calmly. “Just not like before.” A pause. “This is about her. Not you.”

Bucky nodded, but his attention had already drifted, his gaze pulled toward the window. People passed by outside, blurred and distant.

Natasha watched him instead.

After a moment, he spoke again, quieter than before. “It’s like I don’t even recognize her anymore.”

Natasha tilted her head slightly, considering him.“Or,” she said, just as calm, “she’s just not pretending anymore.”

His eyes snapped back to hers. They held there—longer this time.

Bucky broke first, grabbing his coffee and taking a long swallow like it might steady something in him. Then he leaned back in his chair again, shoulders sinking, the fight draining out just enough to leave something heavier behind.

It had been a few days since Peggy stopped by.

Things had settled back into something like a routine between you and Steve. He had been quiet that first day, more withdrawn than you were used to, but with a little effort—and a lot of patience—you had pulled him mostly back to himself. Mostly.

Right now, though, you kind of hated him.

He sat beside you on the garage floor while you lay on your back, trying to lift one leg, then the other, without letting either touch the ground. Your muscles trembled with the effort, your core burning as you fought to keep control.

Physical therapy sucked.

One upside—if you could call it that—was that Steve loved to work out. Which meant he had turned one corner of his garage into a small personal gym, and now you were putting every piece of it to use whether you liked it or not.

“Don’t let it drop,” he reminded you, entirely too calm about your suffering.

“I’m trying,” you shot back, breathless, already cursing him under your breath as your leg wobbled.

When you finally finished the set, you let your head fall back against the mat, chest rising and falling as you caught your breath, muttering something that was definitely not grateful.

Steve just smiled, staying close without hovering. Because he would catch you if you needed it. Because he always did.

You lay there for a moment longer, staring up at the ceiling, already dreading what came next.

“Come on,” he said gently.

You groaned but let him help you up, his hand firm but careful as he guided you to your feet. When he stepped back, his arm hovered just behind you—not touching, but close enough to steady you if needed.

You took a breath. Then another. And started forward.

The concrete felt too hard under your feet, your balance still uncertain. You wobbled almost immediately, and his hand came to your arm, steadying you before you could tip too far.

“Easy,” he murmured.

You nodded, resetting. Then you tried again.

This time, you closed your eyes for a second, grounding yourself, before stepping forward—

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

You stopped, breath catching as you realized—

You had done it. Without him.

A laugh burst out of you, bright and surprised. “Did you see that?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the way Steve had started to reach for you—then stopped himself, pulling his hand back.

Smiling, you glanced at him, a little breathless but proud. “Look at that. I’m starting to need you less.”

His expression softened immediately, pride clear in his eyes—but the smile that followed was quieter than you expected.

“Yeah…” he said. “I see that.”

Something in the way he said it lingered.

You turned, wobbling again, but this time it did not feel like failure—just part of the process. You steadied yourself and made your way back, slower, more deliberate, managing a few more careful steps on your own. Progress.

Afterward, he helped you shower again—though this time, he barely needed to. His hands hovered more than they held, stepping in only when your balance faltered. Each time, a little less.

By the time you made it back into the living room, you felt it—tired, but lighter.

You reached for your journal, settling back into the couch, but before you could open it, Steve lingered nearby. When you looked up, you caught the thoughtful look on his face. “What’s up?”

He dropped down beside you, leaning forward slightly. “We should do something,” he said. “Celebrate the progress.”

Then, after a beat, a small smile tugged at his mouth. “We both need to get out of the house.”

He did not say it. But you felt it. The quiet tension that had been hanging between you since Peggy left.

“Okay,” you said, curious despite yourself. “What are we doing?”

Steve leaned back, already pulling out his phone. “I’ll call Sam. He always has something going on.”

You huffed a quiet laugh and flipped your journal open as he stepped away, listening to his side of the conversation drift in and out from the kitchen.

“Yeah… tonight works… alright, we’ll be there.”

A moment later, he came back, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“There’s a band Sam’s been raving about,” he said. “They’re playing at some hole-in-the-wall place downtown.”

He moved toward the kitchen as he spoke. “I’ll make us something light to eat, then we can get ready and head out.”

“Sounds good.” You settled back into the couch, the idea of getting out loosening something in your chest as you turned back to your journal.

Your handwriting filled the page—familiar, but still just out of reach. You had written more in high school. Which meant these entries were taking longer to get through.

The lights were low, the band cutting through the steady hum of the crowd, music threading through conversation and laughter in a way that filled the room without overwhelming it.

You sat between Sam and Steve at a tall table near the middle of the space, the press of people and sound still a little too much at first. Voices overlapped, glasses clinked, and for a moment it felt like trying to step into a world that had kept moving without you.

Then Sam turned toward you, grinning. “I’m really glad you two came.”

His eyes flicked to Steve. “You’ve been keeping her all to yourself, man.”

Steve snorted, rolling his eyes, the tips of his ears already turning red. “Oh, shut up.”

Sam just grinned wider, turning back to you like nothing had happened. “I love this band,” he said, leaning in just enough to be heard over the music. “Not just the records—they actually put on a show.”

You smiled, glancing back toward the stage. “I can see that. The music’s… okay.”

Sam stared at you like you had personally offended him. “Okay?” he repeated. “Okay?”

He gestured toward the stage, animated now. “Listen to the riffs, the rhythm—actually listen. That’s not just okay.”

You laughed, lifting your club soda for a quick sip, letting Steve jump in before Sam could launch into a full defense.

“They do sound good,” Steve said easily. “Not really my usual thing, but I like it.”

Sam waved him off with a scoff. “You’re both hopeless.”

You only smiled, your attention drifting for a moment.

Steve had relaxed.

You could see it in the way his shoulders had dropped, the tension from the past few days easing just enough to let him settle into himself again. His hand rested lightly on your knee, his thumb moving absently back and forth like he was not even aware he was doing it. Grounding. Familiar.

You let it steady you, the noise and movement around you fading into something manageable as you leaned back and let yourself just listen.

Sam was right. They were good—tight, precise, every part working together in a way that felt intentional. Even if it was not something you would have chosen on your own, it was easy to get caught up in.

And more than that—

It felt good to be here.

Out of the house. Different air. Different sounds. Something new.

Sam leaned toward Steve again, nodding toward the stage. “See that? That’s what I’m talking about. A good frontman knows when to step back, let the rest of the band shine. That’s how you work a crowd.”

Steve smiled, following his gaze—and something in the way Sam said it catches. You pause.

The moment flickers—just at the edge of your mind. Not like Steve. Not like Tony. Softer. Less defined. But there.

You reach out, resting your hand lightly on Sam’s arm to get his attention. When he looks at you, you smile, a little uncertain but sure enough.

“You’ve said that before,” you say. “To me… and Wanda, right?”

His expression softens immediately, something warm and easy settling in. “Yeah,” he says. “Different show, bigger crowd—but yeah.”

A small laugh slips out of you, something loosening in your chest as the three of you turn back toward the stage.

You let the feeling stay this time. Do not question it. Do not chase it. Just… let it be yours.

Because for the first time since you woke up—this does not feel like trying to remember your life. It feels like you are actually living it. Even if only a little.

Part Nine

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“Right.” (Y/N) sighs. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking recently, specifically about staying and whether or not I’ll go home. And I think… I don’t think I want to go back.”

Bruce works quietly a few feet away and Tony just stares at her, waiting for her to continue.

“Any thoughts on that?” she asks.

Tony shrugs and folds his arms. “Not particularly, no.”

“Tony-”

“It’s your life, (Y/N). I can’t tell you how to live it or where. I can, however, offer to help you in any way I can.”

“Really?”

“Of course. You’ve been here for the better part of a year now. You’re practically family at this point. Especially with all the baked goods you keep forcing on us.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Bruce interjects.

(Y/N) laughs. “Okay, I get your point.”

“Good. So what can I do to help you with your predicament?”

(Y/N) takes a deep, steadying breath. “How hard would it be to get me a social security number?”

Tony shrugs. “With our connections I doubt it’d be impossible, but it may take a little while.”

“Okay. I’m sure I’ll have to figure out what to do about my missing birth certificate at some point anyway.”

Tony waves her off. “We’ll take care of it.”

“You say that like it’s easy.”

