raven

"But I want to help make the big pancakes, Daddy!" Becca’s high-pitched voice carried clearly through the door, full of morning excitement.

He was always so careful with her, treating her as if she were made of the finest, most fragile porcelain. It was a stark contrast to the strength he carried in his frame, a strength he constantly tried to downplay. For the past three years, Bucky had thrown himself into fatherhood with a desperate, beautiful intensity. He was determined to be nothing but a source of warmth and safety for the little girl who carried his bright blue eyes.

Yet, beneath that devotion lay an unspoken, rigid boundary that he refused to cross. Becca was never, under any circumstances, to find out about the Winter Soldier. You had told him a thousand times that it was alright, that she would love him regardless, but he remained steadfast. To Bucky, the shadow of who he used to be, in and out of Hydra’s control, was a monster that could taint his daughter’s innocent world.

Stepping into the kitchen, you found Bucky dressed in an oversized grey sweatshirt as he expertly flipped a pancake. Becca sat securely on the kitchen counter, her small legs swinging back and forth.

"Look, Daddy! Mommy’s awake!" Becca squealed, pointing a sticky finger toward the doorway.

Bucky looked up, his eyes softening instantly as a genuine, relaxed grin broke across his face. "Morning, sweetheart," he said softly, leaning across the counter to press a gentle kiss to your lips. "Did we wake you up? I swear I was trying to keep the monster under control."

"I'm not a monster, I'm a helper!" Becca protested, giggling as she pointed at the flour dust on his nose.

"You're a very messy helper," you laughed, wrapping your arms around Bucky’s waist from behind. You felt the slight tension that never truly left his shoulders, a silent reminder of the internal vigil he kept every single hour of the day.

"Pancakes are almost done," Bucky whispered, turning his head slightly to kiss your cheek. "Go sit down. I've got it under control."

The peaceful morning routine was delightfully disrupted around midday by a loud, familiar commotion at the front door. Yelena didn’t believe in knocking politely. Instead, she used her spare key to barge right in, carrying a massive cardboard box under one arm. Bob shuffled in behind her, looking slightly overwhelmed.

"Auntie Yelena! Uncle Bob!" Becca shrieked with delight, scrambling off the sofa and sprinting towards them with her arms outstretched.

"Ah, there is my favourite tiny diva!" Yelena announced proudly, catching Becca with a dramatic gasp and spinning the toddler around in the air before setting her down. "Bob, look how much she has grown since last week. It is ridiculous."

"She grows fast, Yelena," Bob said with a soft, sheepish wave, offering you and Bucky a warm smile. "Hello, everyone. Sorry to just drop in."

Bucky emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. A fond but slightly wary expression crossed his face as he greeted Bob with a firm nod and a pat on the shoulder. "You're always welcome, Bob. Yelena, however, needs to learn what a doorbell is."

"Doorbells are for boring people," Yelena shrugged, setting the large box down on the coffee table with a heavy thud. "Look what I have brought for the little one. I was in the toy shop in London, and they have a whole section for the New Avengers. The selection was very bad until I found the vintage section."

"Yelena, what did you buy?" you asked, a faint note of caution in your voice as she began rummaging through the box.

"Only the best," Yelena said, pulling out a wooden bow and arrow set. "Here, for targeting practice."

"Maybe we keep the arrows away from the television," Bob gently suggested, taking the toy from her hands with a worried mutter about safety.

Yelena rolled her eyes affectionately at Bob before digging deeper into the box. Her face lit up as she pulled out a sleek, modern action figure dressed in dark tactical gear with a distinct, shining silver arm. "They had a special anniversary release of the historical figures. I thought, why should the star-spangled captain get all the glory when the moody one does all the heavy lifting?"

Bucky frozen instantly. The dishcloth slipped from his fingers onto the counter as his entire body went rigid, his eyes locking onto the plastic figure in Yelena's hand. It was a highly detailed Winter Soldier action figure, complete with the masked face, the tactical harness, and the red star emblazoned on the metallic left shoulder.

You felt a sudden spike of anxiety in your chest, looking from Bucky’s pale, struck face to Yelena. She was completely oblivious to the silent panic she had just initiated. She truly didn’t realise that Bucky kept this entire chapter of his life a strict secret from his daughter. To Yelena, their pasts were just something they lived with, an objective fact of their existence rather than a source of deep, suffocating shame.

Before you or Bucky could intervene, Yelena knelt down to Becca’s eye level and handed the toy directly to the toddler, giving her a bright, encouraging nod. "Here you go, little Becca, a proper warrior to protect your dollhouse from the boring civilian toys."

"Yelena, wait—" Bucky’s voice was barely a choked whisper, but it was too late.

Becca took the action figure, her small hands gripping the plastic tightly as she turned it over. She studied the silver arm that caught the midday sunlight streaming through the living room window.

