#avenger reader

Instead, she'd stepped closer, drawn by a curiosity that had kept her alive this long and was about to be her downfall. The portal's edges rippled like water, casting shifting shadows that made her eyes water. She'd reached out—not to touch it, just to test the air around it, to see if she could feel whatever impossible force was tearing through dimensions.

The puddle was small. Insignificant. The kind of thing she'd normally step over without thinking. But positioned exactly where it was, at the precise edge of the portal's influence, it became the pivot point on which her entire world turned.

Her foot slipped. Physics took over. And suddenly she was falling forward, through liquid light and the space between heartbeats, through the golden throat of something that shouldn't exist.

The landing knocked the breath from her lungs and the sense from her head. When the world stopped spinning, she found herself sprawled on familiar concrete, staring up at the same brick walls, breathing the same stale alley air. But the portal was gone, sealed shut like it had never existed, leaving only the faintest afterimage burned into her retinas.

And somewhere in the distance, she heard the murmur of a city—familiar, but not the same. The cadence of traffic sounded off-key, like a song she knew played in the wrong tempo. The low thrum of voices carried different accents, different rhythms. Even the distant wail of a siren seemed to rise and fall in patterns her ears didn't recognize.

The wrongness revealed itself in layers, each one more unsettling than the last.

She discovered the first crack when she went to what should have been her station. At first glance, it looked identical—same brick facade weathered by decades of city grime, same cracked concrete steps where she'd sat during her lunch breaks, same scuffed double doors that stuck in humid weather. But the moment she walked inside, the air felt different. Heavier. Foreign.

The desk sergeant looked up with mild curiosity rather than the usual grunt of acknowledgment. Officer Martinez walked past without his customary nod. Detective Chen emerged from the break room with coffee and didn't so much as glance in her direction.

"Excuse me," she said, approaching the front desk with her badge already in hand. "I need to check in with Chief Barnett."

The sergeant—Henderson, his nameplate read, though she could have sworn his name was different yesterday—looked at her like she'd asked for directions to Mars.

"Ma'am, there's no Chief Barnett at this precinct. Never has been. You might be looking for the 12th? They got a Captain Barrett over there."

Her badge felt suddenly heavy in her palm. She held it up, the shield catching the fluorescent light. "I'm Detective—"

"Ma'am." Henderson's voice sharpened, and she saw his hand drift toward his radio. "I'm going to need you to step back from the desk."

That was when things went bad. Fast.

Within minutes, she was surrounded. Familiar faces wearing unfamiliar expressions of suspicion and confusion. She knew these people—had shared coffee with them, complained about paperwork, celebrated arrests. But they looked at her like she was a stranger wearing a stolen uniform.

"I work here," she insisted, even as they guided her toward the interrogation rooms. "Check my locker—it's number 47. Check my desk. I've been here for six years."

But when they checked, locker 47 belonged to someone else. The desk she thought of as hers was occupied by a detective she'd never seen before. And when they ran her prints—her own goddamn fingerprints—the room fell silent.

"That's impossible," she heard Chen whisper to Martinez. "These prints... they match a woman who died three years ago."

The words hit her like ice water. Died. Three years ago. The version of her that had lived in this world was dead, and now they were staring at her like she was either an imposter or a ghost.

They moved her to Interview Room 2—the one with the broken chair leg that she'd always avoided. The irony wasn't lost on her. Here she was, finally sitting in the damn chair, but as a suspect instead of a detective. She tested the chair before she sat down in it. The broken leg was stable. 

The one-way mirror reflected her pale face back at her, and she found herself staring at her own features as if seeing them for the first time. Same eyes, same scar on her chin from falling off her bike at age seven, same stubborn part of her hair that never stayed flat. But somehow, she looked like a stranger to herself.

Detectives came and went—Patterson, who'd taught her how to read blood spatter patterns; Rodriguez, who always brought donuts on Fridays; Williams, who'd been her partner for two years. Each one studied her with the same mixture of confusion and suspicion, as if her very existence was an insult to someone's memory.

She gave them everything—her name, badge number, social security, the names of every case she'd worked, every partner she'd had, every scar and story that made up her life. All of it true, and all of it sounding like elaborate fiction when filtered through their disbelief.

Hours passed. Or maybe days. Time felt fluid in that windowless room, marked only by the steady hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional rattle of the ancient air conditioner. She'd long since stopped pinching herself, accepting that whatever this was, it wasn't a dream.

When the door finally opened again, she expected another detective with the same tired questions and skeptical eyes. Instead, a stranger walked in.

He moved with the careful control of someone accustomed to being watched, though tension coiled in his shoulders like a spring wound too tight. Not a cop—his clothes were too casual, too lived-in. Civilian, but not ordinary. The way the desk sergeant had practically saluted when he'd walked past suggested someone with serious pull.

He was a handsome black man, probably mid-thirties, with intelligent eyes that seemed to catalog everything they saw. When he looked at her, those eyes went soft with something that might have been recognition, or hope, or grief. Maybe all three.

The silence stretched between them like a held breath. She watched him settle into the chair across from her with the careful movements of someone carrying invisible weight. His hands rested on the table, knuckles pale with tension, and she found herself studying the calluses on his palms—the kind that came from gripping something regularly. Reins, maybe. Or rope.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was steady but quiet, like he was afraid of the answer before he asked the question.

"Do you know who I am?"

The hope in his voice was so naked it made her chest tight. She wished she could give him what he was looking for, but honesty was all she had left.

"No," she said, then added more gently, "Should I?"

Something inside him crumbled. She saw it happen—the way his shoulders sagged, how his breath left him like he'd been punctured. The careful composure slipped, revealing grief so raw it made her want to look away. But he held her gaze, managing a smile that was equal parts bitter and fond.

"Maybe not this you," he murmured, and there was a world of loss in those four words. "Was worth a shot, though."

Her brows drew together, frustration sparking hot beneath the confusion. "What do you mean, 'this me'? Look, I don't know what kind of game this is, but I'm a detective. This is my station—or it's supposed to be. I don't know what happened, but one minute I was processing a crime scene and the next there was this... portal, or whatever the hell—"

"Portal?" He leaned forward so fast his chair creaked, urgency replacing the gentle sorrow in his voice. "What did it look like? Exactly where were you when it appeared? Did you feel anything before it opened—heat, electrical charges, any kind of distortion in the air?"

The rapid-fire questions made her head spin. "I don't know! It just... appeared. Like someone had torn a hole in reality and filled it with golden light. It was humming, vibrating the air around it." She shoved back from the table, the legs screeching against linoleum. "Look, I don't know who you are or why you're asking, but I've had enough mystery for one day. Just tell me what the hell is happening to me."

He studied her for a long moment, his jaw working like he was chewing on words too big to swallow. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful, measured—the tone of someone delivering news that would change everything.

"You're not wrong. About this not being your world."

Her heart stuttered. "What?"

"You came through some kind of dimensional rift. It happens—rarely, but it happens. Sometimes the barriers between realities get thin, and things slip through the cracks." He spoke gently, but each word felt like a small betrayal of everything she thought she knew about the universe. "You've crossed into a parallel dimension. A world that's similar to yours, but not the same."

She stared at him like he'd started speaking in tongues. "Parallel dimensions? Are you out of your mind? You expect me to believe I just... fell through a crack in reality like some kind of science fiction nightmare?"

"I know it sounds impossible." His voice remained calm, patient—the way you'd talk to someone standing on a ledge. "But I've seen enough impossible things to know they're usually just improbable. And..." His eyes softened as he looked at her again, really looked, like he was trying to memorize her face. "You're not the first version of you I've met."

The room seemed to tilt. "Excuse me?"

"There was another you. Here, in this world." He paused, choosing his words with surgical precision. "She was... important. To a lot of people. To me. She was a good friend."

Something in his tone—reverent, aching, carefully controlled—made her stomach clench with dread. She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper.

"What happened to her?"

For the first time since he'd entered the room, he looked away. His hands flexed against the table, tendons standing out like bridge cables. When he spoke, his words were weighted with the kind of grief that never fully heals.

"She died. Three years ago."

The words hung in the air between them like smoke, acrid and choking. She felt the world shift beneath her feet, reality reshuffling itself into patterns she didn't recognize. The fluorescent lights seemed too bright suddenly, the air too thin.

"No." The word came out sharp, defensive. She shot to her feet so fast her chair crashed into the wall behind her. "No, that's not possible. I'm right here. Alive. Breathing. You don't just get to have another version of me conveniently die before I show up. That's—" She barked out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. "That's fucking insane."

He didn't flinch, didn't move, just watched her pace the small room like a caged animal. His patience only made her angrier.

"Do you hear yourself?" She spun to face him, fury and terror warring in her voice. "Parallel dimensions? Different versions of me? That's comic book bullshit. I'm a detective, not some interdimensional traveler. You think you can feed me this story and I'll just... what? Accept it? Stop asking questions?"

She slammed her palms against the table, leaning over him. "Tell me the truth!"

He met her gaze without wavering, and his voice when he spoke was rock-steady, implacable as gravity.

"I am telling you the truth."

The conviction in his tone cut through her spiraling panic like a blade. She froze, chest heaving, studying his face for any sign of deception. But there was none—just bone-deep certainty and a grief so profound it seemed to have worn grooves in his features.

He rose slowly, closing half the distance between them—close enough to be reassuring, far enough to avoid seeming threatening. "I know how insane this sounds. I know every instinct you have is screaming that it's impossible. But I've lived through stranger things than you being here right now. And I'm not trying to trick you or manipulate you. I'm trying to help."

Her jaw clenched, but some of the fight leaked out of her voice. "Why should I believe you?"

He was quiet for a moment, seeming to weigh his words. Then he extended his hand—palm up, an offering rather than a demand.

"Because my name is Sam Wilson. And if you let me, I'll do everything I can to make sure you're safe."

Something in the way he said it—solid as bedrock, unshakeable as sunrise—made her anger waver. There was a quality to his voice that spoke of promises kept, of responsibility accepted and never abandoned. Without meaning to, she found herself believing him.

Sam Wilson was clearly someone important. She could tell by the way the precinct transformed around him. Officers who'd treated her like a curiosity or a threat suddenly straightened when he appeared, their voices taking on the particular tone of respect reserved for true authority. They clapped him on the shoulder, thanked him for unspecified favors, and more than one called him "Cap" as they headed out for patrol.

She studied him as they walked to his car, noting the way he moved—confident but not cocky, alert without being paranoid. Military bearing, but softened by civilian life.

"Cap?" she asked as they settled into his black sedan. "As in Captain?"

Something flickered across his face—amusement mixed with something heavier, more complicated. His smile was warm but tinged with melancholy, like a song played in a minor key.

"Something like that."

She didn't press, but the title lodged itself in her mind like a splinter. Captain. The kind of rank that came with weight, with responsibility, with the expectation that you'd carry other people's burdens as easily as your own.

He drove her through the restless pulse of New York, and she found herself cataloging the differences. The skyline was almost identical, but not quite. A building here that shouldn't exist, a street there that curved the wrong way. Like someone had rebuilt her city from memory but gotten some of the details wrong.

They stopped at a building that seemed to hum with unseen energy, its architecture somehow more alive than the structures around it. The man waiting inside introduced himself as Doctor Stephen Strange, the air around him shimmered with barely contained power.

Strange studied her with eyes that had seen too much, and she caught the flicker of recognition—and pain—when his gaze met hers. Another person haunted by a ghost she was apparently wearing the face of.

His examination was thorough, involving incantations in languages that hurt her ears to hear and geometric patterns of light that made her vision water. When he finally delivered his verdict, his voice carried the weight of cosmic authority.

"She's a dimensional variant. Another world's version of the woman you knew." He paused, his expression growing grave. "And the portal that brought her here... it wasn't random. She was meant to come through. Meant to stay."

The words hit her like a physical blow. "What?" She lurched to her feet, the chair scraping against polished marble. "No. No, I don't belong here! This isn't my world, my life. That portal was an accident. You have to send me back."

Her voice cracked on the last word, desperation bleeding through the careful control she'd maintained all day. She turned to Sam, searching his face for any sign that Strange was wrong.

"You said the other me is dead. But I'm not her. I have my own life, my own world. People who'll miss me. You can't just... you can't just expect me to replace her."

Sam flinched like she'd struck him, his gaze dropping to the floor. The grief carved into his features was so raw it made her chest ache with sympathy she didn't understand.

Strange's voice softened, but his words remained uncompromising. "I'm sorry. If there were a way to send you home, I would. But the forces that brought you here... they don't make mistakes. You're here because this is where you belong now."

The pronouncement settled over her like a funeral shroud. She stood frozen for a moment, every muscle tense with the urge to run, to fight, to somehow undo the cosmic joke that had torn her from everything she knew. Instead, she forced herself to breathe, to think, to survive this moment the way she'd survived every other impossible thing life had thrown at her.

"I need air," she managed, and walked out before either of them could respond.

The hallway beyond was lined with artifacts that seemed to hum with their own inner light. Ancient books, crystalline sculptures, weapons that looked like they'd been forged in other dimensions. She leaned against the cool stone wall, closing her eyes and trying to find her center.

That's when she heard their voices drifting from the chamber she'd just left.

"Have you told Barnes yet?" Strange's voice carried clearly in the empty corridor.

A long pause, then Sam's reply, heavy with reluctance. "No. Not yet. I don't even know how to begin that conversation."

"She's here for a reason," Strange said firmly. "The universe doesn't place people where they don't belong. He'll need to know. The sooner the better."

Another silence, longer this time. When Sam spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. "Yeah. I just don't know how either of them will handle it."

The conversation ended with the sound of chairs scraping, footsteps moving. She pushed herself off the wall and composed her face just as Sam emerged, looking like he was carrying the weight of the world.

"Let's get out of here," he said gently, as if she hadn't overheard every word.