“Most things are when you have the money to make it happen,”

(Y/N) shakes her head. “Spoken like someone with money.”

“I can’t change who I am, (Y/N).”

She smiles and rolls her eyes. “What can I do to help you though? You said you’re close to testing?”

“Are you sure you’re comfortable helping? I wouldn’t want to force you into anything, especially now that you’re planning to stay.”

“I can help. I want to help,” she insists. “Just don’t abandon me anywhere and we’ll be fine.”

“I think she’d appreciate it if we avoided blowing her up,” Bruce adds.

(Y/N) gestures to Bruce. “That too.”

Tony chuckles. “I think we can manage that.”

“Ah shit, is it really five already?”

“Mm…” Tony squints at the clock on his display. “Looks like it, yeah.”

“Well this was lovely,” (YN) says, “But I gotta go.”

“Oh? Hot date?”

She grins and shoves her stool back from the tabletop. “Something like that, yeah.”

“Hope he doesn’t keep you out too late.”

(Y/N) laughs. “Can’t stay out too late if we never leave the tower.”

Tony’s suggestive whistle follows her through the lab doors. She just rolls her eyes, smiles, and heads up to her room to get cleaned up.

By the time she’s done in the shower she has a text from Steve letting her know the food has arrived. She dresses quickly and hurries to the common area to meet him.

When she arrives she finds the couch piled high with soft blankets and squashy pillows. Steve is sitting on the ottoman scrolling through movies. Beside him is a tray with take out containers. (Y/N) quietly walks across the room and wraps her arms around Steve’s shoulders. He immediately leans back against her and gently kisses her wrist. (Y/N) presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“This looks wonderful,” she says.

Steve tips his head back to look at her. “You think so?”

“Mhm, I’m a big fan of being buried alive in blankets. But, even better than that, you’re here.”

Steve smiles. “That’s real sweet.”

“Isn’t it?” Steve laughs and (Y/N) allows him to drag her down onto his lap. “What’re we watching tonight?”

He shrugs. “I figured you could pick one and I could pick one.”

(Y/N)’s eyes light up. “Really? You’ll be okay with whatever I want?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? It’s not like you’ll choose something bad.”

“Hey, you don’t know that. Maybe I’d pick the gore-iest thing you’ve ever seen in your life.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. You get nauseous just thinking about Human Centipede.“

(Y/N) gags. “Don’t even mention that movie. Reading the Wikipedia article was bad enough.”

“And that’s exactly why I’m not worried.”

(Y/N) sighs. “Yeah, okay… What’d you get me for dinner?”

“Fettuccine alfredo with chicken.”

“You’re so nice to me.”

“I know.”

(Y/N) laughs and Steve kisses her before picking her up and depositing her on the couch behind them. He covers her in blankets and hands her her food and a fork. He joins her soon after, handing her the remote as he settles in beside her. She flips through the movies while Steve repositions her legs over his lap and tugs the blankets over both of them.

She eventually settles on this dimension’s version of Pride and Prejudice that was released in 2005. Keira Knightley apparently looks the same across all dimensions, but the actor who played Darcy in her home dimension is, unfortunately, somewhat pinch-faced and looked like he’d smelled something terrible throughout his performance. The Darcy in this dimension, though, is tall and, mostly, regal. Maybe a little aloof. Overall, (Y/N) thinks he’s more handsome and that makes it easier to watch.

“Didn’t you just watch this last week?” Steve asks when she starts the movie.

“Maybe.” She opens her food and starts mixing the chicken chunks into the pasta. “I really like this movie.”

“I think you have a crush on Darcy.”

“Jealous?” Steve scowls at his spaghetti and (Y/N) frowns. “Steve, answer me.”

“A little, maybe?” He stabs a meatball. “I’m nothing like Mr. Darcy.”

She pauses the movie and reaches out to turn Steve’s face towards her. “Maybe that’s why I like you so much.”

“Are you sure?”

“He’s rude and unsociable and I know for a fact he’d make me convince him I’m worth his time. Why on Earth would I want someone like that? Especially when you’re the polar opposite of that. You’re warm and kind and generous with your time. I never have to worry that I’m annoying you. And sure, the actor is handsome, but you are so much more beautiful than him. There’s literally no comparison.”

“That’s really sweet.”

“And one hundred percent true.”

Steve sighs. “Well now I feel childish.”

“Why?”

“I was jealous of a man who doesn’t even exist.”

“I don’t think that’s childish. If you hadn’t talked to me about it, that would’ve been childish.”

“I still feel bad though.”

(Y/N) shrugs. “Even Captain America is allowed to get jealous sometimes.”

“You’re not upset?”

“No. Why would I be? There was an issue, we talked about it, everything’s fine now. Right?”

“I think so.”

“Then there’s nothing to be upset about.” She gently tugs on his shirt. “Gimme a kiss.”

Steve smiles, leans down, and gently kisses her.

“We should probably start the movie.”

“Probably. I think we should watch a different one though.”

Steve chuckles. “Okay, it’s up to you though.”

(Y/N) pulls up Spirited Away and settles against Steve. They eat and watch in relative silence, save for the occasional comment on how beautiful the animation is. (Y/N) sets her food to the side about halfway through the movie. Steve finishes his food soon after and wraps his arm around (Y/N)’s shoulders. She immediately relaxes against his chest and smiles when he kisses the top of her head.

When the movie ends they clean up their mess from dinner, They spread out fully on the couch before Steve gets to work choosing the second movie. (Y/N) settles heavily against his body and pulls the blanket up to her chin. Once Steve makes his movie choice he sets the remote to the side and gathers (Y/N) up in his arms. She melts against him as the opening credits for 101 Dalamatians roll. She’s never seen it and is immediately invested. She occasionally glances up at Steve to see how he’s reacting only to find he’s already looking at her. Each time he catches her he smiles softly, and each time (Y/N)s heart swells with affection. The final time he catches her she tips her head back, silently asking for a kiss. Steve happily obliges.

“That was insane,” (Y/N) says as the movie ends.

 Steve chuckles. “Parts of it are a little out there.”

“A little?” Steve lays down on the couch and (Y/N) allows him to drag her down on top of his body. “Who the hell wants to make a coat out of dogs? Let alone badly enough to go hunting for them in the city?”

“Okay, maybe it is a little insane,” he admits. He gently runs his hands up and down (Y/N)s arms. “Did you like it though?”

“I did. Very much.”

“I’m glad.”

(Y/N) rests her full bodyweight on Steve, crosses her arms on his chest, and rests her chin on her arms. One of Steve’s hands comes to rest in the small of her back. He moves the other to stroke the backs of his fingers over her cheek. She sighs contentedly and leans into his touch. He gently pushes her hair off her forehead before tracing his thumb over her cheekbone.

“That feels nice,” she murmurs. “I’m glad we did this.”

“Me too,” Steve says. “I wish we could do it more often.”

“So do I.”

(Y/N) slides herself up Steve’s body just enough to be able to look him directly in the eye. Without missing a beat, Steve moves his hand to the back of her neck and pulls her down to kiss her. She hums and smiles against his lips as she sinks her hands into Steve’s hair. His arm wraps around her waist and (Y/N) parts her lips just enough to let the tips of their tongues meet. Steve groans and his grip on her tightens, only serving to spur her on.

Somehow Steve’s hand finds its way under the hem of (Y/N)s shirt and she shivers under the force of his hold on her. With each slide of his tongue against hers she just wants more. More of his touch. His kiss. His everything.

He pulls away and she tries to follow him only to be stopped in her tracks at the sight of his dreamy expression. She smiles and tries to catch her breath. Beneath her Steve is flushed and breathless. His eyes rove over her face as if memorizing every part of her.

He gently combs her hair away from her face again and says, “I love you.”

She sits up slightly and searches his expression for any sign he’s joking.

“You do?” Steve nods. “Really?”

He chuckles, the sound comes out slightly breathless. “Really.”

“Steve, I-”

A bright, blue light suddenly fills the room, dominating the glow of the T.V. (Y/N) has to shield her eyes when she attempts to look at it. She finds two familiar faces in the middle of the swirling light. Two of her oldest, closest friends. She sits back on her heels trying to make sense of what she’s seeing.

“Peter?”

Peter grins. “(Y/N)! You’re alive!”