Bucky looked as though he had stopped breathing entirely. His knuckles turned white against the edge of the kitchen counter as he prepared himself for the worst. His mind was undoubtedly racing with the fear that his daughter would look at the toy, look at him, and see a monster.

Becca traced the tiny painted red star with her index finger, her brow furrowing in deep concentration as she compared the toy to the man standing frozen across the room. She looked up at Bucky, her eyes wide with a sudden, pure realisation, and then looked back down at the figure in her hands. A massive, gap-toothed grin spread across her face.

"Mommy, look!" Becca chirped, her voice echoing clearly in the sudden, tense silence of the flat as she held the toy up high. "Wow, this superhero looks just like daddy! He has a shiny arm and everything!"

The silence that followed was absolute, but the tension in the room instantly shifted from suffocating fear to a profound, heavy emotion that seemed to knock the breath right out of Bucky's lungs.

Yelena blinked, finally picking up on the strange atmosphere. She looked between Bucky and Becca with a sudden realisation of her own. "Oh," she murmured, her voice dropping its usual teasing edge. "I did not think..."

Bob awkwardly cleared his throat, offering a soft, sympathetic smile to Bucky. "It's a very good likeness," he offered gently.

Bucky stood completely still, his eyes wide and glossy as he stared at his daughter, his mouth opening slightly but no sound coming out. The word 'superhero' hung in the air, vibrating with an innocent weight that shattered every single wall Bucky had built up over the last three years. Becca didn't see a brainwashed assassin. She just saw her dad, the man who made her pancakes, immortalised as a protector of the world.

Seeing her father’s shocked silence, Becca toddled across the room, her small shoes squeaking against the floor. She pressed the plastic figure against Bucky's leg, looking up at him with absolute adoration.

"Are you going to fly later, Daddy? Superheroes can fly, right?" she asked earnestly, her voice full of the unshakeable faith that only a three-year-old could possess.

Bucky slowly sank to his knees, his movements mechanical as he brought himself down to her level. His breath hitched in his throat as he looked into her bright, innocent face. He carefully reached out with his flesh hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

"No, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice completely thick with unshed tears when he finally managed to speak. "Daddy doesn't fly. I just stay right here with you."

"That's okay," Becca said authoritatively, patting his knee comfortingly. "Superheroes need to stay home for dinner anyway."

Becca seemed entirely satisfied with this answer, turning back to Yelena to show off her new favourite toy, completely unaware of the tectonic shift she had just caused in her father's soul.

Yelena, realising her blunder but seeing the beautifully unexpected outcome, quietly gathered the rest of the toys. She gave you a softened, apologetic look as she signaled to Bob that it was time to leave. "We will go find some lunch now," she said softly, her usual bravado replaced by genuine care. "Goodbye, little Becca. Take care of your superhero."

"Bye, Auntie Yelena! Bye, Uncle Bob!" Becca waved, already distracted by her new game. Bob gave Bucky a supportive squeeze on the shoulder on his way out, and within a few minutes, the front door clicked shut behind them.

For the rest of the afternoon, Bucky was unusually quiet. His eyes never left Becca as she played on the living room rug, orchestrating a complex game where the Winter Soldier action figure saved a group of plastic farm animals from a plush monster.

"Look, Daddy! He saved the cow!" Becca shouted happily, holding the silver-armed figure in the air.

"He did a good job, sweetie," Bucky replied, his voice a little tight but filled with immense warmth.

Every time she made the toy strike a heroic pose, Bucky’s chest would heave with a silent, shaky breath. A mixture of profound relief and overwhelming emotion washed over him. You stayed close to him on the sofa, resting your hand in his, letting him process the incredible truth that his daughter's love was unconditional.

By the time evening arrived, Becca was thoroughly exhausted from her heroic adventures. Her eyelids dropped as you gave her a warm bath and changed her into her favourite pyjamas.

"Can Daddy tuck me in?" she mumbled, rubbing her eyes as she held the action figure tightly against her chest.

"Of course he can, sweetheart," you said smoothly, kissing her forehead before calling Bucky into the room.

Bucky carried her to bed, holding her a little tighter than usual. He rocked her gently in the dim light of her nursery whilst she mumbled softly about superheroes and shiny arms until her eyes finally closed for sleep.

He stayed by her crib for a long time after she fell asleep, just watching the peaceful rise and fall of her chest. His metal hand rested gently on the wooden rail, no longer hidden away beneath layers of clothing as it often was, but completely accepted in the open air.

When he finally stepped out of the room and closed the door with a quiet click, the weight of the day seemed to catch up with him all at once. His shoulders sagged as he walked back into the living room where you were waiting for him on the sofa.