His brownstone was a refuge from the chaos of the day. Warm wood floors, lived-in furniture, bookshelves that actually held books instead of just decoration. Photographs covered the mantle and side tables: Sam with various people she didn't recognize, group shots that looked like they'd been taken after successful missions, candid moments of laughter and camaraderie.

She sank into his couch, exhaustion finally catching up with her. The adrenaline that had carried her through the day was fading, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness that went beyond physical fatigue.

Sam settled across from her, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together. He studied her for a long moment before speaking.

"I guess it's time I told you who I am. My full story." He took a breath, as if steeling himself. "My name is Sam Wilson. I used to go by the Falcon—had a pair of mechanical wings, worked with the Avengers. But a few years back, Steve Rogers, Captain America, passed the shield to me. So now people call me Captain America."

The revelation should have shocked her, but somehow it fit. The deference at the station, the way Strange had treated him as an equal, the weight he seemed to carry…it all made sense now.

“Yeah, we…had a Steve Rogers in my world,” she murmured, playing with some loose threads between the cushions of the couch. “Had the Avengers. Mutants, too.” 

"The version of you that lived here," he continued, his voice growing softer, more careful, "she was part of that world too. An intelligence specialist who helped us track down dangerous people. She fought beside us, bled with us. She was..." He paused, searching for words. "She was family."

Family. The word hung in the air between them, loaded with implications she wasn't ready to unpack.

"And she's gone," she said quietly.

Sam's nod was barely perceptible. "Yeah. She's gone. But you're here now. And maybe—"

"There's no maybe." The words came out harder than she'd intended, sharp with frustration and fear. "There's no cosmic plan or grand design. Sometimes shit just happens. Bad luck, wrong place, wrong time. You're telling me that if you suddenly woke up in a different reality where everyone expected you to be someone else, someone dead, you'd just accept it? Roll over and play the part because strangers called it fate?"

Sam's expression hardened, but not with anger. With understanding that cut too deep. "You think I don't know what it's like to have everything you thought you knew about the world get turned upside down? To lose people who mattered more than your own life?" His voice carried the weight of hard-earned wisdom. "I've wanted to wake up in a different world more times than I can count. One where the people I've lost are still alive, where the choices I made turned out different."

He leaned forward, his gaze intense. "But that's not how it works. We don't get to pick the reality we land in. We just get to decide what we do once we're there. And right now, you're here. That's not negotiable. The only question is what you're going to do about it."

His words hit harder than she'd expected, cutting through her anger to something more vulnerable underneath. She wanted to argue, to maintain her fury because it felt safer than the alternative. Accepting that her old life was truly gone.

"So what, you expect me to just slide into her place? Live in some dead woman's shadow?"

"No one's asking you to replace her." Sam's voice was firm, brooking no argument. "You're not her, and we both know that. But like it or not, you're here now. And pretending this isn't happening won't change that fact."

"I don't belong here," she said, but the words felt hollow even as she spoke them.

"You don't belong there anymore either." The gentleness in his voice made it worse somehow. "If that portal brought you here, maybe it was because this is where you need to be. You can be angry about it—hell, you should be. But anger won't change reality."

The fight drained out of her slowly, like air from a punctured tire. She turned to stare out the front window at the head of the room at the unfamiliar-familiar city beyond, her reflection ghostlike in the glass.

Sam showed her to a small guest room with the same quiet efficiency he'd displayed all day. It was simple but comfortable. Clean sheets, soft pillows, and a window that looked out on a tree-lined street that could have been from her world.

"You can stay here as long as you need," he said, lingering in the doorway. "I'll work on getting you set up with your own place, new identity, whatever you need to build a life here."

The casual way he mentioned building a life here made the reality of the situation crash over her again. This wasn't temporary. This was her new existence, whether she wanted it or not.

"Sam?" Her voice was smaller than she'd intended. "Tell me about her. About... me. The one you knew."

Something in his expression shifted, pain flickering across his features like shadows cast by firelight. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his gaze growing distant.

"She was brilliant," he said finally. "Sharp as hell, with instincts that could cut through any lie or deception. She specialized in intelligence work—tracking people who didn't want to be found, uncovering connections others missed. She came into our world during the hunt for the Winter Soldier, back when he was still... when he was still HYDRA's weapon."

Her stomach clenched at the mention of the Winter Soldier. A killer in her world, same as in this one, it seemed. 

"She was the one who helped Steve and Natasha track him down," Sam continued, his voice growing softer. "And when we finally found him, when we realized he could be saved instead of just stopped... she fought for that. Fought to bring him back from the darkness."

The name hit her like a physical blow. Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier had a real name, a real identity. 

"After that, she stayed close to the team," Sam went on. "Worked missions with us, became part of the family. She was brave, loyal, never hesitated to put herself in harm's way if it meant protecting innocent people or helping the team." His voice caught slightly. "She saved my life more than once. Saved all our lives."

The grief in his voice was palpable, a living thing that filled the space between them. She found herself holding her breath, afraid to disturb the weight of his memories but wanting him to continue.

"She mattered," he said simply. And yet, the effect — the emotion on his face — was devastating. 

She didn't ask how the other version of her had died. The pain etched into every line of Sam's expression was answer enough. Some wounds were too fresh to probe, even three years later.

Sam moved to leave, but her voice stopped him at the threshold.

"The Winter Soldier... that's Bucky Barnes, isn't it?"

He went absolutely still, tension radiating from his frame like heat from a furnace.

"In my world," she continued, forcing the words past the tightness in her throat, "the Winter Soldier died. Steve Rogers killed him during the fall of SHIELD. It was the only way to stop him." She hesitated, then added, "I heard you and Strange talking earlier. About... him."

Sam turned slowly, his expression carefully controlled but his eyes dark with something that might have been worry or fear or protective instinct. Maybe all three.

"It's better if you don't know," he said quietly, each word chosen with surgical precision. "Not yet."

The finality in his voice left no room for argument. He left her alone with her questions and the growing certainty that whatever connection existed between her and this world's version of the Winter Soldier, it was going to change everything. 

Why did the other version of her help him? What was different about their relationship that Sam seemed so on edge about? 

She sat on the edge of the unfamiliar bed in the unfamiliar room, staring out at the unfamiliar-familiar street, and wondered if there was any such thing as fate. Or if the universe was just crueler than she'd ever imagined.

______________________________________________________________

Sam was a good man, that became clear within hours of meeting him. The kind of good that ran bone-deep, expressed not in grand gestures but in small consistencies. He checked in without hovering, offered help without condescension, and by the third day had somehow managed to secure her an apartment only six blocks from his brownstone. When she'd asked how he'd pulled that off so quickly in New York's brutal housing market, he'd just smiled and said he knew people.

She could see why they'd chosen him to carry the shield. His moral compass alone was seemingly larger than life.

Still, living under his roof felt like wearing clothes that didn't quite fit. Not because Sam was unkind. If anything, he was almost painfully considerate, the way people are when they're afraid of breaking something fragile. It was the weight of expectation that pressed against her shoulders, the careful way he sometimes caught himself mid-sentence, as if he'd been about to say something meant for someone else.

Someone who looked exactly like her. Someone who was dead.

She threw herself into research with the desperate focus of someone trying to solve her own existence. Hunched over her laptop at Sam's kitchen table, she devoured everything she could find about this world's history. The Avengers Initiative. The Chitauri invasion. The fall of SHIELD and rise of HYDRA. The Sokovia Accords. Thanos and the Blip—five years when half of all life simply ceased to exist, then returned as suddenly as it had vanished.

The broad strokes matched her world's timeline, but the details were all wrong. Like looking at a painting that had been copied by someone with imperfect memory. Close enough to be familiar, different enough to be deeply unsettling.

What disturbed her most wasn't the differences themselves, but the growing realization that she wore the face of a woman who had lived through these events, who had bled and fought and sacrificed alongside Earth's mightiest heroes. Every record she found mentioned her. Intelligence reports signed with her name, mission debriefs that referenced her tactical assessments, personnel files that listed her as an active associate of the Avengers until three years ago.

And then, abruptly, the records stopped.

Sam's grief haunted the spaces between them like smoke. She'd catch him looking at her sometimes, as if he could will her to be someone else through sheer force of longing. When their eyes met, he'd remember himself and look away, but not before she glimpsed the disappointment that flickered across his features. Brief as lightning, but it left its mark.

She understood. But that didn't make it hurt less.

The day after she'd arrived, Sam's friend Joaquin Torres had shown up with a laptop bag and an easy grin that transformed the heavy atmosphere in the brownstone. Young, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of boyish charm that made people trust him instinctively. More importantly, he looked at her without the weight of recognition, treating her like a person instead of a ghost wearing familiar skin. He hadn’t known her, the other version of her, Sam had told her. Much to her silent relief — a fresh human interaction was much needed. 

"Alright," he'd said, settling at the kitchen table and cracking open his laptop. "Let's get you a new identity. Technically, the old you is listed as deceased, which creates some interesting paperwork challenges. But nothing we can't handle."

His fingers flew across the keyboard with practiced ease, pulling up forms and databases with the casual expertise of someone who'd done this before. She found herself relaxing for the first time since falling through that portal, grateful to be treated like herself…whoever that was now.

By the second day, curiosity got the better of her.

"Did she, the other me, have any family?" she asked, trying to keep her tone casual while her hands twisted together under the table. "Husband, boyfriend, anyone who might be looking for me?"

Joaquin glanced up from his screen, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "Let me check... okay, parents died when she was eleven—" Her stomach clenched. Her parents, the ones in her world, had died around the same time. "—grandparents took her in but passed right before the Blip. No siblings listed." He scrolled further, eyebrows rising. "But damn, look at these connections. Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Sam obviously. Tony Stark had you on his personal payroll after the whole SHIELD thing went sideways in 2014. You ran in some serious circles."

He leaned back, scanning the screen with obvious admiration. "No marriage records, no registered domestic partnerships. But there's some interesting cross-references here..." His grin faltered slightly as his eyes focused on something specific. "Hey, did Sam mention Bucky? Because there's quite a bit of documentation linking you two, and I'm talking—"

He stopped. The words died in his throat as he looked up and saw her expression.

The confusion must have been written across her face in bold letters, because Joaquin's boyish enthusiasm dimmed like someone had turned down his brightness settings. His gaze flicked from her to the laptop screen and back again, and she watched understanding dawn in his eyes with all the subtlety of a freight train.

"Oh." The word came out small, uncertain. "Judging by the look on your face... Sam hasn't talked to you about this yet."

"No," she said carefully, studying his suddenly nervous posture. "He hasn't."

Joaquin shifted in his chair, angling the laptop away from her line of sight with movements that screamed guilt. His cheeks flushed pink, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost all its earlier confidence.

"Listen, if Sam hasn't brought it up, there's probably a good reason. Maybe it's... maybe it's not important right now."

The lie was so transparent she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"Something on that screen you don't want me to see, Joaquin?"

"No! Nothing like that," he said too quickly, his voice cracking on the denial. He clutched the laptop closer to his chest like a shield. "It's just... if Sam thinks you're not ready to hear about it yet, then maybe..."

He trailed off, realizing he was only making it worse. She let the silence stretch, watching him squirm, filing away every nervous tic and unconscious gesture. In her experience, people revealed more in their attempts to hide things than they ever did when trying to be honest.

Finally, she nodded slowly, as if accepting his non-explanation. "Okay."

But the damage was done. This was the third time Bucky Barnes's name had surfaced in conversation, always followed by the same pattern—hesitation, deflection, someone changing the subject or ending the conversation entirely. Whatever connection had existed between her dimensional twin and this man, it was significant enough that Sam couldn't even bring himself to discuss it.

The questions multiplied like cancer cells in her mind. Who had Bucky Barnes been to her? An ally? An enemy? Had they worked together, or had she been hunting him? Was he the reason she'd died, or was there something else she wasn’t seeing? 

The not-knowing was worse than any answer could be.

When Joaquin packed up his laptop that evening, giving her an awkward yet genuine goodbye, she remained at the kitchen table staring at the stack of files and printouts she'd accumulated. The apartment Sam had found for her was ready—bare bones, but functional. She could move out tomorrow, start building something that resembled a life.

But first, she had research to do.

She waited until she heard Sam's bedroom door close, then fired up her own laptop and got to work. If no one would tell her about Bucky Barnes, she'd find out for herself.

The internet was a treasure trove of declassified documents, survivor testimonies, and conspiracy theories that turned out to be disturbingly accurate. She cross-referenced names, dates, and events, building a timeline that slowly painted a picture of James Buchanan Barnes—friend of Steve Rogers, sergeant in the 107th Infantry, presumed dead in 1945.

Except he hadn't died. HYDRA had found him, broken him, turned him into their perfect weapon. The Winter Soldier had been a man stolen from time and stripped of his identity, programmed to kill without question or memory.

Her hands trembled as she read mission reports that detailed his crimes. Political assassinations spanning decades. Scientists who'd gotten too close to inconvenient truths. Whistleblowers who'd tried to expose corruption. All of them silenced by a ghost with a metal arm and empty eyes.

But the story didn't end there. In 2014, Steve Rogers had found his childhood friend buried beneath layers of programming and torture. Had fought to bring him back, to restore the man HYDRA had tried to erase. The process had taken years of therapy, rehabilitation, deprogramming. But it worked.

Bucky Barnes was no longer the Winter Soldier. He was an Avenger. A former Congressman. He had rewritten his own story.

Her breath caught as she found what she'd been looking for: a digital roster buried in the aftermath of the Sokovia Accords. James Buchanan Barnes – Status: Active. Affiliation: New Avengers Initiative.

He was alive. Reformed. Fighting for the good guys now, apparently.

The knowledge sat in her stomach like a stone. Here, according to Joaquin's nervous reaction, he'd been connected to her in some significant way.

The irony was so sharp it could cut. A brainwashed assassin from the 1940’s connected to her? Were they friends? Had he killed someone she knew? She had no idea. There were no records about his personal life online. 