“Of course I’m alive, why wouldn’t I be?”

“We thought you were incinerated when the transport blew up. We’ve been trying to find you for months.”

Dread settles in (Y/N)’s stomach and she reaches out for Steve. He immediately takes her hand. She catches Peter’s eyes tracking her movement. Sees the way his shoulders tense and Johnny’s brows pull together with concern. She doesn’t miss when Peter shifts slightly closer to the portal.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asks, an edge of warning in her voice.

“We want to bring you home,” Johnny says. “Where you belong.”

“Why do you get to decide where I belong?” Steve squeezes her hand. She looks down at him, heart beating at a frantic pace. “Steve-”

“Do it,” Johnny says.

Before (Y/N) can even blink, webbing wraps around her arm and midsection. Steve cries out in surprise and tries to grab hold of her, but it’s no use. Peter hauls back on his webbing, sending (Y/N) hurtling through the air toward the portal. Steve bolts off the couch, but (Y/N) is back in Baxter Tower in mere seconds. The portal closes before Steve clears the ottoman.

WELL I did warn you there'd be a cliffhanger. And I'm sorry about what happened at the end there. It will not resolve for a Hot Minute lmao. Everything to come will be incredibly dramatic, but I had fun writing it so I really hope you'll all enjoy what's to come.

But! As always, I'd love to know what y'all thought of this chapter. What movies would you choose if you had a date night in with Steve? Do you think he would've liked 101 Dalmations? How do you feel about Peter and Johnny not giving the reader character a chance to choose? How do you think Steve feels now that his girlfriend has been kidnapped? Be sure to reblog, comment, and/or shoot me an ask and tell me all about it!

Tag List:

@ghostlyhamlet, @claws-of-vibranium, @buckysendoftheline, @ptprocrastination, @1950schick, @amayasymone23, @arfrona-and-marvel, @ek823, @fanaticfangirl001, @furrywerewolfcollector, @kissofvenom, @dawn-phantomhive, @fangirlwithasweettooth, @mairhof1, @starryeyesbadguys, @trap-house-homiecide, @buckywhitewolfbarnes, @kaepm981, @howdoesoneadult, @pcdmesamidala, @thefandomplace, @sian22redux, @lady-thor-foster, @feelmyroarrrr, @jazzcutie, @gaytonystark, @darling-loki, @geeksareunique, @tofeartheunknown, @queenoftheunderdark, @avengerscompound, @patzammit, @otterlycanadian

This fic:

The sun hung low over the horizon, painting the sky in soft shades of peach and gold as the waves lapped gently against the shore. The Maldives had been Steve’s idea—quiet, warm, far from everything. A place where the world didn’t need Captain America. Just Steve. Just you.

And now… just the two of you. Well—three, really.

You adjusted the strap of your black bikini, glancing down at the gentle curve of your stomach. Twenty weeks. Still small enough that you sometimes forgot—until moments like this, when your hand instinctively rested there, protective, in awe.

Steve noticed, of course. He always noticed.

He stepped up beside you, his hand sliding into yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You okay?” he asked softly, blue eyes searching your face like you were the most important mission he’d ever been given.

You smiled. “More than okay.”

Out in the water, sleek gray fins broke the surface, dolphins gliding effortlessly through the crystal-clear lagoon. The trainer waved you both forward.

“Ready?” Steve asked.

You nodded, squeezing his hand. “Ready.”

The water was warm as you waded in, sunlight dancing across the surface. The dolphins circled curiously, their movements graceful, almost playful. You laughed softly as one darted past, quick as a whisper.

Steve stayed close, one arm hovering near your back—not quite touching, but always there.

He turned to the trainer, his expression shifting into something more serious. “Hey—can I ask something?”

“Of course,” she said with a reassuring smile.

Steve gestured gently toward you. “She’s pregnant. Is this… safe?”

The trainer’s smile softened, understanding immediately. “Yes,” she said. “Perfectly safe. Dolphins are incredibly intuitive. They can actually sense pregnancy.”

You blinked. “Really?”

She nodded. “They use echolocation. They’re very aware of what’s going on inside the body. In fact… they tend to be especially gentle with expectant mothers.”

Steve looked back at you, something warm and almost awed in his expression. “See?” he murmured. “Told you they’d take care of you.”

Before you could respond, the water shifted.

One of the dolphins approached slowly, deliberately. Not darting or circling like the others—this one moved with purpose. Calm. Curious.

Your breath caught.

It came closer… and closer… until it was right in front of you.

Then, gently—so gently—you felt it.

Its rostrum rested against your belly.

You froze.

Time seemed to stop, the world narrowing to the soft pressure against your skin and the quiet rhythm of the ocean around you. Your hand instinctively moved to your stomach, fingers trembling as they hovered over the dolphin’s smooth, warm skin.

Your eyes filled before you even realized it.

“Oh my god…” you whispered.

Steve was beside you instantly, one hand bracing your back, the other coming to rest over yours. “Hey… hey,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “You okay?”

You nodded, tears spilling over anyway. “I think… I think it knows.”

The trainer stepped closer, her voice gentle, almost reverent. “She does,” she said. “That dolphin—she just became a mother herself.”

Your breath hitched.

The dolphin didn’t move. She stayed there, resting against you, as if listening… as if connecting.

With shaking fingers, you lowered your hand, brushing softly over her smooth skin.

“She’s saying hello,” the trainer added quietly. “To your baby.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, then another.

Steve pressed a kiss to your temple, his arm tightening around you. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to. You could feel it in the way he held you, the way his hand stayed over yours.

The dolphin shifted slightly, pressing just a little more firmly—then pulling back.

“That,” the trainer said softly, smiling, “was a kiss.”

You let out a small, broken laugh through your tears. “A kiss…”

Your hand stayed on your belly, your heart so full it almost ached.

Steve leaned his forehead against yours. “Guess our kid’s already making friends,” he murmured.

You smiled, tears still falling, but softer now.

The team deploys just outside a Hydra training facility carved into the cliffside, the ocean crashing far below in a constant, distant roar.

Tony stays back in the quinjet, already deep in their systems, his voice sharp over comms as he works. “Alright, let’s not repeat yesterday.”

Thor remains with him for now, watching the field from above, ready if things escalate.

Sam is airborne within seconds, circling wide as he surveys the layout. “Three pathing groups of four. Two on the near door. Multiple squads in the training yard. No aerial presence yet.”

On the ground, you and Steve fall into step without thinking, moving toward the larger cluster ahead as Tony splits the field. On the far side, Bucky and Natasha exchange a brief look before breaking off together, circling wide on Tony’s direction.

The first patrols go down clean and quiet. No alarms. No hesitation. For a moment, it almost feels controlled.

Then the field erupts.

Explosions ripple outward in a pattern too precise to be random, and barriers slam up in sequence, one dropping hard between you and Steve. Debris and smoke flood the space, turning clear sightlines into a maze of shifting gray.

Tony’s voice cuts through, sharp with confusion. “—wait—hold—something’s—”

Steve pushes left. You are forced right.

You nearly meet again around the edge of the barrier, close enough that he calls out, “I’ve got her—”

More barriers slam down. Clean. Final.

Tony sees it resolve on his end. “No—you don’t—”

Hydra agents drop in immediately, not to delay but to occupy. You cut through them without slowing, each one going down fast—but they don’t need to hold you for long.

Above, Sam tracks the shift in real time. “They split you.”

“On purpose,” Natasha confirms, already adjusting her position.

Tony exhales sharply, recalculating. “Of course they did.” His eyes flick across the field, locking onto the nearest moving point. “Cyborg—you’re closest—get to her—now.”

“Damn it,” Bucky mutters, already moving.

You push through another cluster of soldiers, faster now, more direct. They are not trying to contain you anymore—they are trying to kill you.

Bucky rounds the corner just as you take down another pair, closing the distance quickly. “I got you.”

You do not respond, already moving again, angling for a path out of the maze instead of deeper into it.

Ahead, a Hydra agent steps into view, launcher already raised.

“Down.”

Bucky reacts instantly, dropping with you as the missile screams past overhead and detonates behind you. He is back on his feet a second later, metal arm crushing the launcher while you take out the operator in the same motion.

There is no pause. You keep moving.