The room was illuminated only by the soft glow of a single floor lamp, casting long, warm shadows across the space. Bucky walked over and sank down beside you, his entire body suddenly trembling.

"Bucky?" you asked softly, reaching out for him.

Without a word, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his large arms wrapping around you with a desperate, clinging grip as the first sob broke through his chest. It was a low, agonising sound, the release of decades of tightly coiled pain, shame, and fear that he had carried alone for far too long.

You wrapped your arms around him tightly, running your fingers through his hair. "I've got you," you murmured softly against his ear as he wept openly, his tears soaking into the fabric of your shirt. "It's okay, let it all out."

He was crying with a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show, his broad frame shaking with the sheer magnitude of the relief that had washed over him. He gripped the back of your shirt as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

"She called me a superhero," Bucky choked out, his voice cracked and raw with emotion as he pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were red and swimming with tears that ran down his stubbled cheeks. "She looked right at it, she saw the arm, and she didn't run away. She wasn't scared of me."

"I told you she wouldn't be," you said gently, wiping a tear from his cheek with your thumb. "She loves her dad."

He shook his head, a fresh wave of tears spilling over as he leaned his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. "I spent so many years being a monster. Being the thing that people screamed at when they saw me coming. I never thought... I never thought I'd get to have this."

"You deserve this, Buck. More than anyone," you whispered, holding his face in both of your hands.

"A normal life," he wept softly, closing his eyes as he pressed his lips to yours for a brief, emotional moment. "A home. A little girl who looks at me and thinks I'm a protector, not a killer. I didn't think it was possible."

You reminded him, firmly and lovingly, that Becca was right. He was a hero for fighting his way back to his humanity, and he deserved every single ounce of the love and peace he had found in this home. Bucky let out a long, shaky breath, closing his eyes as he held you close, finally letting go of the ghost of the Winter Soldier, safe in the knowledge that to the person who mattered most in the world, he was simply her hero.

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The air was cool and stiff in Europe this time of year. You’d been there many times before, but this was different. There was no exhilaration in the air, not for you. No fear, no determination. Only cool, early autumn air.

Steve stands in front of you, that stupid, determined look in his eye. It used to endear you, his willingness to fight wherever it took him. You looked at him as heroic. Fearless. Now, you wonder if you’ve confused hubris for bravery.

“Why am I here?” you ask, no venom in your voice. 

“I was hoping you’d help,” he asked. “One last time.” The look in his eye is hopeful. So hopeful, it borders on dangerous.

You laughed a little bitterly, biting your lip to stop yourself from smiling. “Where have I heard that one before?”

This wasn't the first time since you retired that Steve had convinced you to come out for "one last time". It was always one last mission, one last fight, one last bad guy that he needed you by his side to defeat. And every time, you found yourself in the middle of it all again, wrapped up in the world you'd sworn you'd step away from. You found a sensible job, made friends, put the past in the past. But it was always hard to ignore when Steve Rogers asked if you were still in.

“Are you really happy sitting in a cubicle pretending the world doesn’t need you out here?”

“I knew when to quit, Captain,” you sighed. “Something you still need to learn, it seems.”

His face doesn’t find the amusement that you do. “So you’re on Stark’s side of all this?”

You shake your head. “This isn’t about sides, Steve. This is about knowing when you’ve been beat.”

“Well, you sound just like him, (y/n),” he sighs. “You know, maybe this was a mistake.”

“Maybe it was.” you repeat. 

It hurt your chest to speak this way. You could remember countless missions where you’d happily followed Steve into battle, vowing many of them to be your “last”. So many times you tried to turn him down, but always being brought back in. The tactical suit you once kept in a heavy chest, that began to hang alongside your sweaters from how often you'd begun to use it again. Maybe he was an amazing leader. Maybe it was the way the world seemed a little bit brighter when he gave you his grateful smile. 

This time there was no smile. No shine in his eyes. No “call to action” that made your fingers itch to pull that suit out of your closet just one last time. Just subtle sadness that your first answer was anything but “yes”.

“If you’re leaving, I’m not gonna stop you,” he says. “I just want you to be happy with your decision.”

You nod. “I’m out, Steve. I’m sorry.”

 There’s another uneasy silence. Steve gives you a small nod before he begins to walk away. With his back already turned, you muster up the courage to call back to him.

“I hope you know–” you say, feeling your chest tighten up with tears. “that me not choosing this doesn’t mean I’m not choosing you.”

Steve turns back to you. His eyes look sadder than you’d expect. “Does it not?” 

You fail to respond quickly enough, before Steve has turned his back to you once again, getting back into his car. He leaves you there on the pavement, wondering if one last time, you should’ve followed that itch to the back of your closet, where your suit and skeletons still hide.

Instead, you walk home, accepting the hum of the engine while he drives away as goodbye.