She stared at the screen until her eyes burned, then made a decision that felt both inevitable and insane. If Sam wouldn't tell her the truth, if Joaquin was too loyal or too scared to fill in the gaps, then she'd get her answers from the source.

She was going to find Bucky Barnes.

______________________________________________________________

Her new apartment felt like a train station, a place to exist rather than live between stops. The walls were still institutional white, the floors bare hardwood that echoed with every step. Sam had helped her haul in the essentials: a mattress, a couch from a secondhand store, a small table that wobbled when she put weight on it.

It should have felt like freedom. Instead, it felt like exile.

She didn't linger. Twenty minutes after Sam left, promising to check in tomorrow, she was studying transit maps and plotting her route to the New Avengers facility. The original Stark Tower had been sold, but the team had established a new base of operations in the same building, now deemed as the Watchtower. 

The evening commute provided perfect cover. Thousands of people moving with purpose, no one paying attention to one more face in the crowd. She joined the stream of humanity flowing toward the subway, her heart rate steady despite the magnitude of what she was planning.

Breaking into a superhero stronghold probably wasn't her smartest decision, but she'd made a career out of risky choices. This felt like just another case to crack, another locked door that needed opening.

The Watchtower rose thirty stories into the Manhattan sky, its glass facade reflecting the dying light of sunset. Even from the sidewalk, she could see the security measures. Cameras at every angle, discrete guards positioned at key points, biometric scanners flanking the main entrance.

She approached with the confidence of someone who belonged, shoulders back, stride purposeful. Sometimes the best disguise was attitude.

"Ma'am." A security guard stepped into her path before she'd made it halfway to the door. Young, alert, with the kind of bearing that screamed military background. His partner moved to flank her, casual but deliberate. "I'll need to see some identification."

She reached for her wallet, movements slow and non-threatening. "I'm here to see James Barnes. He's expecting me."

That got their attention. Too much attention. She saw the micro-expressions that flashed between them: surprise, confusion. The lead guard's hand drifted toward the radio clipped to his vest.

"You'll need clearance for that, ma'am. And I don't see you on any authorized visitor lists."

Behind them, the building's main doors hissed shut with hydraulic finality. The message was clear — she wasn’t getting in.

She maintained her smile, friendly and understanding. "Of course. My mistake. I'll just call ahead next time."

She turned and walked away, feeling their eyes on her back until she disappeared into the evening crowd. 

An hour later, she was back.

The Tower looked different at night. Imposing, fortress-like, its upper floors glowing against the darkness. She'd spent the time walking the perimeter, mapping service entrances and delivery bays, timing guard rotations and identifying blind spots in the surveillance coverage.

The rear of the building faced a narrow alley used for deliveries and maintenance. Less glamorous than the front entrance, but infinitely more accessible. She positioned herself in the shadows between two dumpsters and waited.

Patience was a detective's best friend. After twenty minutes, a catering van rumbled into the alley, its headlights cutting through the gloom. She watched the driver show his credentials to the guard, saw the heavy security door roll up to reveal a loading dock beyond.

As the van backed up to the platform, she moved.

She slipped alongside the van as the driver climbed out, using it as cover while boxes and trays were unloaded. The guard's attention was focused on his clipboard, checking items off a list with mechanical precision.

When he turned to examine a particularly large crate, she made her move. Three quick steps took her to the door, another two got her inside. The loading bay was cavernous and dimly lit, filled with the hum of machinery and the distant echo of voices.

She pressed herself against a concrete pillar, heart hammering as footsteps approached. A maintenance worker in coveralls walked past, whistling tunelessly, his footsteps fading as he disappeared around a corner.

She was in.

The Tower's interior was a maze of corridors and security checkpoints, but she'd navigated worse. She found a service stairwell — no cameras, minimal foot traffic—and began to climb. By the fifteenth floor, her legs burned and her lungs worked like bellows, but she pressed on.

The residential levels had to be near the top. That's where she'd find him.

Twenty-eighth floor. Twenty-ninth. Thirtieth.

The final door was different from the others. Heavier, with a biometric scanner and keypad that spoke of serious security measures. This had to be it. The private residential area where the Avengers lived when they weren't saving the world.

She stood before the scanner, knowing she had no way past it, knowing this was where her amateur breaking-and-entering skills reached their limit. But she'd come too far to turn back now.

"Who are you?"

The voice came from behind her, low and accented and sharp as a blade.

She spun, instinct driving her hand toward a weapon she didn't carry, muscles coiling for a fight that might be her last.

A woman stood at the mouth of the stairwell. Small, compact, with platinum blonde hair that caught the corridor's LED lighting. But it was her eyes that made the breath stick in her throat. Dark, calculating. This wasn't building security. This was someone far more dangerous.

The woman moved with liquid grace, each step deliberate and controlled. She wore dark tactical clothing that seemed to absorb light, and something about her posture—coiled, ready, predatory—set off every alarm bell in her brain.

"I asked you a question," the woman said, stepping closer. "How did you get past security?"

Her mouth had gone desert-dry, but she forced her voice to remain steady. "I could ask you the same thing."

The woman's lips curved in what might charitably be called a smile. It didn't reach her eyes. "Cute. Very cute. But I live here. You, on the other hand, definitely do not." Another step closer. "So let's try this again. Who are you, and what are you doing on a restricted floor?"

The accent was unmistakably Russian now that she heard more of it. Sharp consonants softened by years of speaking English, but the underlying cadence still there. The woman's stance was that of a trained fighter. She was balanced on the balls of her feet, hands loose at her sides but ready to move in any direction. Everything about her screamed potential danger.

"Look," she said, raising her hands in a gesture of surrender, "I'm just trying to find someone. I don't want any trouble."

"Then you came to the wrong place." The woman tilted her head, studying her with a vague intensity. "You look familiar. Have we met?"

The question sent ice through her veins. Another person who might recognize her face, who knew the woman she'd replaced. But this one's recognition carried a different quality. Not grief or longing, but something sharper. More analytical.

She didn’t know her. The old her. Not directly, at least. 

"I don't think so," she said carefully.

The blonde's sharp eyes never left her face, cataloging every feature with unsettling precision. "Hmm. You remind me of someone. I cannot place it exactly, but you have a very familiar face." She paused, head tilting further. "Are you a reporter?"

The question was so unexpected she almost laughed. "Do I look like a reporter to you?"

"Yes," the woman answered with complete seriousness. "Actually, you do. You have excellent bone structure. Very photogenic. Strong jawline, well-shaped eyebrows. The kind of face they put on Channel 9 news, no?" She gestured vaguely at her features. "Really quite striking, actually. And we get reporters trying to sneak in here all the time. You would not believe the lengths they go to. But none have made it this far before, which makes you either very skilled or very stupid."

Her mouth opened and closed wordlessly. Was this woman seriously critiquing her facial symmetry in the middle of what felt like a life-or-death situation? "...Thank you? I think? But I'm not a reporter."

The blonde hummed thoughtfully, those dark eyes scanning her from head to toe and back again with predatory interest. "I believe you, strange woman. Somehow, I do. But that makes this worse, doesn't it? Because if you are not a reporter, then why break into a tower full of superhumans and trained killers? Seems very..." She paused, searching for the right word. "Stupid. Or very desperate."

The weight of the moment pressed down on her shoulders. She could lie—make up some story about being lost, about mistaking this for a different building. But something about this woman's piercing gaze told her lies would be spotted immediately and punished accordingly.

So she chose the truth. Raw, unfiltered, desperate truth.

"Because I'm not from this world." The words tumbled out faster than she could stop them. "I know how insane that sounds, but apparently I'm from a parallel dimension—almost identical to this one—and a week ago I fell through some kind of glowing portal that spat me out here in New York. Sam Wilson found me, helped me out, told me I can't go home."

She ran a hand through her hair, exhaustion and frustration bleeding into her voice. "But the version of me that lived here? She's dead. Has been for three years. And everyone keeps looking at me like I'm her ghost, keeps mentioning James Barnes like I should understand what he meant to her. So yeah, I broke in here to find him. To get some goddamn answers about who I was supposed to be."

The confession left her feeling hollow, stripped bare. She'd laid all her cards on the table for a complete stranger who could probably kill her seventeen different ways without breaking a sweat.

Not one of her brightest moments. But somehow, it had felt right. 

The woman stared at her for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then something shifted in her features. A flicker of recognition, quickly suppressed but not fast enough.

"What is your name?" she asked softly, and there was something almost gentle in her tone now.

She hesitated for just a beat before giving her real name. Not the fabricated identity Joaquin had helped create, but the name she'd been born with.

The effect was instantaneous. The woman's carefully neutral expression crumbled, revealing shock, disbelief, and something deeper. A profound sadness that seemed to age her years in seconds.

"Bozhe moy," she whispered, the Russian slipping out unbidden. Her shoulders sagged as if an invisible weight had settled on them. "Yes... I know your story. All of it. Oh….this will not be easy. But he needs to know you are here."

She stepped closer, extending her hand with careful deliberation. "My name is Yelena Belova. I am... an associate of Bucky's. A friend. I can take you to him now, if that is what you truly want."

Her throat constricted as she stared at the offered hand. Every instinct screamed warnings, but she'd come too far to turn back now. She reached out, gripping Yelena's fingers.

"It's nice to meet you," she said, her voice barely steady. "Did you... did you know her? The other me?"

Yelena's smile was hollow, haunted. "No. But I know of you. We all do." The words carried the weight of a funeral dirge. "Come. I will take you to him. You’re on the wrong floor."

The elevator ride felt endless, each floor they passed stretching the silence tighter between them. Yelena stood with her arms crossed, staring at her boots with the intensity of someone trying to solve the world's most complex equation. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth, brow furrowed in deep concentration.

The quiet became unbearable.

"You know," she said, clearing her throat, "everyone who seems to know about this other version of me... you all look at me like I'm some kind of ghost."

That pulled Yelena's gaze up, one eyebrow arching with sharp precision. Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "That is because you are a ghost. You are supposed to be dead here. Did you forget that small detail?"

The bluntness hit harder than expected, making her chest tight. "No, I remember. But it feels like more than that. You don't just look at me like I don't belong. You look at me like you're afraid."

Yelena's exhale was long and weary, her shoulders dropping as if she'd been carrying an invisible burden. When she spoke again, her accent thickened with emotion. "We are not afraid of you. We are afraid of what your being here will do to the people we care about."

"What do you—"

"You will see soon enough." Yelena's tone brooked no argument, but her expression softened slightly. She reached out, resting a careful hand on her arm, the touch cautious. "Just... be gentle with him. Please. He has been through enough."

The plea left her speechless, questions multiplying like cancer cells in her mind. All she could manage was a stiff nod.

The elevator chimed softly, doors sliding open with a whisper of hydraulics.

She followed Yelena into what was clearly a common area, all gleaming surfaces and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered breathtaking views of Manhattan. The space was dotted with comfortable seating, state-of-the-art monitors, and a conference table that could seat a dozen people.

Four figures stood around that table, all wearing matching tactical uniforms with red "A" emblems on their chests. Their conversation died the moment they noticed the newcomers.

The tallest of them—a blonde man with the kind of square jaw that belonged on recruitment posters—straightened immediately. His blue eyes narrowed with suspicion as they fixed on her. "Yelena," he said, his voice carrying authority and wariness in equal measure. "Who the hell is this?"

Before Yelena could answer, the large bearded man beside him stepped forward with a booming laugh that filled the entire space. His presence was overwhelming. all warmth and barely contained energy, like a bear-sized golden retriever.

"Ah, look at this! A new face, and such a lovely one!" He spread his arms wide as if preparing to envelope her in a bear hug, his voice thick with Russian accent and unmistakable joy. "Finally, some beauty around here to balance out all these ugly faces. You are... how do Americans say... a sight for sore eyes, da?"

Heat flooded her cheeks. She stood frozen, caught between mortification and the strange urge to smile despite everything.

Yelena groaned audibly, dragging a hand down her face. "Dad, stop."

"What?" The older man looked genuinely confused, then winked at her with shameless charm. "I only speak truth. Your mother, if she were here, she would agree—this one has excellent genetics. Very fine bone structure."

"Stop talking, Alexei," Yelena snapped, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. She turned back to the group, exhaling through her nose like wrangling her father was a full-time occupation. "This is—" She glanced back, seeking silent permission, then said the name quietly, as if she knew what was about to happen.

The effect was immediate and devastating.

The brunette woman—young, maybe mid-twenties, with energy crackling faintly around her fingers—went completely still. The shaggy-haired man in civilian clothes muttered something under his breath and took an unconscious step backward. Even Yelena's father sobered, his jovial expression fading into something more complex.

But it was the blonde man's reaction that made her stomach plummet.

His entire demeanor shifted, professionalism giving way to something colder, more calculating. He stepped closer, hands settling on his hips as he studied her like she was evidence at a crime scene.

Recognition flickered across his features as he processed her name, cross-referencing it with files in his memory. His expression shifted into something caught between a smirk and a sneer—the look of someone who'd just solved an unpleasant puzzle.

"I know that name," he said, his voice taking on a mocking edge. "Wasn't that the name of Barnes' dead girlfriend?"

The revelation hit her like a sledgehammer to the chest.

Dead girlfriend.

The words ricocheted through her skull, each repetition more devastating than the last. Not partner. Not colleague. Not enemy. Girlfriend. The other version of her, the woman whose shadow she was apparently condemned to live in, had been dating James Buchanan Barnes.

The Winter Soldier.

With a known killer.

The irony was so vicious it threatened to tear her apart from the inside. In her world, she'd spent years hunting down monsters, bringing justice to families destroyed by violence. Here, apparently, she'd been sharing a bed with one of the worst monsters of all.