The next group hits hard, and the difference is immediate. Your timing is off, spacing too wide, movements just out of sync. You move too fast; he compensates too late. It is messy—but still effective. The soldiers go down, one after another.

As you break into a sprint again, Bucky mutters, almost to himself, “You’re not Steve.”

“Neither are you.”

There is no edge to it. Just fact.

The next engagement is tighter. You start adjusting, reading him—his reach, his weight, the way he uses that arm. Instead of working around it, you begin using it, shifting your angles to match his movement.

He catches on quickly. Adapts.

Still not perfect—but closer.

The smoke thickens as you push forward, Tony’s voice fading in and out through interference. Without warning, the ground drops away.

The cliff edge comes up fast.

Another squad hits immediately, forcing you forward. You take them down quickly, both of you moving with more precision now, less wasted motion.

Then a nearby detonation goes off.

The shockwave hits hard, throwing both of you backward.

Bucky goes over the edge.

You move without thinking, catching him just before he drops out of reach. The sudden stop wrenches your shoulder sharply out of place, pain flaring—but you do not let go.

“Come on, big guy—use that metal arm.”

Bucky looks down, then back up at you, scowling. “I would’ve been fine.”

You let out a short, exasperated breath. “You would’ve been out of the fight.”

After a beat, he shifts, driving the metal arm into the cliffside and finding purchase. Together, you haul him back up.

You do not stop moving.

Turning back the way you came, you nod toward the nearest barrier. Bucky does not hesitate—one punch caves it in, opening a path.

This time, when you move together, something clicks.

Your timing tightens. Your spacing aligns. When you call, he moves. When he shifts, you are already there. It is different from Steve—heavier, more force—but just as effective.

Over comms, Natasha’s voice cuts through. “Got the data. Moving to extraction.”

Sam drops lower through the smoke. “Airspace is unstable—move now.”

Tony’s voice follows, frustrated but controlled. “I’ve got nothing through this—just get out.”

Thor’s cuts through last, steady and certain. “Path is open. Move.”

You do.

All of you converge separately through smoke and debris, drawn toward the same exit point.

At the quinjet, Steve is already there, standing at the ramp, unmoving. Sam lands beside him. Natasha arrives moments later, already turning back to cover.

Steve does not move. His focus stays locked on the smoke.

Then—movement.

You and Bucky emerge together.

Not chasing. Not struggling.

Moving in step.

You hit the ramp side by side.

Steve exhales, the tension finally breaking.

You are fine.

And you are not alone.

After landing and a quick debrief, the team disperses to decompress. The compound settles into that strange quiet that follows a loud mission—too still after too much noise.

Steve steps out onto the lawn, needing the open air after all the smoke and confined space. He does not go far, just enough to feel the breeze, to let his lungs work without resistance. He stands there for a moment, hands loose at his sides, eyes unfocused on the stretch of trees ahead.

A minute later, he hears footsteps approach.

Bucky stops beside him, close but not crowding, matching his line of sight rather than turning to face him. For a moment, neither of them speaks.

Then Bucky exhales and says, almost to himself, “I still don’t get it.”

Steve glances at him out of the corner of his eye, already bracing for the argument he expects—but it doe not come.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Bucky continues, turning his head just enough to study him. There is no edge to it now, just curiosity, something quieter and harder to push back against. “I just don’t get why you didn’t say anything.”

That pulls Steve’s full attention. He turns slightly, searching Bucky’s face, trying to read where this is going.

Bucky does not hesitate. “Why you trusted her—” he pauses, just briefly, “—and not me.”

Steve shakes his head slowly, the reflex to deny there but without any heat behind it. “It wasn’t like that.”

He exhales, dragging a hand briefly across the back of his neck as he tries to find the right words. “It felt… too personal.” The admission sits strangely between them, heavier than he expected. He meets Bucky’s eyes again. “She trusted me not to.”

Bucky’s brows draw together as he turns that over, not rejecting it, just working through what it means. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “And that was enough?”

Steve’s mouth twists slightly. He shakes his head once. “No.” He takes a breath, steadier this time. “It mattered.”

They both look away after that, each in opposite directions, the space between them settling into something quieter. Neither rushes to fill it.

After a moment, Bucky nods, slow and thoughtful. “Yeah… I can see that.”

He glances back at Steve, one corner of his mouth lifting just a fraction. “She’s not what I thought.”

Steve lets out a faint breath that might almost be a laugh, though there is no humor in it. “No.”

Bucky turns back toward the compound, starting to head inside, but pauses just long enough to leave one last thought behind. “She’s not what you thought either.”

Steve does not answer.

He stays where he is, hands slipping into his pockets as he looks out across the lawn again, watching the trees shift in the wind and letting the weight of that settle where it will.

A little later, Bucky calls out to FRIDAY. “Um… where is Copycat?”

FRIDAY answers immediately. “The gym.”

He nods once before realizing who he is talking to. “Thanks.”

“Of course, Sergeant Barnes.”

He heads that way at a measured pace.

The gym is dark when he steps inside, the lights off, only starlight filtering in through the glass. It takes a moment for his vision to adjust.

He hears you before he sees you.

Steady breathing. Controlled. Rhythmic.

Then he finds you.

Hanging from a pull-up bar, knees hooked over it, body folding and unfolding in precise, controlled crunches. The motion is steady. Repetitive. Almost mechanical.

For a moment, he just watches.

Then he calls your name. “You know you don’t need to do that.”

You finish one more rep before dropping cleanly to the ground.

You straighten, already adjusted to the dark, and face him. “No.” You twist your shoulders once, working out the tension. “But it helps me think.”

He steps closer, stopping a few feet away. Neither of you rushes the space between you. “You almost let me fall.”

You glance up toward the ceiling for a second, as if replaying it, your expression thoughtful. “No.”

Your eyes drop back to him. “I caught you.”

He drags a hand through his hair, gaze shifting away. “You didn’t have to.”

You tilt your head slightly, something like a half-smile ghosting across your face. “Yes, I did.” A breath. “You were the closest variable.”

Bucky lets out a quiet, surprised chuckle. “That’s a hell of a way to say ‘teammate.’”

You shrug lightly. “It was accurate.”

He shifts his weight, still watching you. “You adjusted.” A small click of his tongue. “Fast.”

You nod once. “So did you.”

He exhales, glancing toward the windows. “Didn’t feel like it.”

You crack your knuckles, thoughtful. “You compensated.” A beat. “You always do.”

His head snaps back toward you, attention sharpening. “You fight different with him.”

You do not hesitate. “Yes.”

He huffs, frustrated with the lack of elaboration. “Why?”

You look at him like the answer is obvious. “Different variables.”

He nods slowly. That, at least, he understands. “And me?”

You meet his gaze directly. “You adapt faster than you think.”

He scuffs his shoe against the floor, looking down. “Yeah.” A small breath. “Still working on that.”

After a moment, he turns toward the exit.

He pauses at the door, “Next time—” glancing back over his shoulder. “Don’t wait that long to catch me.”

You almost smile. Almost. “Next time, don’t fall.”

He shakes his head and heads out.

You watch him go for a second, then turn back toward the heavy bag in the corner.

A moment later, your fist connects—and the rhythm starts again.

The next day, Steve is back in the main common area, sprawled across the couch with his feet stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. Another book from his list rests in his hands, his head bowed as he follows the words.

Across from him, you sit with your feet up on the coffee table, a tablet in your hands. Data scrolls steadily beneath your fingers as you sift through it, posture loose but alert in a way that never quite turns off.

The silence between you has stretched for over an hour now.

Not tense.

Companionable.

Steve turns a page, tilting his head slightly as his eyes track the next line.

You tap once, then scroll, the soft drag of your fingers the only other sound in the room.

Neither of you looks at the other.

Bucky walks in and slows when he sees you both.

He pauses just inside the room, taking it in. Steve does not look up. You do not acknowledge him.

It registers. This—is normal now.

He lets out a quiet breath.

Then he crosses the room and drops onto the couch beside Steve’s feet without a word.

After a moment, Steve glances up. “You good?”

Bucky leans back, draping an arm along the back of the couch. “Yeah.”

You do not look up right away, still focused on the tablet.

Then you push a small breath through your nose and speak, completely dry. “You’re blocking the light.”

Steve flicks you an amused look you do not return.