Her vision began to tunnel, darkness creeping in at the edges like spilled ink. Her lungs had forgotten how to function, each breath coming in short, desperate gasps that never seemed to bring enough oxygen. The panic attack was inevitable now—her body's revolt against information too massive, too impossible to process.

Heat flooded her face, a burning flush of shock and shame and something else she couldn't name. Her hands began to shake, trembling at her sides as if her entire nervous system was short-circuiting.

"Hey." Yelena's voice cut through the static filling her head, firm but gentle. Warm fingers wrapped around her arm, anchoring her to reality when everything else felt like it was spinning away. "Breathe with me. Just breathe. In and out."

She shot a murderous glare at Walker, her voice cracking with fury. "Excellent timing, you absolute moron. Really thoughtful approach there."

Walker raised his hands in mock surrender, but his expression remained coldly entertained, like he was watching a fascinating psychological experiment unfold. "What? I figured she already knew! Isn't that the whole reason she's here?"

Alexei, blissfully oblivious to the emotional carnage unfolding around him, chimed in with maddening cheerfulness. "Of course she is the girlfriend! Look at her—she is exact copy of girl in photographs on Winter Soldier's nightstand. Very beautiful, very tragic, like heroine from Dostoyevsky novel." He beamed at her with paternal pride that made her want to scream. "You loved him deeply, da? Was passionate romance? He was good lover?"

"Dad!" Yelena's voice cracked like a whip, her glare hot enough to melt steel. "You are making everything worse!"

But Alexei only shrugged, completely immune to his daughter's homicidal expression. "What? I only speak truth everyone is thinking. And besides, is much better to be remembered as someone's great love than to be forgotten completely, no? It is romantic tragedy, like in great Russian stories."

The words were meant to comfort, but they only drove the knife deeper. Great love. Romantic tragedy. She was standing in a room full of people who remembered a version of her that had been intimately, desperately connected to a man who represented everything she'd spent her life fighting against.

Her hands clenched into fists, nails biting crescents into her palms as she fought to stay upright. The walls seemed to press closer, the ceiling lower, the air thicker. Everyone's stares felt like physical weight pressing down on her shoulders until she thought her knees might buckle.

This was wrong. Fundamentally, cosmically wrong. She shouldn't be here, shouldn't be wearing this face, shouldn't be expected to carry the emotional baggage of a woman who'd made choices that defied everything she believed in.

But she was trapped. Caught between worlds, between identities, between a past that wasn't hers and a future that terrified her beyond reason.

"What the hell are you people talking about?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the thundering of her own pulse. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"

The pity in their faces was worse than cruelty would have been. At least cruelty would have given her something to fight against. This careful sympathy, these cautious expressions—they made her feel like a wild animal everyone was afraid might bolt or attack without warning.

Everyone except Walker, who continued studying her with clinical detachment, and Alexei, who kept rambling about the beauty of doomed love.

"You need to slow down your breathing," Yelena urged, gripping her shoulders with steady hands and forcing eye contact. "Focus on my voice. Just breathe."

But the command fell flat. The air had turned to concrete in her lungs. The room spun around her like a carnival ride gone wrong, and she could feel herself fragmenting, splitting apart at invisible seams.

She tore herself free from Yelena's grip and stumbled backward, her body moving toward the elevator of its own accord. Her chest heaved with each stuttering breath, vision blurring as tears she refused to acknowledge burned behind her eyes.

"Listen to me," she managed to choke out, every word sharp and desperate. "I don't know what twisted game you think you're playing, but whoever you think I am, I can't be her. I won't be her. I'm my own person, and I'm not from this world, and I've never even met James Barnes—"

Walker's eyebrow arched with infuriating calm. "Well, sweetheart," he drawled, "you're about to."

Behind her, the elevator gave a soft mechanical hiss.

The doors slid open.

She turned, ready to throw herself into whatever escape the elevator offered, ready to run until her legs gave out or her heart exploded—

And froze.

James Barnes stood there.

To her, he should have been nothing more than a name in old files, a face in grainy photographs, a shadow from history books. But in the flesh, he was devastatingly, undeniably real. Taller than she'd expected, broader through the shoulders. Dark hair fell in waves past his collar, shot through with faint silver that caught the light. His beard was neatly trimmed, dusted with gray that spoke of years and battles and sleepless nights. And his eyes — pale blue like a winter sky, sharp and intelligent. And currently wide with shock.

But it wasn't his appearance that stole her breath and left her feeling like she'd been struck by lightning.

It was the way he looked at her.

He'd been stepping out of the elevator, probably heading to some routine meeting or training session, and he'd frozen mid-stride. His hand was still braced against the elevator frame, knuckles white with tension. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, like someone had just punched all the air out of his lungs.

Those ice-blue eyes locked onto her face with an intensity that felt like being dissected, like he was looking straight through time and death and impossibility to see something that shouldn't exist. The expression on his face — raw disbelief warring with desperate hope, grief colliding with wonder—made something twist violently in her chest.

To her, he was a stranger. A name from her nightmares made flesh.

To him, she must be resurrection walking.

Her name fell from his lips like a prayer, broken and reverent and so full of longing it made her want to run screaming. His voice cracked under the weight of that single word, and his entire body seemed to lean forward, drawn by invisible strings.

He moved toward her slowly, as if afraid she might vanish if he startled her. Every step was careful, measured, like he was approaching something that might disappear any second. She wished she could right now.

His expression was torn wide open, every emotion playing across his features without filter or pretense.

She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. For one suspended moment, she was caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze, trapped in the way he looked at her like she was the answer to prayers he'd stopped believing would be answered.

His hand twitched at his side, fingers flexing like he wanted to reach for her, to touch her face and confirm she was real and not just another cruel dream.

And then reality crashed back down on her like a tidal wave.

Her chest seized with pure, primal panic. Ice flooded her veins, her body's fight-or-flight response kicking into overdrive. She stumbled backward, shaking her head violently, trying to break whatever invisible connection had snapped taut between them.

"Don't—" Her voice shattered on the word. "Don't come near me."

He stopped immediately, but the damage was done. The anguish that flooded his features was unbearable, like she'd physically struck him. His lips parted, words trembling on his tongue, confusion bleeding through the desperate hope.

"It's okay," he said softly, his voice gentle in a way that made her want to scream. "It's me. It's Bucky. I don't understand what happened, how you're here, but it's going to be okay—"

"I don't know you!" The words exploded out of her, sharp and laced with mounting hysteria. She wrapped her arms around herself like armor, her whole body shaking with the effort of holding herself together. "I don't know who the hell you think I am, but I'm not her!"

He said her name again, softer this time, like he was trying to gentle a frightened animal. The sound of it in his voice, so full of history and intimacy, made her feel like her skin was crawling.

Before she could respond, before she could scream or run or collapse entirely, Yelena stepped forward. She positioned herself subtly between them, one hand raised in a calming gesture that encompassed both of them.

"She's not who you think," Yelena said quietly, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Her gaze flicked between Bucky's devastated expression and her trembling form. "She's not the woman you knew, Bucky. She's a variant. From another world, another timeline. She's not... she's not her."

The words landed like physical blows. Bucky staggered backward, his face cycling through disbelief, understanding, and a grief so profound it seemed to hollow him out from the inside.

But his eyes never left her face. Never stopped drinking her in like she might disappear at any moment.

She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Wanted to wake up from this nightmare and find herself back in her own world, her own life, where none of this impossible situation existed.

"This is getting incredibly uncomfortable," the young man with shaggy hair muttered from somewhere behind the group.

And it was. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. The weight of everyone's stares, the pity and confusion and worry—it was suffocating. Worst of all was the way Bucky kept looking at her, like the sight of her was simultaneously healing and destroying him.

She hated it. Hated this twisted version of fate that had dropped her into someone else's tragedy. Hated being expected to carry someone else's love, someone else's loss. Hated the way this man, this killer she was supposed to believe had been redeemed, was looking at her like she held his heart in her hands.

She'd come here for answers, but the truth was worse than any mystery could have been.

So she did the only thing that made sense anymore.

She ran.

Her detective training had kept her in good shape, years of chasing suspects through back alleys and up fire escapes had given her speed and endurance. She used all of it now, lunging toward the elevator with desperate urgency.

Behind her, she heard voices calling out—Yelena shouting her name, someone cursing in Russian, the sound of movement as superhuman reflexes kicked into gear.

But she was already inside, her finger jabbing frantically at the door close button as if her life depended on it.

The last thing she saw before the doors slid shut was Bucky's face—devastated, lost, reaching a hand out toward her like he was trying to stop her from disappearing all over again.

The moment she was alone, the adrenaline that had been holding her together evaporated. Her knees buckled, and she slid down the elevator wall until she was sitting on the cold metal floor, her head buried in her hands.

And for the first time since that portal had ripped her away from everything she knew, she broke.

The sobs came in waves, ugly and harsh and desperate. They tore out of her chest like they'd been trapped there for days, weeks, a lifetime. She cried for the life she'd lost, for the world she'd never see again, for the impossible situation she'd been thrust into without her consent.

She cried for the woman who'd worn her face and made choices she couldn't understand.

She cried for the man upstairs who'd looked at her like she was his whole world coming back from the dead.

Most of all, she cried because somewhere deep down, in a place she didn't want to acknowledge, she'd felt something when their eyes met. Something that terrified her more than any truth she'd uncovered.

Recognition.

Not of him, but of the way he'd looked at her. Like she was home.

And she had no idea what that meant, or what she was supposed to do with the guilt that had made a home in her heart. 

______________________________________________________________

Sam showed up at her apartment a few hours later, and for the first time since she'd met him, he was furious.

"What the hell were you thinking?" The door had barely clicked shut before his voice cracked across the room like a whip, sharp enough to make her spine straighten reflexively. His jaw was clenched so tight she could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin, his shoulders squared and rigid like he'd been holding onto that rage through the entire drive over. She didn’t doubt it. "Sneaking into the Watchtower like that? I told you—I told you—to keep a low profile."

"Oh, so now this is all my fault?" The words launched out of her before she could stop them, her finger jabbing toward his chest like a weapon. Heat flooded her veins, her pulse already wild and erratic, her voice shaking with something deeper than just rage. Desperation, maybe, or the kind of fear that could only be fought with fury. "You expect me to sit here, smile, and nod at every half-assed, vague non-answer you people throw at me? Just twiddle my damn thumbs in a world where the other me is dead?" Her voice cracked on the last word, raw and jagged. "I'm a detective, Sam, not some helpless civilian you can placate with scraps."

For a moment, Sam blinked like she'd blindsided him with a truth he hadn't bothered to consider. The fire in his eyes flickered, uncertainty creeping in around the edges. "Okay. I didn't…" He exhaled slowly, his anger deflating slightly as understanding dawned. "I didn't think about it like that. But when you put it that way, yeah, it makes sense, but—"

"Oh, for God's sake." She groaned, both hands flying to her hair, fingers tangling in the strands and tugging until her scalp burned with the sharp bite of pain. It grounded her, kept her from flying apart completely. Her chest was heaving now, words tearing out faster than she could filter them, like a dam had burst. "Were you seriously not going to tell me that your version of me, that she…was with the Winter Soldier?"

The silence that followed was deafening. Sam's gaze locked on hers, heavy and unblinking, his expression shifting into something guarded and final.

"No," he said finally, the word flat and unyielding as stone. "I wasn't planning on it."

Her stomach plummeted, a cold wash of betrayal flooding through her. Her throat constricted. "What the fuck, Sam? Why wouldn't you tell me that?"

He threw his hands up in exasperation, the sound of his sigh filling the cramped space between them like a punctured tire. "Why would I? What possible good would that do you?" His voice climbed, defensive and sharp. "You never knew him in your world. All it would do is create exactly what's happening now. Chaos, confusion. Pain for everyone involved."

She felt her mouth fall open, the words catching like glass shards on her tongue, but he barreled forward before she could speak.

"And how would it help him?" His voice cracked this time, a raw edge breaking through the frustration like a fault line splitting open. His hands fell back to his sides, limp and defeated, like the weight of everything had finally dragged him down. "It would just rip him apart all over again. You don't understand…he never recovered from losing her. From losing you." Sam shook his head, swallowing hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the effort. "And now? Seeing your face again, hearing your voice, watching you move like her but not being her…" His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "I can't even imagine what that did to him."

Her breath caught, sharp and ragged, like she'd just taken a sucker punch to the throat. Her anger stuttered and died for one disorienting second, replaced by something she couldn't name. Guilt? Sympathy? The strange, hollow ache of mourning someone she'd never been?

Her voice dropped, barely more than a whisper, fragile as spun glass. "Was he the one who called you? Told you I came to the Tower?"

Sam looked at her then, and there was no anger left in his face. Just a deep tiredness and something that looked disturbingly like pity.

"Of course it was him," he said softly, each word deliberate and weighted. "He's my best friend."

He let that hang in the air between them, heavy and damning, like a confession.

"And I know you didn't know," Sam added, his voice quieter still, almost gentle. "But I was just trying to protect him. I've watched him put himself back together piece by piece, and I couldn't…I won't let him fall apart again."

The fight drained out of her like water through a sieve. All the yelling, the accusations, the righteous fury, it all seemed suddenly hollow and pointless as Sam's words echoed inside her skull like a death knell. She collapsed onto the couch, her knees giving out beneath her, elbows braced on her thighs, hands pressing hard against her forehead as if she could physically hold the spiraling pieces of herself together.

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

"Okay," she finally whispered, the word trembling out of her like a prayer or a surrender. "Fine. You didn't tell me before. But you can tell me now." She lifted her eyes to Sam, and the weight of the question sitting heavy in her chest felt like it might crush her ribs. "What happened to her? The… me from here. How did she die?"

Sam froze, his mouth opening like he was going to speak, but no sound came out. His gaze flickered away from hers, darting toward the window, the floor, anywhere but her face. Like the answer was a wound he couldn't bring himself to reopen, a scab he refused to pick.

The silence stretched taut and unbearable, elastic and ready to snap, until a low voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"She died right after the fight against Thanos."

Her head snapped toward the door so fast her neck protested.

Bucky stood there, framed in the dim amber light from the hallway, his broad shoulders rigid as steel beams, his vibranium hand clenched around the doorframe with enough force that she could hear the wood creaking under the pressure. He looked like he was using it as an anchor, the only thing keeping him upright and steady. His eyes were locked on her, storm-blue and unflinching. So intense it felt like he was trying to memorize every detail of her face, as though looking away would destroy him all over again.

"Bucky—" Sam shot to his feet, tension coiling through his frame like a spring wound too tight. "I told you to wait in the car—"

Bucky didn't look at Sam. Didn't even acknowledge he'd spoken at all.

His gaze remained fixed on her, unblinking, burning through her like he could pin her to the floor with nothing but the weight of his stare. His voice, when it finally came, was steady but saturated with grief so thick and suffocating it seemed to bend the very air around them. He was still looking at her like she was a ghost made flesh, a cruel trick of light and shadow.

He stepped further into the apartment—one deliberate step, no more—like crossing that invisible threshold would mean too much, would shatter some fragile equilibrium he'd spent years building. Even this much proximity felt dangerous, charged with electricity that made her skin prickle. His eyes were sharp and hard as cut glass, but she could see the faint tremor of a storm barely restrained beneath the surface.

"It happened after we all came back. From the Blip. Fifteen days later, to be exact. Some nutjob — mad about the Blip and trying to take it out on the Avengers — broke into her apartment and…killed her. But you don't need to know the details," he said finally, his voice clipped and final. His eyes were damn near black. Hollowed out with grief.

The weight of his words hit her chest like a stone dropped from a great height. She stared back at him, her own words tangled in her throat like barbed wire. Sam shifted awkwardly between them, his expression tight and pale, like he was watching history about to repeat itself in the worst possible way. Maybe he was.

Her jaw clenched, forcing her voice out through the sudden tightness in her throat. "So now you get to decide for me?" The quiet venom in her tone surprised even her, cutting and precise. "You don't get to do that. Just because you knew me in another life doesn't give you the right to—"

"Stop." His voice cracked through hers like a whip, cold and brutal and absolutely final. It froze her mid-sentence, the words dying on her tongue. "I didn't know you. You're not her. You're just a woman wearing her face, carrying her voice, moving through the world like some cosmic joke." Each word was delivered like a physical blow, precise and merciless. "So no, you don't get the right to know how she died. You don't get to carry her memories or her pain or her love. All you should be doing is staying the hell away from anything that has to do with her."

Her stomach dropped to her feet, a cold wave of shock and hurt washing over her. She wasn't sure why his words sliced so deep—this man was a stranger, wasn't he? But the raw, bleeding wounds in his voice told her otherwise. Every syllable sounded like it cost him blood to speak.

Her chest burned with indignation and something sharper. Rejection, maybe, or the sting of being reduced to nothing more than a cruel facsimile. "I don't want any part of this world, Barnes," she shot back, watching him flinch—that subtle, involuntary recoil—when his last name hit the air like a curse. "But I'm not wearing anyone's face. This is me. My identity. My body. My life." Her voice rose, shaking with emotion she couldn't contain. "So I'm sorry your girlfriend died, but it's not fair for you to tell me I don't have the right to know what happened when I'm the one who has to live with everyone looking at me like I'm her ghost—"

"Shut up."

The words were a snarl, torn from his throat with a fury so raw and primal it made even Sam take a step back. His voice cracked like thunder, filling every corner of the small room. "Don't fucking say you're sorry. You have no idea who she was…what she meant, what she gave, what she sacrificed. You have no right to even speak her name, let alone wear her face and pretend you understand what any of us lost when she died."

Her chest heaved as white-hot anger surged through her veins like molten metal. "Why are you being such a complete jackass?" she snapped, her voice rising to match his, all pretense of composure abandoned. "You can't take this out on me! This isn't my fault! I didn't ask to be here, I didn't know what I was walking into, I didn't choose to look like her!" The words poured out of her in a torrent, years of frustration and confusion and fear crystallizing into pure rage. "You think I wanted to land in a world where I find out I was apparently dating a mass murderer? In my world, you're a war criminal! A terrorist!"

Something fundamental broke in him then. She could see it happen, the exact moment his carefully constructed composure shattered like glass.

Before she could even draw her next breath, he was there. Impossibly fast, covering the distance between them in a heartbeat. His face was just inches from hers, close enough that she could see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes, could feel the heat radiating off his skin. The air between them vibrated with the force of his fury, electric and dangerous. His eyes had gone nearly black, bottomless and wild, and when he spoke, his voice was molten steel poured over broken glass.

"You need to stop talking. Right now."

But her heart was hammering against her ribs like a caged bird, her throat raw with fury and fear and something else she couldn't name, and she couldn't stop. The words kept coming, sharp and cutting and designed to hurt. "What, does the Winter Soldier not like being reminded of the blood on his hands?" she spat, each word hitting its mark with surgical precision. "You think you get to stand there and act like I'm the monster when it was you? You killed for decades, Barnes. Innocent people. Children, probably. And now you want to be the judge of who deserves answers? That's rich."

His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin, his metal hand curling into a fist at his side with a soft mechanical whir.

"You ruined lives," she pressed on relentlessly, her voice shaking with anger and hurt and the desperate need to make him feel even a fraction of the pain he'd inflicted on her. She didn’t know why. She felt horrible doing it, knew it would solve nothing but create more pain. But she was so mad. So frustrated that everyone was treating her like a scar that hadn’t gone away. Couldn’t they see how alone she felt like this? "Entire families. Hundreds, maybe thousands of innocent people who never even knew your name." 

She laughed, but it was sharp and bitter, more like a sob than anything resembling humor. "But I'm the problem here? Because I look like some woman you couldn't save? Because I'm a reminder that you failed to protect the one thing that mattered to you?"

"Stop." The word broke from him like something vital tearing, guttural and desperate, but she was too far gone to hear it.

"—at least I never became the boogeyman little kids had nightmares about. At least I never let myself become a weapon pointed at the innocent. You're a murderer, Barnes. A murderer trying to play saint, and you have the audacity to act like—"

"Stop it, babe —"

The word slipped out before he could catch it, automatic and devastating. His face changed instantly—shock and raw, bleeding pain flickering across his features like he'd just ripped open a wound that had barely begun to heal. His lips pressed together hard, his eyes wide with something that looked like horror at his own slip, but it was too late. The word was hanging in the air between them, heavy and intimate and absolutely forbidden.

Her stomach lurched violently. The sound of it hit her like a physical blow. Unfamiliar to her but weighted with an intimacy she didn't share, couldn't claim, had no right to. It was a glimpse into someone else's love story, someone else's heart, and she was nothing but an unwelcome intruder. She stepped back sharply, stumbling slightly, as if the word had burned her.

"Don't," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Don't call me that. I'm not her. I'm not—" But she couldn't finish, couldn't voice what they both knew: that she was a pale imitation, a cosmic mistake like he had said. A walking reminder of everything he'd lost.

Sam was there in a flash, planting a firm hand against Bucky's chest, shoving him back a step before things could escalate further. "That's enough," Sam barked, his voice sharp with authority, his eyes darting between them like he was trying to defuse a bomb. "Both of you. Stop this right now."

Bucky froze, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, but his eyes never left her face. He looked utterly shattered, like he wanted to reach for her. Or maybe like he wanted to run as far away as possible. She couldn't tell which, and that uncertainty made everything worse.

Sam's hand stayed firm against Bucky's chest, even as the soldier's breathing began to even out into something resembling normal. His gaze flicked to her — still standing there rigid and trembling, staring at Bucky like she didn't even know what she was looking at anymore, like he was some dangerous animal that might strike at any moment.

Sam made the executive decision first. "We're leaving," he said flatly, not taking his eyes off Bucky. He gave him a sharp nudge toward the door, and Bucky went without protest, his shoulders tense as steel cables, his jaw locked like stone. He moved like a man in a trance, hollow and mechanical.

Before following, Sam turned back to her one last time. His expression softened fractionally, regret shadowing his dark eyes like storm clouds. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, and she could hear that he meant it. Sorry for bringing Bucky here, sorry for the pain they'd both inflicted, sorry that any of this had to happen at all.

She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her throat was too tight, her chest too full of emotions she didn't have names for. She just stood there, arms wrapped around herself like armor, eyes burning holes in the floor as silence pressed in from all sides.

Sam lingered for a heartbeat longer, waiting for something, anything, from her. Some sign that she was okay, that they could salvage this situation, that the damage wasn't irreparable. But when nothing came, when she remained frozen in her protective shell, he nodded once—heavy and resigned and infinitely tired—and followed Bucky out.

She watched them go through the blur of unshed tears. The door closed behind them with a soft click that echoed louder than it had any right to, final and absolute. Bucky never looked back.

The apartment was suddenly too big and too empty, the silence pressing against her eardrums like deep water. And all she could hear was that single word still echoing in her head carrying a weight that wasn't hers to bear, a love that would never belong to her, and the devastating knowledge that she was nothing more than a cruel reminder of everything this world had lost.

______________________________________________________________

If anyone knew how to ruin something good, it was you.

All that you had to do was get inside and make friends with some of the people in the Avengers tower. But the mighty Avengers were a group of saps, and that made your plans so much harder to carry out.

They practically melted for you.

Against your better judgment, you let yourself into their lives. Everyone there loved you, and you let them think you did too. Even though deep down a part of you wanted to let it be real, you remind yourself of what they lacked, and what you'd lost in the face of these so-called “heroes." 

At first, Steve was the one who felt the most for you. He took pity and empathized with you like a kindhearted moron, thinking he'd made a grave discovery and recognized the potential you posed for the team. As if you didn't plan for that to happen all along and planted that seed in his mind the moment he met you.

You were trained for this kind of manipulation, and you weren't going to feel bad for it, not when you had something to achieve and no one to fall back on.

With nothing to lose, what's a little heartbreak?

You told them of your parents' passing when you were young, leaving you with no family other than the immediate ones who were already dead. What you didn't tell them was how they were killed, just brushing it off as something that happened too young for you to remember. Though you knew it all too well, and you were there for a reason. 

You let Steve take credit for your idea of becoming an Avenger, and they all fell perfectly for your little plan. 

It was Steve who introduced you to Tony—the man you were there to kill. 

You put on a fake smile and tucked your hands behind you, keeping yourself from inching forward and carrying out your mission. You'd spent so many years of your life having Tony's image drilled into your mind as the villain who was posing himself as a hero, telling yourself that he was utterly deserving of the smear campaign you originally planned to put him through. That was before you got close to the team. Before you landed on the idea of killing him, because you were finally close enough. The proximity that joining the team allowed you, it tempted you regularly, but you had to wait for the right moment. Pretending like you didn't hate Tony's guts was probably the hardest part. 

You infiltrated their trust and broke into their space. You took root inside their lives from the inside, and they welcomed you in with open arms. Like the perfect orchestration of a gorgeous tune, you drew the trap and they all fell inside, letting the kindness you showed them translate into trust and love. But you? You played the greatest trick on yourself. 

The grandest part of the scheme was the relationships you formed and the love you pretended to have for too long. Until that became real, because the truth was, you were never faking.

Bruce offered up his friendship and Clint his home like you were one of their own. Far too trusting for people who were meant to be protectors and careful assessors of danger. It was hard to pretend like the warmth you felt wasn't real when Clint baked cookies with his family and brought you some, or when Natasha would peel an orange and hand you half quietly. Natasha made it infinitely harder to hate her when she'd train with you endlessly as though she wanted to prepare you for when she wouldn't be around. She became your closest thing to a best friend you were sure you ever had— until she died.

They were all family that you loved despite it all. You let yourself believe that maybe you could have some sense of normalcy, that you could let your guard down even a little bit, and you let too many people in. 

Some people more than most— like Bucky. 

You didn't plan on falling for Bucky; you didn't even want to pretend like you loved him until you really did. But you had your own plans, your own mission, and your own vengeance to achieve, so stepping on some toes and hurting some feelings didn't mean shit to you. Even if it was the man that you didn't mean to fall for, who was carrying the brunt of the bargain. 

Bucky made it so hard to ignore him, with his soft smiles and his hand on your hip when you'd spar. His warm palm on your shoulder when you were out gazing on the balcony too long, and calling you to come inside for a cup of tea that he knew you would like. When your guard would fall, just for him, and he wouldn't push you for information, sitting in your silence with you. Because Bucky knew what it was like to get lost in your thoughts, and your mind is a war in itself.

Bucky watched you and knew you had your demons; he just hoped that in time you'd tell him about them. Slowly, you stopped calling him Barnes. You didn't know it yet, but you helped him take back his name, calling him James when others would call him Bucky.

Just being around him made you feel more human—more alive.

And damn him for making you care.

You hated how he made your heart flutter around him and your stomach drop when you'd worry for him. You shoved him into a wall once after he returned from mission, when he wouldn't answer you because he was occupied with disarming someone. One gruelling hour of him not responding over the comms on a mission you took as partners.

He came back to the jet with a few scratches on his face, but nothing major, and you still felt like you couldn't breathe at the thought of him not coming back. His chest heaved as you put a finger in his face, and his gaze seemed to soften in recognition that you were afraid, that you were scared of losing him.

It didn't take long for you to push him again and for him to catch your wrists, pulling you in, flush against him.

That was the first time he kissed you, swallowing your whimpered protest when you’d fisted his shirt and drawn him further into you. Desperately, you couldn’t even pretend like you didn’t want him once you’d touched. The two of you moved in unison toward the jet's couch as he walked you backwards, stripping you from your clothes without breaking the kiss. He lay you down like a careful art, taking his time while you calmed from the bottled-up emotions you refused to express out loud.