Bucky shifts an inch, just enough to acknowledge it. “You’ll survive.”

Steve smiles faintly and goes back to his book, turning another page.

Bucky settles deeper into the couch, stretching his legs out, letting his head tip back as he closes his eyes.

You keep scrolling, tongue pressing lightly against your lip as your focus sharpens.

Then, almost absently—“Did you break your shoulder?”

Steve snorts under his breath.

Bucky cracks one eye open, leveling a look at you. “No.”

Still looking down, you bite out, “You should have.”

Steve lifts a hand to his mouth to hold back a full laugh, eyes still on the page.

Bucky’s mouth tilts into a half-smirk. “I’ll try harder next time.”

Steve shakes his head, amusement lingering as he turns another page.

Bucky lets his head fall back again, eyes closing as he breathes out slowly.

You refocus fully on the tablet, already moving on.

After a second, you tap out a quick note and send it off—something just pointed enough to annoy Tony.

Part Sixteen

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"Oh, she didn't have to say much. Her eyebrow of disapproval did all the talking. Between that, her scant report, and staying over at Barnes' every night, there's only one thing to infer..."

Tony instantly struck a nerve. Nat had always been more than just a partner. She was Steve's constant, his voice of reason when missions went sideways. "Ride-or-die," she'd called it once, with that trademark smirk that somehow made the sentiment more genuine. Even after she and Bucky found each other, Nat remained Steve's compass. The one who called him on his bullshit, who made the hard calls he sometimes couldn't with little to no emotion.

Times Square flashed in his mind. The duffel bag, you inside it, the way he and Nat had locked eyes and just known. They'd been in perfect sync then, reading the same signs, following the same instincts honed through years of dealing with potential threats. Their mutual distrust had been automatic, practical. Hand you over. Walk away. Let someone else deal with this mess.

But something had changed in those weeks that followed. Steve's certainty had eroded, replaced by... well, something else. A shift so gradual he barely noticed it happening, until one day he looked up and realised his whole perspective had transformed. It was the kind of change that defied explanation, that made him question his own judgement.

"You're saying no hiccups, no hesitation, no 'own goals'? First live mission, and she was cool as a cucumber?" Tony pressed.

"I'm saying she kept her head when most rookies would've panicked. She tracked threats in real-time, coordinated movements... That's not suspicious, Tony, that's preparation. We trained her well. You trained her well."

"Or experience? You sure she hasn't done this before?"

Steve took a moment, weighing each observation, each interaction that had led them here. "Her instincts are sharp, I'll give you that. But I get the impression she's just figuring out her place... and working overtime to gain everyone's approval. I'd say she's almost desperate for it. Can't help but feel bad for her."

"It's not a complete farce. Sharon's a great girl, and–"

"And she helped you in your darkest moment, yeah, yeah, yeah," Nat finished for him, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "You know, for a guy with a perfect memory, you sure do repeat yourself a lot."

The car swerved as Steve reached over to swat at her arm. "Knock it off, will you? We've got a job to do."

Nat held up her hands in mock surrender, but her smirk remained firmly in place. "Fine, fine... but humour me for a sec. No need to go into the finer details of the dos and don'ts... How is the honeymoon situation supposed to work, exactly? Is there a clause in your contract to consummate the marriage?"

Steve turned to glare down at her. "That's not funny."

"I mean, it's a little funny. You're going to be the first guy in history to not get laid on his wedding night. There's a slapstick comedy reference in there somewhere..."

Steve forced a chuckle. "That's not something I've given serious thought. Considering the circumstances, I wouldn't say it's worth my energy."

"Alright, hear me out... One, you said it yourself. She helped you in your darkest moment. Not to mention agreeing to an arranged marriage. And two, Carter's a looker. Let's just be honest with each other. So if she were to strip down to her bridal lingerie and seduce you on your wedding night, what do you do? Wouldn't you say you're kinda obligated to give the girl something?"

Steve bristled at Nat's what-if scenario. "Sharon knows our union is born out of convenience rather than love. She volunteered of her own volition."

Nat shifted in her seat, fishing her phone out of her pocket. "Hold that thought..."

"What are you doing?" Steve asked, brow furrowing as he glanced between her and the road.

"Grounds for annulment..." she read aloud, scrolling through an article. "There are only five recognised grounds for annulment in New York... blah, blah, blah... spouse was a minor... mental incapacity... Ah, bingo! At least one spouse is unable to have sexual intercourse."

"Inapplicable."

"Oh, I beg to differ. All work and no play? Rogers, come on!"

Steve's exasperated sigh filled the car. "She is not going to file for annulment. Least of all for that."

"For what? Your floppy disk?"

"Really, Romanoff? Floppy disk? Even I know that reference is out of date. You're slipping."

"Okay, look, jokes aside... I want you to be prepared, having considered all scenarios before taking the plunge. You view this as serving penance, great, I get it. But to what end? What happens when people start asking questions about kids?"

"They won't..."

"Of course they will! Do you have any idea how intrusive and opinionated people can be? And what about fans? Good grief, fans are the worst!"

"I'll cross the bridge when I get there. For now, I just need to get through the wedding."

"Right... And in the meantime, Barnes and Sarah get hitched, get to work on the family you know she's always wanted, and the four of you all sit together at Cece's annual High Tea like a bunch of poseurs for the foreseeable future."

Silence settled over the car. Nat knew her last comment had hit its mark. She felt a twinge of guilt for causing Steve pain, but she reminded herself that sometimes the truth hurt. And this was a truth he needed to face. As she watched him from the corner of her eye, Nat's heart ached. His eyes, usually so focused and alert, seemed to look beyond the road ahead, as if searching for an escape route that simply didn't exist. In that moment, Nat was struck by an overwhelming desire to shoulder his burdens. To free him from the weight of grossly unfair responsibility that had been thrust upon him. She longed to tell him it was okay to walk away from it, but she knew it wasn't that simple. Steve's stubborn sense of duty and loyalty simply ran too deep. Still, as the miles stretched out before them, Nat couldn't shake the fervent wish to see Steve truly happy, truly free, even if just for a moment. She'd give anything to grant him that release, to see the genuine smile that had become increasingly rare as the wedding drew near.

After a short after care session, Steve was back to his brooding self, almost storming about the house while he prepared for the trip. You had been instructed to simple take a backpack with the 'bare essentials' in, which you were still uncomfortable with but you begrudgingly accepted. 

You threw on a pair of simple black leggings, an oversized band tee and your trusty old trainers for the trip, opting for comfort over style. A brush was quickly thrown through your hair before you slung the backpack over your shoulders and made your way down the stairs and into the kitchen where Natasha was waiting at the centre island, busily tapping away at her iPad. 

"All set?" Nat queried without raising her head.

"Yep." You replied nervously, taking a seat on one of the bar stools while you waited. 

"Where's steve?" You asked, taking note of his missing presence. 

"Right here." Steve announced as he appeared from the stairs, sporting a pair of black slacks, a white shirt and a pair of dark sunglasses. 

"I'll let the driver know you're ready." Natasha said, finally breaking her gaze from her tablet as she made her way towards the front of the house. 

"No bag?" You asked curiously as you took in Steve's chiselled torso that was being outlined perfectly by the crisp white shirt. 

"The driver will collect it." Steve said abruptly whilst he fidgeted with the cuffs of his sleeves. 

"Is this a bad time to say my passport is out of date?" You teased, attempting to lighten the mood and hopefully see a smile from his constantly frowned face. You were met instead, however by a quick turn of Steve's head and a scolding look that made you fear you may be in trouble. 

"I'm joking." You added nervously, lowering your head to avoid his looming glare. 

"Steve, we're ready." Came Natasha's voice from the front door. 

"Saved by the bell." You muttered under your breath, making your way hastily towards the car, hoping to pull yourself out of this now tense and awkward situation. 

You dare not even look back as you made your way straight out of the house and practically threw yourself into the back of the sleek black car. Your seatbelt was swiftly clicked into place and you placed your ear pods snuggly into their positions, attempting to drown out your thoughts in preparation for your trip to the airport.

There would be plenty of time for anxiety and panic once you got there. The car jolted and bounced as Steve appeared, sliding in to the seat next to you, quickly followed by Nat who took her position on the adjacent seats facing you. 