He loved you gently and softened the rough ends of his exterior so you could let yourself sit in the feelings that he also struggled to outwardly express. When you finally let him in and stopped pushing him away, he didn't just sleep with you, but he made love to someone for the first time since Hydra took him away. Truthfully, it was the first time he ever loved someone so deeply, and it scared him, but he knew it scared you too, so he let it consume him whole— for both of you. He did it again, and again, and he would've kept doing it if you'd let him. 

Bucky took you apart and put you back together as though you were his favourite mystery, caressing you like a Goddess on Earth.

Every touch felt like a blessing and in his mind leaving any part of you untouched was a sin.

Leaving bites over the scars on your skin, buried under layers of clothes that no one else had touched this delicately. You were completely and undeniably his. Neither of you ever told anyone about it, and how he held you after missions went wrong or how you sat with him when his nightmares wouldn’t let him sleep. Bucky never pushed you for anything more. He was afraid of you losing interest, so he tried to build your relationship silently.

When you wouldn't come out of your room for dinner, he'd bring it to you, cooking things he knew were your comfort food. He'd knock silently and linger there just to make sure you really did eat it. He made quiet dinners for just the two of you, leaving specks of food on his shirt or his brow as evidence of his labour.

After going to the bar with the team one night, and you drank too much, and he offered to take you home. You, however, were entirely wasted and couldn’t give proper directions.

Bucky took you to an apartment that no one else knew he had and let you sleep it off there. Except you cried like a wounded, inconsolable child, and he felt the heaviness of your sorrow like it was resting on his chest. He gave you a key to keep going there the next day, and you never gave it back. 

Part of you knows you'll always be his, even after you have to break his heart. He would unwrap you over and over again like a gift he was grateful to receive. He held you after it all, and you knew it wouldn't be the last time because of how safe you'd felt in his embrace. And Bucky knew from the moment Steve introduced you that he wouldn't be able to let you go. That you were and are the reason he'd wake up in the morning despite his nightmares and demons. You made it all worthwhile for him.

You fell hard for him, head over heels and disgustingly in love. But Bucky fell so much harder, unravelling for you after years of conditioning and trauma that ran deep. You chipped away at his walls by letting him love you and letting yourself love him back.

It wasn't because of your mission that you did it. You truly did care for him and you wanted to tend to his wounds that cut through his mind like a plague. It all happened so fast that you couldn't stop it. You couldn't help the way you loved him so deeply that you wanted any part of him you could have, even if it was for a little while. Even if the love was built on lies and deceit.

You knew that once he found out, nothing would be the same, and the two of you would never be able to go back. So you settled for now, stealing kisses between missions and meeting him in his bedroom when everyone else fell asleep. He settled for holding your hand under the briefing table and bringing you snacks that he knew you loved, even when you'd push him away.

Despite your reluctance, he wanted you the same way you wanted him. He would take any bits you offered him because, in his mind, he wasn't worthy of anything else — and you helped him break that barrier of self-deprication by loving his scars like your own. 

It was Bucky Barnes who had to stop you when you cornered Tony in the lab. It was Bucky who caught you in the grand act of your plan and had to witness everything about your relationship crash and burn in front of him. You didn't want to do it like this, but you had no choice now. 

After the annual Gala that Tony threw in honour of his father, Howard Stark, the sack of shit who mindlessly supplied weapons to the most immoral people across the country, and even larger weapons of destruction overseas. It didn't fucking matter that Tony didn't do it himself, but he was aware, and that was more than enough. Tony worked with his father, did demonstrations of his destructive weapons, and had years of experience helping with the supplies before he was abducted.

It took seeing the destruction, feeling the pain that had been felt for decades through his own suffering, for him to understand the gravity of the shit he was part of. The fact that he couldn't come to that conclusion without all of that unnecessary suffering that made your blood boil.

After he praised his father and Stark Industries' history at the Gala, you couldn't take it anymore. 

You were getting too emotional. 

So you followed him into the lab, using your stealth training to sneak in behind him, just before the doors would have locked. Using the training the team had helped teach you against him, you made your move. Your hand on your holster, you silently pulled it out and pointed it towards the back of his head, mind full of doubt and unsteady conviction that told you this was what you had to do. 

His voice startled you as he was still facing the computers, "You've finally come to finish the job, huh?" 

You scoff, gripping your gun a little tighter, "You knew that I was going to do this, and still you let me join."

Tony turns to face you, his hand still holding his glass of whiskey he'd been coddling all night. You were watching him while everyone else conversed— while Steve asked if you were alright, and Bucky tried meeting your gaze. This anger was bright and intense, and it was all his fault. Maybe if he weren't alive, it might calm your thoughts— 

"Well, it's taken you what? Over a year to muster up the courage to kill me. You really think I don't do intensive background checks, sweetheart? Go on then, take your shot." He brought his glass to his lips and drank, testing you. "But you know this is quite ironic, right?" 

Tony was always skilled at this type of thing, riling people up and seeking a reaction. 

Shoving the magazine into place fully, your finger danced over the trigger, "Don't tempt me, Stark. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time."

He steps closer to you, "then why the hell didn't you? You could have, hell, you probably should have done it before you got the rest of the team attached to you."

You didn't let your expression fall, remaining as stoic as you could as you spoke, "I'm only here for you." 

Despite your differences and wanting him dead, you'd grown fond of Tony.

Tony says your name, the sound slightly slurred from drinking too much all night, which you were banking on. A hint of tenderness behind his voice, as though speaking to an old friend. Having him not entirely lucid would've made this easier, but alas, Tony was always even more talkative than usual when he was drunk.

"I know what Stark Industries did to your family and what they," he pauses to correct himself, "what we took. I know I'm not perfect, but you have to acknowledge that what you've done is evil just as the rest." Though his words felt harsh, he spoke as though he wanted you to know it was okay. That he understood. "Just tell me, is revenge what you truly want?"

You didn't trust your voice, so instead you nodded. He continues with the soft scoff, "Did you ever even really care?"

Your breath hitched as the words sank in. You did care, you cared so deeply that it hurt. Still, you let your hurt evolve and eventually involve the people you'd gotten to love. The people you were supposed to hate. But that didn't matter now; you knew you were too far gone. The only thing that should have been on your mind was killing the man in front of you for the crimes of his company. The crimes of his father and his father's father, even if you knew your judgment was bordering on playing God. 

Taking on the role of judge, jury, and executioner, because someone had to, right? If you had to be somebody's villain, then fine, as long as you finally felt like you'd done something. Done anything to ease the pain of the younger version of yourself that lost so much and vowed to do something about it. You shift the weight of the gun in your hand and look back up into Tony's eyes, unrelenting on you. 

You're about to answer him when the door slides open, shifting your focus from Tony and taking in the two men storming in. Bucky and Steve emerged in the midst of a conversation as they took in the scene before them and froze. Bucky's eyes immediately fell on you — gun in your hand, cocked and pointed at Tony. It was unmistakable that you had been playing them, but Bucky didn't want to believe it, not even when Steve put a hand to his shoulder and tried to keep him from moving closer to you. 

He says your name, his voice careful and soft, "What are you doing?" 

You take a shaky breath, trying not to meet his gaze and feigning unamusement, "What does it look like, Barnes?"

The sharpness of your tone made his brows knit into a pained expression. The use of his last name and not calling him James, like you usually would, punched him in the gut. You weren't here to coddle him or anyone else, including yourself. He says your name like he's pleading for you, and you shut your eyes, masking your emotions and swiftly swiping a forming tear away. 

"Don't do this," his voice a pleading whisper as he inches closer to you, but you don't let him.

You ignore him and kick Tony in the back of the knee, knocking him over. You turn to face Bucky, just as he's about to touch you.

The gun turns to him, and he inhales sharply, his resolve crumbling, "baby."

"Don't," you try to hide the shakiness in your voice as Steve also inches closer, "don't call me that and just stay right fucking there. I'm not here for either of you, just Tony."

Bucky's face drops further, a bitterness forming in his mouth as he repeats your harsh words back, "you were never here for me," repeating after you like each word was ripping his throat raw as he said it, "you're here for Stark."

Reluctantly, you nod. This was your mission, this was the vengeance you needed since you were a child, and you'd gone and made it a hell of a lot harder. He nods back, the gears in his mind turning, and his breathing uneven. You knew his tells when he was nervous or in pain, or on the verge of an anxiety attack. This was the ladder, and you were fighting the urge to run to him and explain yourself, but there was no time. There was no point now. 

You bite back the words; I love you, James. I'm so sorry. But you never say it. 

You fire a single round next to where Steve was, making him flinch. Warning him to stop inching closer when he thought you were distracted. Tony looks up to Steve, and they both look at each other like they were asking the other what to do. But Bucky, his gaze never falters from yours. He watches you like he knew this would be the last time, and you swore you could hear his heart breaking. You lower your gaze from his. 

"Both of you need to leave," taking cautious steps away from them and pointing the gun back at Tony. 

"Like hell we are," Steve says as Buckys voice fails to find him. 

Tony looks up at them, "Yeah, guys, listen to the lady. Save yourselves and leave. This is my fight. I made my bed, didn't I, sweetheart?" 

"Shut up, Stark, we aren't leaving." Steve stands, and this time you let him. He says your name like he's reprimanding you, "You need to think about what you're doing, think about the team."

You say nothing, and Steve's eyes catch Buckys briefly. The frustration inside you boils over when Steve speaks again, "Think of how you're hurting Bucky." 

"This isn't about him or us." The sharpness is heavily evident in your tone. 

Bucky's voice seems to find him as your gaze meets accidentally his, his eyes glazed over like he was on the verge of tears, "Isn't it always about us?" 

You don't respond, you can't. 

His big, beautiful, blue eyes were blown out despite how little you seemed to care in this moment for his feelings, or how little you chose to show.

He sees your internal turmoil and inches closer, "Please, I love you. Don't do this."

You bite your lip to stop it from quivering. He hadn't ever admitted his feelings so raw to you, just shown it in a lack of the words he couldn't find just yet. You ignore the loud pattering of your heart as you press the barrel of the gun to his chest, and he just lets you, leaning into it and wrapping his hand around yours— not believing that you'd really shoot him. 

You knew that after this, after killing Tony, Bucky would be far from loving you for what you had done. You weren't sure if you could even blame him for it. If you were in his shoes, you'd assume the same, that you had used him; his time, empathy, and courage to love again. If you were him, you'd hate yourself for making him love like this, and for what? Revenge? Peace of mind? 

You made him feel utterly used all over again, even after he had exposed all his scars to you and told you about his past. You listened with open arms and welcomed him into your embrace, kissing his hands, both metal and flesh, and whispering to him that he was worthy. Breaking his walls down just to make him build them up even higher. 

This is why you weren't supposed to let yourself get too close and too attached to the life you could've had with him and not the one for your own preservation. Vengeance had consumed you whole since the night your parents had died from a senseless attack carrying weapons etched with an Stark Industries on the barrel. How easily accessible these weapons became for people in your neighbourhood to find and purchase, and for worse individuals to buy in mass. All because the Stark family name had to be the top weapons manufacturer, no matter the cost and no matter the lives lost. 

You thought of the bloodshed, of the killings and the destruction that they caused and your blood boiled again. All because Stark Industries didn't do background checks on who they sold their weapons to. Bloomed bright with intentful retribution, you had convinced yourself; this was the only way. 

You let him lean in close, one last time. The familiar scent of him filled your lungs as he gazed into your eyes as though he were begging for you to snap out of it. But you were more yourself now than you had ever been, and you swallowed down the lump in your throat, inching a little closer to him.

"Then you're an idiot for loving me." You pulled your head back just enough to slam into his forehead and send him staggering a few feet backward, and he let your hand go. Before you knew it, he was focused on you again, whispering your name like a call to prayer.

Your hand moved too quickly for him to catch you, and you shot at Tony, striking him between the shoulder blades. Before Tony even falls over and grunts in pain, and Bucky grabs you. He knocks the gun from your hand and topples you over to the ground. 

"Get off of me!" you thrash but he doesn't relent.

He hovers over you, his legs on either side of your body. He thinks he's successfully disarmed you, leaning over and giving you an emphatic look despite how harsh your words and tone was. Despite how you had just shot Tony right in front of him, proving your lack of loyalty to the team.

Desperately clinging onto the hope that you still love him, or that the love was ever real. You buck your hips up high, trying to get him off of you, but he was far heavier than you. You're thrashing beneath him, and he holds your left arm with his flesh one, the metal one caressing your face—an action you helped him learn to do to prove every part of him was worthy to you. 

Steve was holding Tony's wound tight to keep him from bleeding out, but the crimson was spreading fast. The blood is pooling and reaching where you and Bucky were.

Bucky's eyes were glazed over and teary, threatening to fall down his face. The same face that you had become so enamoured with. 

"Please, baby, I don't wanna hurt you," he pleads. 

But you do the one thing you knew would hurt him most. You reach up with your free hand, grazing over his metal arm like you used to, soft and tender with your gaze still on his, a reminder of your intimacy before ruining the trust between you. 

"But I have to hurt you, James," you admit before a mechanical click shifts from beneath your fingertips and his arm dismounts his body, clattering to the floor. 

He leans back off of you, his gaze falling to the vibranium arm before up to your face. Shocked and pained. His expression was beyond broken now, and you wanted so badly to take it back just as you did it, but this was how you made him hate you. A tear slips from his face and lands on your cheek as he stares down at you, never blinking, just staring in utter disbelief. 

Your heart aches and hate yourself for what you were doing, but you seize the opportunity while he is distracted. Shoving Bucky off of you fully, and he doesn't do anything to stop you, his eyes remaining on where you were just lying beneath him. The warmth of your cheek lingering under his phantom arm as he looks to it. 

You don't look back, you don't grab your gun off the ground, and you don't wish to meet anyone's gaze—especially not Buckys. 