"You don't mind do you?" You quickly asked Steve, gesturing to the ear pods. 

He simply shook his head in response and so on came the music and off you went. 

On arrival at the airport, your car was met by a smart looking woman in a pencil skirt and shirt, her hair tied into a slick bun and red lipstick gleaming on her lips. She opened the car door as you came to a stop in front of her. 

"Good morning Mr rogers." She said over-enthusiastically, flashing a smile his way. Honestly it angered you a little. 

"Good morning Sharon." Steve returned with a sudden spring in his step, smiling away as he exited the car. 

You gathered your ear pods back into the case and let yourself out of the car, making your way over to where Natasha and Steve now stood. 

"Sharon, This is my new assistant." Steve announced as you arrived at the group. With the rush of the morning you had almost forgotten that it was now time for 'game faces'.

Sharon made a very obnoxious hum sound in response and couldn't even be bothered to lift her lip into a full smile to greet you. It felt like you were back in high school, with the popular girl refusing to acknowledge your existence and it was something you had outgrown.

You couldn't be bothered with the behaviour in the slightest and so you didn't even respond. Instead you turned my attention to your phone, pretending to be busy working whilst they continued conversing. 

A short few minutes had passed and you were being escorted into a large hangar where a small white jet was waiting, its door open and stairs guiding the way into its depths.

You gulped deeply as the anxiety and fear began to set in. This was really happening. You hadn't stepped foot on a plane since you were a child and although you had a passport, you had chickened out of actually using it, until now. 

You did everything you could to keep the looming panic attack at bay as you approached the plane, choosing to stay out of conversation completely as Nat and Steve greeted the pilot. 

You all settled into the cream leather seats and you tried to hide your shaky hands and the tears threatening to spill down your cheeks.

Steve sat opposite you and busied himself on his phone while Nat sat in the adjacent aisle's seat, also tapping away on her tablet. You felt like you should be doing something, yet there was nothing you could do except stew in your own anxiety. 

Sharon came through the plane a few minutes later, advising you of the safety procedures and checking your seatbelts. 

You couldn't help but notice as she checked Steve's, she leant over and stroked her hand up his leg, letting her cleavage practically rub in his face as she tugged on his belt, checking it was secure. 

He smiled at her with flirty glint in his eye that had you rolling your own eyes with a huff, as you slumped back in your seat.

He looked over at you with a stern scowl as Sharon retreated to the front of the plane.

"What's the matter?" Steve asked and you narrowed your eyes at him.

"Nothing. I'm fine." You scoffed.

"Princess..." He coaxed, but you were too anxious and too in your head to care at that moment.

"Just go back to your phone Steve and leave me alone." You hissed before folding your arms across your chest and glaring out of the plane window.

Steve's eyes narrowed and his jaw ticked but he didn't respond, instead he settled back in his seat and you could feel him watching you with interest as the plane began its take off procedures. 

You tucked your trembling hands against your sides, bouncing your knee and taking deep breaths as the plane ascended into the air at speed. 

By the time it had levelled out, you were a mess and you knew you needed to be freed from your own mind, you needed space to breath before you combusted from the pain.  

Sharon stepped back down into the aisle offering Steve a drink with a flirtatious wink and you scoffed loudly, knowing you were being ridiculous but you pushed all the same.

Steve yelled your name, avoiding one of your preferred honorifics while you were in the presence of Sharon. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Nothing. Just leave me the fuck alone." You spat back.

"Sharon, leave." He hissed angrily, waiting with a clenched jaw while she shuffled back to the cock pit. "Princess, bathroom."

"No." You scoffed back.

"Now." He growled and your pussy clenched at the tone.

You quickly fumbled with your belt and stomped towards the onboard bathroom. 

It was small but more spacious than a normal airplane bathroom, big enough for two, even three people to fit in comfortably.

You didn't have long to look at it before Steve stomped in the room, closing and locking the door behind him.

His face softened ever so slightly and he gripped your chin in his palm, pulling your face up to meet his stern gaze.

"Do you want to explain to me what's wrong?" He asked, sternly but with a hint of care.

"I..I don't..I can't." You practically whimpered.

"You know I'll need to punish you for talking to me that way." He intoned with a raised brow.

"I know. I want to be punished. Please Steve." You begged.

He looked at you curiously, like he was considering it momentarily before he dropped your face.

"On your knees." He demanded and you immediately complied, dropping onto the tiled floor and keeping your head set down.

You heard him fumble with his belt before he slipped his pants and underwear to his thighs. 

"Why are you being punished princess?" Steve asked sternly.

"Because I was rude to you sir." You whispered.

"And?" He continued.

"I swore at you and I rolled my eyes at you sir." You whimpered.

"That's right, you did and that's not the behaviour I expect, is it?" He spoke with such authority that you could feel the wetness pooling in your panties and your brain began to fuzz the way you were craving.

"No sir. I'm sorry sir." You whispered once more.

"I know you are and to prove it you're going to let me use your face like the good girl I know you are." He demanded.

You nodded slowly, desperate for the release of control only he could bring in that moment.

"Look at me." He demanded and your head snapped up, seeing his hard cock bob in your peripheral vision as you met his gaze, "You won't be able to use your safe word, show me your safe signal."

You quickly raised your hand and tapped firmly twice on his thigh.

"Good." He replied, "Eyes on me at all times. Don't you dare look away."

"Yes sir." You whimpered.

You licked your lips as he took a long stroke over his veiny cock, dropping your jaw when he brought it close to your face.

He slapped the heavy appendage across your cheek with a grunt before forcefully shoving it deep in your throat.

You barely had time to register the intrusion before you were gagging, spit pooling around him and dribbling from your lips as your eyes swelled.

You groaned loudly as your tongue lapped at the velvety skin and your thighs clenched together tightly.

"I don't think so brat!" Steve growled, forcing his cock impossibly deeper into your throat, "You don't get to enjoy your punishment."

Your eyes widened as tears began to spring from them, mind hazing over in just the way you needed. In that moment there were no other thoughts, no pleasure, this was just about him and that's exactly what you needed to empty your brain of everything else.

Steve slipped a hand into your hair and gripped it painfully at the scalp, making goosebumps shoot from your scalp to your neck.

His fist tightened on your hair and he held you in place as he began rocking his hips at speed in and out of your mouth, ignoring the gargles and spit as he used you.

"That's it," He groaned, "There's my good girl."

You whimpered around his length at his approval, as more tears slid down your cheeks.

"Yeah you are." He groaned again, slapping your cheek firmly with his free hand, "Fuckin' crying around my cock like a good little whore."

His hips retreated slowly, pulling his length to rest on your lips before pounding it back in and bruising your throat as you choked.

You were a mess, face red and puffy with tears, spit lacing your chin and dribbling onto your thighs while Steve grunted and groaned in pleasure, delivering slow blow after slow blow to your abused mouth before he finally stilled, holding your head impossibly tighter in his grip and cumming with a moan.

His intense gaze never left yours as rope after rope of warm cum filled your throat.

"Hold it." He ordered before withdrawing his cock and releasing your hair.

You sealed your lips tight, holding his salty, thick come on your tongue as you watched him carefully tuck himself away and straighten his clothes. 

When he was done he finally turned back to you. 

"Let me see." He demanded and your mouth dropped open, tongue wiggling desperately.

He smirked proudly seeing his spend still sat waiting in your mouth. He brought his face closer to your own and suddenly spat onto your tongue.

"Swallow." He ordered and you closed your lips once more, allowing the combined fluids to slide down your throat before opening your mouth again and showing him your clear tongue.

"Good girl." He purred, stroking your cheek gently and you instinctively leaned into his hand, seeking out his touch as you came down from the submissive high.

Steve dropped to the floor before you, bending his legs at the knee and spreading them wide.

"Come here." He said softly, pulling you into his arms.

He spent a few minutes gently stroking your hair, telling you how good you were, how proud he was.

When your breathing returned to normal he placed his arms around you, pulling you into a hug and placing his chin on top of your head.

"Do you wanna tell me what's wrong now?" He asked.

"I'm scared..of planes..." You whispered, clutching onto his chest and nuzzling your face into his shirt.

"I understand.." He began, but you cut him off before he could continue.

"No you don't.." You whispered, "My parents..they died..in a plane crash."