You ignore whatever Steve was shouting to Bucky and stride your legs forward. Panting hard, you push yourself toward the glass windows, throwing a chair and causing it to shatter. You were prepared to jump when a bullet flies and grazes you in the side, coaxing a pained shriek from you as your legs work mindlessly, pumping and continuing to push you forward. Adrenaline fuels you as you glance briefly over your shoulder, just in time to see Bucky, with your gun in his hand and his expression utterly shattered like you'd never seen. 

This couldn't be love, because love shouldn't hurt like this. Love shouldn't bleed like this. 

He has to hate you now.

You turn back and leap through the broken glass, Buckys face the last thing on your mind as you descend from the tower. When Bucky ran to look over the edge of the shattered window, looking to where you had landed, you were already gone. The only thing you left behind was the pool of blood Tony was rasping in and a trail of yours, from the wound Bucky had given you.

New York quickly became the place you hated most, so you left the busy streets behind. 

The following weeks left you on a manhunt, from the Avengers, law enforcement, and Bucky Barnes. 

For the next several months, you avoided all places they frequented. After betraying all your friends, you didn't feel the most enthusiastic to return to any place they might be or risk incarceration. Especially not after attempting to kill Tony and finding out through news channels that he had died in a way that you hated— because it was honourable. He did the one thing you never thought he could, and was a hero in the very end. 

This sent you into a spiral that felt endless, and you became a mess of yourself. You started to get sloppy and started seeking old comforts. Natasha's voice would play in your head, nagging you to watch your six and mind the corners of buildings when you crossed the street. She would be the voice of reason in your head when you reached for the phone with no SIM card in your bedroom drawer and contemplated using it to call Bucky. 

She would play in your mind when you went to the deli with the sandwiches Bucky loved and bought his order just to imagine how it would feel to be him. How would it feel to be defiled by the woman you loved? To relearn love just to be used to get to someone else?

You would ruin your own appetite often, and you weren't sure if it was cause of your spiralling thoughts or the fact that you were hallucinating the voice of your dead best friend. 

One winter night, you wore an old jacket that still smelled faintly like Bucky, missing his touch more than usual. Your hands shoved into your pockets, and the jacket zipped up high, covering your nose. You felt the cold metal of something in your pocket. With peaked interest, you pulled your hand out and stared at the key in your hand, the one to the apartment Bucky had. The one he hardly went to. In your mind, it felt like a sign to go there, to feel the air that you both once breathed together in and memorize the smells. You couldn't help it; your legs carried you there without considering the consequences. 

Carefully, you unlocked the door with a swallow creak that echoed in the dark and nearly empty space. Bucky was never one for much decoration, so the apartment only had the necessary furniture and appliances and throw pillows you lent him that never went back home with you. Kicking your shoes off, you walked over to the kitchen, drawn by the hum of the refrigerator. Once you walked close enough, you froze. The fridge was open, the light still on.

Fuck, someone was here. 

Your name is said so softly, so gently, spoken as though afraid it might scare you away. Like he wasn't sure if it was you or a dream. You already knew who it was without even seeing his face.

You turn slowly to meet his eyes—evaluating. 

"James," you breathe, hands clenched inside your jacket pockets. 

The look on his face made you feel all the more worse. His eyes were sunken in like he hadn't slept, red and rimmed. In his hand was a case file with your name on it. 

"I thought you were really gone," the file drops to the floor as he reaches for your face, "I thought you were dead." 

Not expecting him to touch you, you take his hand off of you, "I shouldn't have come here," you sputtered, moving out of the kitchen. 

Bucky followed you out of the room, hot on your tail. You could feel the sharp daggers of his gaze prickling at your back.

He calls out after you, "Hey," you keep walking, ignoring him. he says your name, footsteps heavy after you, "I am talking to you, dammit!" 

Still, you pretended not to feel his presence behind you, walking fast through the hallway. But he wouldn't let you get away from this conversation, not again, and he grabs you by your arm, pulling roughly. "Stop ignoring me," he spat out, glaring at you, "quit shutting me out, you left for months,"

"I can't do this right now, Bucky." you hiss

He flinches at that use of his name, grip tightening, "You can't do this right now, huh? You came here to what, then? Torment me further? Kill me like you tried with Stark? You leave me in the dark for seven months, and you're the one who can't do this right now?" 

You pretend like his tone wasn't puncturing your heart and pull your arm, but he doesn't relent.

His eyes were piercing with intensity and frustration, "Do you have any idea what it's been like, wondering why you pretended to love me? Wondering why you left me like that when I would've given anything you wanted?" his voice rose quickly. 

You try to interrupt him, "You don't understand—"

"You're damn right, I don't understand! Fuck, why did you even come back here if you want to leave so badly? You wanted to disappear, so why come back?" His emotions rose in his tone.

You try again, mumbling his name, but he stops you, yanking you closer, "Shut up and fucking listen! For once in your life, listen to me!" his chest rises and falls, "You could've talked to me and told me what was going on, but instead you just ran!"

"You shot at me!" you counter. 

"You took my arm off of me!" he practically screams your name at you, "If I wanted to fucking shoot you, we both know I wouldn’t have missed.”

You gulp at the realization; he presses closer.

“You used me to get to him, and you knew," his voice breaks, "you knew what that was going to do to me, and you did it anyway."

Everything in his face looked sunken in, like he wasn't taking care of himself since you disappeared. Suddenly, your surroundings overwhelmed you like skeletons in the closet. Dozens of empty cans of beer and bottles of whiskey. Even though he couldn't get drunk, it looked like he had desperately tried. Packages next to the front door, labelled in Sam's handwriting, urging him to eat something inside them. Cardboard boxes full of cases, papers etched over the ground from when he had been frantically rummaging through for any kind of clue.

You hadn't gotten to see just how affected he was until now, and it was eating you alive more than you had already been doing to yourself. 

"You've ruined me. I'm ruined and you're here just to leave me, again." His thumb stroked your cheek lovingly and tenderly, while his words came out broken.

"The worst part is I would let you use me so long as you came back. Why wouldn't you come back for me?" his words sounding utterly broken and more of a statement than a question.

"I should have, James. I didn't mean for it to happen like that—" 

He pushes you against the door to the bedroom, your back hitting it with a thud. Arms on either side as his hips press against yours, pinning you there.

"Don't. Just don't lie to me anymore," he rasps, "you did what you had to, right? You had to use me like a pawn, and I just rolled over for you."

You can't help how your words get lost on you, and you drown in the intensity of his sharp gaze. The tenderness in those blue eyes that you grew to love was gone, but still you desired him more than anything else, and you couldn't help how your eyes flickered over his perfect, plump lips. Even in this moment, you burned for him and only him. His gaze turns into something deeper, something between hurt and lust that you barely recognized. Everything about his body language screamed that he was restraining himself from you. 

He catches your gaze, and his hand mindlessly lifts, caressing the side of your face. 

"God, if you wanted to hurt me, shooting me in the head would have hurt less." chest heaving against yours. 

Tears prickled at your eyes, "I am so sorry, Bucky, I really am."

He shakes his head slowly, "You don't get to apologize, not when you still have me undone for you." His eyes are boring into yours, but his words contrast with his actions: "I fucking hate you, and I want you just as broken by this as I am."

You gulp, "I am broken by this," his hand finds the doorknob and pushes it open, pulling you inside with him. 

"No, you wanted to use me," he walks you backwards and shoves you onto the mattress, and you let him. "I'll show you what it's like to be used."

"James—" you try as he flips you over onto your stomach.

"You want me to stop? You tell me now. Otherwise, I don't wanna hear anymore lies from you."

But you can't tell him to stop. You want him, you'll always want him.

When you turn your head to look at him and nod, he pulls at your hips and keeps you on the edge of the bed as he practically rips your pants off you. Gasping as his metal knuckles grazed up your spine, pulling the fabric up with it and sending shivers like he knew it would.

The way he feels makes your core ache for him despite it all. You missed this— you missed all of him like an addict to his touch. Arching as he presses into you from behind, fisting your hair as he ruts himself against you, reminding you of what could have been.

Bucky was more than just a means to an end, and you wanted him to know that, but how could you? That you are capable of using him despite knowing his past? How do you convince him that you loved him when you'd shown him that you didn't want him? That he shouldn't want you?You've already shown your care to him, and he's well aware of how you'd used him, so maybe hating you was the only answer. Love might not be in your cards, but in this moment, your resilience was pouring through the cracks. If he hated you, then he would be okay, and the damaged parts of you couldn't reach him anymore. 

He leans over your back and shifts his hand from your hair to your throat; tight enough to threaten.

"You wanted this all along, didn't you?" breaths hot against your ear as his belt clinks open, "I've just been a bit of fun for you? An easy, broken man you could use over and over? A quick fuck?" 

Your lip quivers, "You were always more than that."

He releases your throat. Reaching over and down your chest to rip your shirt open easily. The fabric is thin—the buttons pop open and scatter across the room. With one quick, practiced move, he unhooks your bra without even looking at it. You gasp despite yourself and let him pull you up, bare back flush against his.

Your heart crumbles for him, and the damage you'd done that seems to follow you everywhere you go. In his mind, he already had his answer as to why you wouldn't come back, but he still didn't want to believe it. He still wanted you, even if it really were one last time before you left him again. 

Warm, soft tears roll down your cheek and onto his fingers, "James, I really am sorry, you didn't deserve this." 

His heavy length is pressed against your back as he grips your hair roughly, just enough to see your face. Bucky's gaze softens despite how tense he was, but you could still see the uncertainty in his eyes. 

"I told you, I don't want your apologies," tears threaten to spill from his eyes. He runs his fingers up your core, testing the wetness pooling there before he pulls your panties off, "I just want this."

You swallow your tears and the urge to try convincing him again. You nod—needing him just as badly, "Okay." 

The feeling of him alone makes you throb for him, aching for him like you have been for months.

Running his thick and angry red tip through your folds once, he collects the slick and watches your face contort in pleasure. He’s watching as you shut your eyes—savouring the feeling like you were deprived and storing the image in the back of his mind. He aligns himself and pushes the tip inside, making you writhe into the pillow.

But he doesn't coo at you like he normally would, he doesn't praise you the way he knows you like, and he doesn't try to make it slow and passionate. 

This was pure take and desire that consumed you both.

The stretch of him was as glorious as always, but fuck, you wanted to see him. He doesn't give a warning before thrusting in to the hilt, bottoming out and coaxing a sharp gasp from you. His lips close the distance to your neck, leaving wet, sloppy kisses that quickly become rougher as he sucked purple marks—marking you in a physical manifestation of what you'd done to him.

Leaving something behind for you to be reminded of in the morning. 

Gripping your hips tight enough that it would leave bruises, and you didn't care. His hips sank hard, movements meant to reach a peak that could prove something to him or to you somehow. Punishing in his thrusts, rocking the headboard against the wall in every movement.

The soft exterior of the man you loved so badly was gone. He was taking you apart in every way he knew how, because Bucky knew how to make you sing for him and had your body memorized like the back of his hand. 

The sounds he made were between a whimper and a groan, as though everything about this was ripping him apart. You knew him so well, studied him like a roadmap you could never forget. You knew his body like it was tattooed inside your eyelids, never escaping the softness. 

Being rough wasn't something Bucky liked to do with you, unless you asked for it. So this? This was tearing him to shreds. After months without feeling the sweet plush of your skin, Bucky so desperately wanted to take his time, but he couldn't trust himself with being able to leave you alone afterwards.

If he took any more time, he knew he wouldn't be able to let you go. 

You whined his name, wanting to touch him. Reaching back for him, grazing your fingernails over his forearms, and he takes your hands, kissing them like he was sorry. You cry out for him again, but he shoves your face into the pillow, shutting you up and muffling your helpless moans. Putting down his full weight and your hands over your head, whispering breathlessly into your ear. 

"You wanted to use me, so take it. Take all of it." 

Puncuating his words by snapping his hips even deeper into yours and reaching the spongy spot that made you see stars. You push back into him to meet his thrusts, he moans so beautifully for you—and he hated it.

He hated how you had him undone for him and could hurt him so deeply.

Holding both of your hands with his flesh arm so you couldn’t touch him, the metal one comes between you and circles over the sensitive bud, making you jolt. But he won't let you escape the way he made you feel, so he plants a knee on either side of you to cage you under him. He urges you on while keeping his punishing thrusts, snapping even harder, faster. 

Overstimulating all at once; the rigorous pace brings you there faster than you began, and you scream his name as you fall apart. He groans like it hurts as your walls flutter around him and the slickness urges him on. He doesn't relent, pushing deeper into you again and again, chasing his high as you writhe beneath him, cooing at him that it was too much to no avail. He grunts in your ear, and you swear you could've came again just at the rasp of his voice. 

“James please,” you whimper.

Suddenly, he hooks an arm under your knee and flips you onto your back. When you meet his gaze, you see the tears in his eyes just before he crashes his quivering lips into yours. His tongue swipes over your lip before he tangles the muscle with yours, sweeping every crevice of your mouth in a desperately possessive manner. He swallows your whimpered moans and ruts himself in short, deep movements, reaching into you like he could understand you like this. Like he could finally reach your mind and unravel you in this bed.

In his bed. 

The taste of salty tears touches your tongue as he devours your lips. His pace becomes uneven and sloppy as you feel yourself reaching that peak again. He pulls back just to attach his lips to your neck, sucking and biting to leave his mark purposefully. His teeth sink in, and you moan his name loudly as you came again, grabbing at him now that you could. Hissing at your nails against his back, his moans are broken and he twitches and sputters your name quietly, spilling hot inside.

Still thrusting slow and deep like he just couldn’t help himself, he keeps his spend inside, not letting a drop escape as he remains sheathed in between your slick walls. He looks back down, taking in the deep marks he left there, a hint of apology in his eyes. He seems like he wants to say something, but he stops himself, leaning down and kissing you again—softer this time.