You allowed the tears to fall, crying softly against him.

You felt his arms stiffen around you before he pulled you impossibly closer and placed soft kisses to your head. 

He didn't ask any more of you, he didn't pry, he just held you. He held you until your brain was clear and your anxiety settled and for the first time since it happened, you had told someone of the trauma and it felt freeing. 

Everything Tag - @late-to-the-party-81

@the-wandering-wonder @rnurse-kole @chemtrails-club

Tony stands in his lab in the middle of correlating data when your note pops onto the screen. He reads it immediately and, predictably, is already irritated. Muttering to himself, he adjusts the system as he works.

“Yeah, yeah, inefficient—sure.”

FRIDAY speaks up, calm as ever. “Mr. Stark, something is coming through the data feed.”

Still half-focused on your note—and begrudgingly aware that it is, in fact, improving his workflow—Tony waves her off. “Of course it is.”

There is a beat, and when FRIDAY responds again, her tone is more precise.

“No, Mr. Stark. The false feed. An inbound packet.”

That pulls him up short.

Tony pauses, his expression shifting as he turns fully to the screens. “That’s not possible.”

He pulls the packet into isolation, running it through every safeguard he has out of habit and necessity. When it comes back clean—too clean—he opens it. The data integrates seamlessly, and that alone tells him where it is from.

Hydra.

“They shouldn’t even know where to—”

He stops as the first file resolves.

Project Designation: Mirror Protocol. Blood samples. Tank-bred infants. Viability rates. Genetic alteration. Enhancement markers.

Tony exhales slowly. “Okay… that tracks—”

Then the file expands.

Additional subjects. Failed iterations. Mortality in infancy.

Two viable.

“…that doesn’t track.”

He leans in, opening the next file.

Second subject. Male. Designation: Brother. Parallel enhancements. Parallel training.

FRIDAY overlays the data. “Cross-referencing—genetic similarity detected.”

Tony drops his head for a second, staring at the floor before dragging a hand over his face. “The hell… you’ve got to be kidding me.”

When he looks back up, he keeps going.

Deviation report. Mission failure. Attachment to a civilian.

Tony’s voice lowers without him realizing it. “He defected.”

He opens the next file.

Assignment logs populate the screen.

Assigned agent: you.

Directive: terminate.

Tony goes still. “…no.”

But he does not stop.

The combat logs begin to scroll, dense and relentless. Images follow—grainy, fractured, but clear enough. The fight is brutal. Prolonged. Inefficient in a way that does not match anything he has seen from you.

FRIDAY fills in the gap. “Engagement lasted twenty-seven hours. Significant structural damage recorded.”

Tony watches, unable to look away. “Why didn’t you just—”

He cuts himself off.

The final image resolves.

The body.

The aftermath.

Termination confirmed. Method: manual.

Tony covers his eyes with his hand, pressing his fingers briefly against his face. “…Jesus.”

It takes him a moment before he can bring himself to open the last file.

When he does, it is worse in a different way.

Post-mission instability. Loss of control.

Images flood the screen—destruction, bodies, collateral that no directive would have sanctioned.

Tony straightens slowly, hands settling on his hips. “That’s not mission behavior.”

“Reconditioning protocols initiated,” FRIDAY confirms.

He scratches at the back of his neck, unsettled. “Yeah… no kidding.”

For several seconds, he just stands there, staring at the data without really seeing it, trying and failing to process the scope of it.

FRIDAY breaks the silence. “You should call Ms. Rogers.”

Tony snaps immediately. “Don’t call her that.”

He exhales, sharp and uneven, then pushes the screens outward again. “…call everyone.”

It does not take long for the room to fill.

You and Steve take your usual place by the window. Natasha, Sam, and Bucky gather near the table. Thor stands in the corner, quiet and watchful.

Tony does not ease into it. He does not have it in him. The screens flare back to life behind him, filling the room with cold light.

It takes only seconds for the shift to happen.

Steve’s attention goes to you immediately, not the screens. Something in his posture tightens, concern already written across his face.

Bucky watches Tony first, then turns to you, his expression sharpening into something cautious and searching.

Natasha leans forward, scanning ahead, already assembling the shape of the information before it is fully explained.

Sam’s reaction lags a beat—confusion first, then dawning concern.

Thor says nothing, but his focus moves from the data to you just as quickly as Steve’s did.

Tony swallows once, then says it, more carefully than usual. “There were two of you.”

The screen shifts.

Your counterpart appears.

Sam leans forward. “Wait—there was more than one?”

Natasha sits back slightly now, still reading, still calculating.

Bucky’s jaw tightens, his entire posture going rigid.

Tony hesitates—just for a second—before continuing.

“He defected.” His voice is quieter now. “They sent you after him.”

The footage plays.

The fight fills the space—violent, drawn out, wrong in a way that is hard to articulate. Not the efficiency they have seen from you. Not the control.

No one speaks.

No one moves.

You step forward.

Just one step, closer to the screens.

Your eyes lock on the image of the body.

“We were teenagers,” you say, voice even. “He deviated from directive.”

A small pause.

“I was reassigned.”

Tony’s voice drops almost to a whisper. “You killed him.”

You nod once.

“Yes. I plunged my hand through his chest and removed his heart while he was still breathing.”

A beat.

“It took longer than expected.”

The image lingers—ruined, unmistakable.

You do no look away.

“He became attached to a girl after a mission,” you continue, as if reciting something already processed. “He wanted a normal life.”

The room stays silent.

And then, without warning—without any change in your voice—tears begin to fall.

Slow. Unacknowledged.

Steve shifts closer, his hand coming to rest lightly at the small of your back, grounding but not interrupting.

At the table, Bucky does not move at all. Something in his expression changes, recognition threading through the tension—something too familiar.

Natasha watches you, not the tears, but the disconnect between them and your voice.

Sam exhales slowly, shaking his head once, unsettled in a way he cannot quite hide.

Thor’s gaze remains steady, understanding settling in without surprise.

You keep looking at the screen.

“He hesitated,” you say quietly.

A breath.

“I didn’t.”

No one is looking at the data anymore.

Only you.

The silence stretches between all of you for an unbearable length of time.

With a breath, you turn and leave. Quietly.

Steve hesitates only half a second before following.

No one else moves.

He catches sight of you in the hallway, already heading toward the stairs, and falls in behind you without a word.

Your pace is quick—not running, but only just contained.

He calls your name once. You do not turn.

He lengthens his stride, gradually closing the distance.

You still do not stop until you reach the roof.

The wind catches your hair immediately, the sky wide and bright above you. You move straight to the edge before finally coming to a halt.

Steve steps out behind you.

You stand with your back to him, your breathing already uneven, coming in short, broken pulls.

He closes the distance but stops a step behind you, leaving space.

Careful, low, he says your name again.

The only sign you heard him is the slight tension that moves through your shoulders.

The silence between you stretches, thin and sharp, like something that might snap.

When you speak, your voice catches. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

You try to steady yourself, reaching for the familiar structure of logic, your tone flattening even as it wavers at the edges. “It was a completed directive.”

You shake your head once, still not turning. “It does not affect current operations.”

“That’s not what this is,” Steve says gently.

His hand lifts, hovering just short of your shoulder before he lets it fall again, giving you the space you are clearly trying to hold onto.

You shake your head again, sharper this time. “He deviated.”

A breath that does not quite come clean. “He compromised the mission.”

“He was your brother.” The words land.

The tears come harder this time, not quiet, not controlled—spilling freely down your face. Your nose clogs with it and you cut your hand sharply through the air, as if you could dismiss the thought entirely. “That’s not—”

Your voice catches, frustration breaking through as you choke on the words. “That’s not what he was.”

You turn away, still keeping your back to him, and start to pace. The movement is sharp, uneven, your control slipping with each step.

The words start coming faster now, pulled loose by memory. “He hesitated—”

You nearly stumble on flat ground, catching yourself as your breath stutters. “He wouldn’t move—”

Your hands lift, cutting through the air as if you can force the memory into something structured, something manageable. “He kept talking about—”

The thought breaks apart before it finishes.

You stop, still not looking at him. Tears continue to fall unchecked. “I didn’t hesitate.”

Your hands drop, trembling now. “I wasn’t supposed to—”

Your breathing turns ragged as you start pacing again. “I didn’t—”

Steve moves then, slow and deliberate. “Hey—”

He steps into your path, stopping you mid-motion.

You do not resist. You do not even really see him.

Your gaze fixes somewhere on his shirt, unfocused, your vision blurred with tears, your cheeks flushed, your breathing coming in shallow, uneven gasps.

He does not hesitate this time.

His arms come around you, firm and steady, pulling you in.

For a moment, you go completely still.

Then it all gives at once.

Your body collapses into him, the tension draining out in a rush. You shake in his arms, your breath breaking apart completely as the sobs hit, messy and uncontained. Tears and snot soak into his shirt and you do not even seem to notice.

Your voice is barely there, fractured and small. “I didn’t—He—I—”

Steve tightens his hold, anchoring you. “I’ve got you.”

One hand moves slowly along your back, the other steady at your shoulder. “You’re okay.”

When your breath catches again, sharp and uneven, he lowers his head slightly, resting it against yours. “I’m here.”

The words are quiet, but they do not waver.

Gradually, your arms come up, wrapping around him, holding on now instead of just being held.

Your breathing starts to slow—still uneven, still catching—but deeper than before.

The tears taper off, leaving behind small, shaky inhales and quiet sniffling.

Neither of you moves. Neither of you speaks.

You just stand there, held together by the space between his arms and your grip on him—and for now, that is enough.

The group has moved into the common area. Tony stands off to one side, working through a cluster of screens, though his movements are slower than usual, less certain. The others keep their voices low as they talk—Natasha, Bucky, and Sam seated across the couches, Thor standing apart, his attention fixed on the doorway they all expect you to come through.

When you do, the shift is immediate.

You and Steve step in together, your pace steady now but measured, as if each step is placed with intention. His hand rests at the small of your back, light but constant, a quiet point of contact that does not waver.

Your face is still flushed, your eyes rimmed red, the swelling not yet gone. Your breathing has steadied, but only just—slow, deliberate pulls that still carry the echo of what came before.

There is a darkened patch on Steve’s shirt where your tears soaked through. He does not try to hide it.

Conversation fades the closer you get, until it disappears entirely. Neither of you sits right away. Steve does not move away.

Natasha is the first to take it in fully—your face, the set of your shoulders, the hand at your back, the damp fabric. Her gaze lingers only a second before shifting away, storing the change without comment.

Beside her, Bucky notices just as much. Your face. Steve’s proximity. The way he stays where he is. Something in Bucky’s posture adjusts, but he does not look away this time.

Sam hesitates, his expression tightening with uncertainty before softening as he takes in your state.

Tony keeps his focus on the screens, or at least pretends to, though his attention flicks toward you more than once—taking in the details, the difference, the closeness.

Thor watches openly from where he stands, calm, almost solemn, as if the shift makes immediate sense to him.

With a breath, you move first, taking a seat at the edge of the couch. Steve remains standing just behind you, his hand shifting from your back to your shoulder, a steady, grounding presence that does not ask for attention but does not disappear either.

For a moment, no one speaks.

Then Sam does, tentative but genuine. “You… good?”

Your gaze lifts to him. You take another breath, deeper this time, and when you answer, your voice is even again.

“I will be.”

Tony huffs lightly, only half turning in your direction, his tone edged with forced normalcy. “So… Hydra’s apparently in the business of oversharing now.”

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, irritation slipping through. “Which is great. Love that for us.”

Natasha’s eyes flick to him. “They wanted us to see it.”

Tony exhales, turning back to the screens. “Yeah, well. Message received.”

Natasha’s gaze shifts to you for just a moment before she adds, quieter, “Not just us.”

No one argues that.

The silence that follows is brief, but heavier now.

Bucky breaks it, his voice controlled, deliberate. “They’re escalating.”

Tony lets out something that is not quite a laugh. “No kidding.”

Bucky’s eyes move to you, steady this time. “They’re not just targeting anymore.”

You tilt your head slightly, acknowledging the point, and he finishes,

“They’re provoking.”

Thor’s voice cuts in, calm and certain. “They strike not at the body, but at the spirit.”

Tony glances over, irritation returning in a familiar way. “Yeah, we call that psychological warfare.”

Thor does not react to the tone. His gaze shifts briefly toward you. “It is no less dangerous.”

Behind you, Steve’s hand tightens slightly on your shoulder—not restraining, just anchoring.

“It doesn’t change the mission.”

The words settle over the room, steadying it.

You lift your hand, covering his briefly, a small squeeze before letting it fall away again.

“It changes their strategy,” you say, drawing in another slow breath as you center yourself fully. “Not mine.”

No one pushes back. No one asks for more.

The room settles into a quiet acceptance—not resolution, but something close enough for now.

Steve’s thumb moves lightly against the back of your neck, a small, absent motion meant more to keep you present than anything else.

Bucky notices it. Something at the corner of his mouth almost lifts before he reins it in.

Natasha sees that too and files it away with everything else.

Tony catches the movement last. His gaze lingers for a second—on you, then Steve—before he turns back to his screens without a word.

Part Seventeen

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You swallowed hard, your throat practically constricted with anxiety. Yesterday's simulation exercises had included direct oversight. Bruce's theoretical frameworks, Tony's technological intuition, Sam and Clint's comedic relief, Steve's strategic guidance. Now, with miles of empty air between you, the mission felt impossible.

"Okay, give me a sec... Pulling up sat visuals now..."

The displays activated in synchronised cascade, each screen populating with layered intelligence feeds. Behavioural analytics, biometric profiles, and predictive modelling algorithms refined through decades of S.H.I.E.L.D. operational data.

"Looks like... four hostiles patrolling the upper deck," you reported. "Two on starboard side, near the bow, and two near the stern. They're armed, semi-automatic rifles. Movement is staggered, but their routes overlap every thirty seconds. You'll need to time your approach."

The tactical overlay system rendered patrol routes in crimson vectors, creating patterns eerily similar to the mutated cardiovascular systems documented in Leekie's controversial research. The parallel seemed fitting, given that the vessel belonged to MutaTech.

"Sounds straightforward enough. Anything else I should know?" Steve asked; still calm, still confident. As if he was already way ahead, processing multiple contingencies and analysing potential outcomes with the efficiency born from decades of field experience. This was one guy who very clearly did not need Stark's cleverly-designed software.

"Yeah. There's a security camera mounted above the bridge. Rotates every ten seconds. You'll need to avoid that, or you're gonna have company fast."

"She knows you've done this before, right? This is her first mission, not yours?"

Natasha's transmission carried the same edge you'd grown accustomed to over the past few months. That subtle inflection. It was the same tone she'd used during your conversation in the library.

"Play nice," Steve chided, but you could hear the smile in his voice, a deeper understanding of the team's new precarious dynamics. "How else is she gonna learn?"

Just then, OmniSight's predictive algorithm highlighted Steve's intended exit trajectory, confirming what mission profiles had documented repeatedly:

Predictive Alert: High Probability Action Detected

Subject: Captain Steve Rogers

Action: Unassisted Leap from Bay Door (No Parachute)

Probability: 94%

Projected Outcome: Safe landing with minor impact force.

Recommendation: Monitor trajectory and provide situational support.

Along with the visual display came the audio alert in your earpiece.

"Predictive Analysis. Captain Rogers is likely to exit the aircraft without a parachute. Estimated probability, ninety-four percent. Recommend trajectory monitoring and environmental updates."

As if on cue, you watched him advance toward the back of the Quinjet. Your breathing stuttered. Not in a swooning way some might expect, but out of admiration. Well, that's what you told yourself, at least.

And then he was gone, executing the free-fall exactly as OmniSight's behavioural modelling had predicted, his trajectory a perfect arc through the night air. Captain America, turning gravity into a suggestion rather than a law.

Your heart lurched into your throat as the monitors tracked his descent. This was not something you'd ever get used to. That much was evident. You held your breath until the moment Steve broke the surface. Only then did you allow yourself to exhale, sinking back into your chair.

"You don't have to track him every second, you know," Natasha's voice filtered through your earpiece. Zero attempt at hiding or even suppressing her irritation. "Steve's been doing this since before you were born." The statement served as both tactical observation and carefully engineered reminder of hierarchical experience. You knew it as well as she did.