He swipes his tongue along your lips to coax you into opening your mouth for him again. He pulls back just enough to spit into your mouth. You swallow it for him, digging your fingers into the nape of his neck and pulling him back down like you couldn't let him go.

This time, Bucky whimpers at the contact you make, biting your bottom lip enough to coax another gasp and then pulling away entirely. He gets off of you, running his hand through his hair and dragging it over his face. He stands up fast and pulls his jeans back on.

"Where are you going?" you ask, but he doesn't look at you. 

"This doesn't change anything," he adjusts his belt through the loops, the sound clinking through the quiet air, besides the sound of both of your heavy breathing. 

You sit up, the evidence of the sanguine and desolate encounter dripping onto his sheets, "James, please, if you would just let me explain." 

He turns quickly, eyes red as he says your name like it physically pains him, "I told you, I fucking despise you. Loathe isn't strong enough to describe how I feel about you." 

You stop breathing for a moment, stuck in place. 

He continues, watching the pained expression on your face grow, "You're like a fucking plague on my mind, and I can't stand you anymore."

He takes backwards steps to the door, turning away from you, "I don't ever want to see you again, so you better be long gone by the time I come back here." 

You can't help the soft scoff that escapes you, gripping the sheet tighter, "and if I don't go?" 

He looks at you for a moment, his eyes trailing over your face and studying each feature. After a beat, he looks back into your eyes. The look he gives you is colder than anything you'd ever seen before from him. 

"Then I will kill you myself." 

He slams the door shut behind him, the sound deafening—making you flinch as you close your eyes. 

You were right before; this wasn't love. Love doesn't hurt like this.

Tony Stark became a name that would send a shiver down your spine, but your fists didn't clench like before. 

You refused to acknowledge it with the same fierceness you had before, since your oversight had blinded you. Now, you could see how partial you were and how you'd let anger cloud your judgment and nearly kill a man for the crimes of people before he was born. You still had hate in your heart for him— how could you forget it? But at least now, that sharp pain shifted to an ache dulled that you only felt in your bones when it was cold and you thought of Manhattan.

Nearly half a decade after you last saw Bucky, your life is much different now. Half the Avengers are either dead or retired. Somehow, you still felt some responsibility for what you'd done back then, and how you could never explain yourself, but you were convinced that you were worthy of it anymore. Apologizing to anyone would be selfish because you knew it was for yourself. 

The apartment you lived in—if you could even call it that—was cluttered with clothes and takeout from weeks prior. You hardly left your place now, even after Tony Stark sacrificed his life for the world and died.

An honourable death, for someone you thought to be the opposite of it entirely.

You didn't know how to deal with that or how to take back the things you'd done on your vengeful path. So instead, you stayed home and watched bad television. You were on your couch, licking ice cream off your spoon, when you saw the face that could've killed you on sight.

The bewitching face of the man you dreamt of more often than you'd ever admit, the piercing blue eyes of his unmistakable face above his scruffy appearance, and neatly tucked hair. He wore a crisp suit that you'd never seen him in before, besides a borrowed one from Steve at the many Galas you'd attended. He walked across wearing his stoic expression, the hint of sadness only you'd recognize behind his brief smile, before he spoke to an audience about a bill you didn't know anything about. 

James Buchanan Barnes was now a Congressman. 

You couldn't help the laugh that rippled through you at the thought that your James, your grumpy and impatient James, was now working a job that required him to not only talk to people often but also attend meetings regularly. The livestream of the video captured him shaking hands with people as he walked down the hall with other politicians, and then stopped. There you saw a short-haired woman, hair cut at her shoulders and a polished smile as Bucky bent down for her to whisper in his ear.

You felt an unfamiliar jealousy bubble in your stomach as you put the pint of ice cream on the table, spoon clattering on the coffee table, muttering to yourself from weeks of having no social interaction. Crossing your arms over your chest just as Bucky leaves the frame, and the woman does too. You throw your remote at the screen in an annoyed groan, hurling it harder than you intended. Wincing as you hear a soft crack and realize you've broken your television. 

When you got restless, you went on runs—always alone. 

That was how Yelena found you, cornering you at an intersection and somehow knowing who you were beneath the layers you wore to conceal your identity. She ran next to you, matching your speed, and you didn't have to turn your head to know it was her. 

"Yelena, long time no see, Sestra," peering over at her as you pull your headphones off.

Yelena smiles at you, "You remembered."

You don't smile back, but give her something in between, "Of course I do."

Yelena was an old friend, a person you knew through her sister Natasha and kept in touch with just barely. After Natasha died, you spoke to Yelena only once, to check on her and for your own peace of mind. You sought her out and cried with her for your fallen friend. You never got to explain yourself to Natasha, but Yelena still trusted you. You pulled her out of a low she didn't know how to navigate while you were going through one of your own. Yelena was the only person you told about what you had done to Tony. She listened carefully when you explained your true intentions for joining the Avengers, to see if she was truly empathizing with you. If anyone knew what it was like to face-to-face with someone who was the reason for your solace, it was her.

Clint was her Tony, and Tony was your Clint.

Though at least Yelena got to talk to him about it and found comfort and closure through it, you didn't even get to say goodbye.

She didn't judge you, not even when you brushed off more personal questions, mentioning the rest of the team, and purposefully glossing over Buckys' part in your story. She knew there was more missing, but she didn't push. You gave her general answers, and you told her of your vengeance and reasoning for doing what you did. You told her she wouldn't be hearing from you, and she did not protest.

But she told you she would come looking for you one day and apparently, today, was that day. 

She says your name, guiding you towards an alleyway. You oblige because you knew that Yelena wouldn't ask for anything from you if it wasn't serious. Yelena and you didn't have to see each other often for the two of you to converse like normal all over again, and you appreciated her for it.

"Are you alright?" you ask her, shoving your phone into your pocket.

"Oh, me? Fine, great. Working with idiots, but I dealt with worse before," she points at your pocket, "give me that."

"What? My phone?" but she's already reaching in your pocket, wiggling her fingers and pulling it out, "oh pfft, sure, yeah, go ahead." 

She types in the password without you having to tell her, saying your name when you're about to protest again, "Oh, shush, I have seen you naked. And you are too sloppy, too predictable," shaking your phone in your face, "you have not changed your password in 5 years."

You pout slightly.

Okay, maybe you have been getting sloppy.

She returns to going through your phone and reading over something aloud to herself before staring up at you. Shaking her head, she continues, swiping and swiping. 

"You have not texted or called anyone in, what the fuck, 6 months?" She pulls the phone case off and takes one of her earrings out, "What happened to having a life?" 

Popping out the SIM card and dropping to the floor before smashing it beneath her boot.

You exclaim, "Yelena!"

"What? You didn't have much on it anyway. Although I guess that means breaking it was useless," she tosses your phone into the bin as well. "I need your help, and we cannot be followed." 

You look entirely annoyed and wide-eyed at her, "You basically just called me a loser and broke my phone. You are going to be followed, whether you like it or not, Lena." 

She smiles then, putting her earring back into her earlobe. "Great, follow me then." 

Grumpily, you take one last look at your poor phone, cracked and at the bottom of the grimy garbage bin, before following after her. Taking a heavy footstep after the other as you follow behind her, just before she turns the corner out of the alleyway and onto the streets again. The familiar presence of her allowed you to roll your tensed shoulders back just a bit, still holding up some of the walls you'd built up high and mighty. You stared down at her shoes as she walked and noted how polished her clothes were, her suit brand new and tailored perfectly to fit her like she was ready for a fight right now. 

She walks across the street, and you suddenly realize where she was taking you, "Why are we going to my place?" 

"You have to change. I cannot take you looking like a teenage boy to meet Valentina," her eyes trailing over your outfit and then back to your face. 

You squint at her as you enter the courtyard—her movements too aware of an apartment building you’d never taken her too. She walks with too familiar a practice and holds the door open for you with a knowing smile, but you don't question it. Not yet at least.

Yelena plops on your couch and picks up a sock from the corner, staring at it, then you. "You live like this? Like slob?" 

You roll your eyes, walking over to her and taking the sock from her hand, tossing it into the laundry basket that you said you were gonna put away two weeks ago,

"I live alone, so who gives a shit." 

She hums at you like she knows something you don't, putting her hand under her chin and watching you, "You used to care how you lived. I don't get how nearly killing Stark made you this depressed."

You say nothing, pulling your hair back from your face and padding back toward the hallway, stripping off your hoodie. You make your way to your room to change, and Yelena stood and followed after you, replacing the couch with your bed. You try changing the subject,

"So, Valentina, huh? You still work for her?" you say as you rummage through your closet, struggling to find something that wasn't a hoodie or a shirt younger than ten years.

"She is the lady who's been giving me jobs, she’s reliable that much and she knows you’re still alive.” twirling her thumbs on the edge of your bed.

You stop moving and turn to face her. "Yelena, I don't do that shit anymore,"

Yelena sits up, "You don't just give that life up, don't kid yourself."

Rubbing the bridge of your nose, "Last time we worked together, neither of us had eyebrows."

She shrugs, "Eh, they came back." When you sigh, exasperated, she continues, "Come on, just this once. Come with me. I just do my job, clock in and clock out. Anyway, you are clearly not busy, so don't tell me you are because I know when you are lying." 

You mentally noted the exhaustion on her face and the bags forming under her smudged eyeliner. Yelena always got through her shit through humour, but something told you to go through with her ask and go anyway. 

Plus, you were bored out of your mind in your apartment.

You nod, "Yeah, sure, will you just come tell me what to wear then? I'm at a loss here."

Yelena stands and stretches her arms, making her way over to you. When she looks into your closet, she snort, "Your closet looks like mine. Lack of fulfillment and desperation."

Yelena purposefully ignores the men’s jacket sitting there, several sizes too big for you. She pulls out an old mission suit from the back of your closet, hidden behind a pile of boxes.

When she turns to hand it to you and sees the look on your face, she rolls her eyes, "I said my closet looks like this too. Jeez, you really don't get out much, can't even take jokes now." 

As you approached the bunker with Yelena, she began briefing you on her target. She explained, very poorly, who the Ghost was and how Valentina had sent you both to take her down by any means necessary. 

Yelena spoke just as you approached the hall. 

"She's stealing the files that Ghost lady. I need you to find them while I take her down, or you take her down, whatever floats your boat or whatever."

With quiet footsteps, the two of you crept into the bunker. The room was filled with boxes you assumed had documents and gadgets you hardly understood. Filing in after Yelena, you followed her to a packet of documents on top of a box, frowning at the symbols etched on the paper. Multiple designs for a suit and the letter S in different fonts stared back at you as you turned your head to her in bewilderment. Just as you looked at her, you caught a glimpse of a gun pointed at her by a tall man in a suit in dirty tones of blue and red. 

"Lena!" You shouted before grabbing her by her shoulders and rolling just in time for the bullets to fly past you.

Both of you huff as you land behind a box, still over Yelena. Getting off of her, you peer over the box, and the man shoots again, making you duck.

Still, you recognize him— John Walker.

While you don't know Walker personally, you know of his history and how he didn't even make it a month as Captain America before killing someone and having his shield revoked. Mentally, you noted how his replica shield wasn't made of vibranium, the same indestructible metal of Buckys arm. 

He says your name as though he knew you, and you snap your eyes up to his. You don't miss the frown on his face as he says your name again. 

"You were in the Avengers. I thought you were dead," clipping his gun into his holster, "Everyone does." 

Yelena peeks out, "You know him?"

You shake your head and step out, also leaving yourself exposed for Walker to establish some kind of connection. Yelena stands behind you when you hear a shadow. She yelps as someone new joins the three of you, flipping her over on her ass. Ghost, you recognized her from Yelenas brief description when another person emerges from the shadows, flipping a gun in their hand. When you turn, the Ghost is gone, and Walker is in your face. 

"Why the hell are you here? All official records say you're dead." His hand was on his holster, close to drawing it out again. 

Stepping backward, you scoff softly, "As you can see, I am very much alive, Walker." 

His eyes widen slightly at your use of his name, partly impressed that you even knew him and half-wary of you. The two of you remain staring at each other as Yelena dusts herself off and starts towards you, pointing at the Ghost who was fighting another person out of your line of sight. Walker draws his gun quickly to point at Yelena. 

"An ex-Avengers death isn't on my conscience," tilting his head at Yelena, and she looks unfazed, "but I am here for you," he says just as a sudden, deafening gunshot snaps the attention of all three of you.

Instinctively, you also draw your weapon, keeping the pistol pointed at Ghost. The three of you focused on the gunshot behind you and the hard thud hitting the ground.

Then you gasp when you see it.

The Taskmaster, someone you did know before and worked with after leaving the Avengers, is dead. Blood pooled over her mask and began spilling on the floor.

In your line of work, this was a common occurrence, bound to happen. But it has been a while since you’d seen a body of someone you knew, even vaguely. Your eyes shift up to the Ghosts as her mask cyphers off. 

"Well, my job is complete," she announces, stepping over the body.

John scoffs, disregarding the body like he were used to the sight, gun still in his hand, "mine isn't. Valentina was clear about needing you gone, Yelena." 

Just then, the sound of retching and dry heaving catches everyone's attention. You'll turn in unison, guns drawn and pointed at the new found voice when you see a man in blue scrubs, hair dishevelled and looking utterly afraid.

He keeps his hands up, a dry nervous laughter leaving him before he speaks, "um, is she, are they really dead?"

John ignores his question and walks towards him, boots heavy with practiced military precision in each step, "Just who in the fuck are you, guy?" 

"Bob, I'm Bob," he gulps as John waves his gun to urge him to continue explaining himself, "I just woke up in here. One minute I was doing a medical study, the next I'm here.”

You all exchanged glances, uncertain and confused.

Bob stammers as he racks his brain, trying to convince the menacing group in front of him of his innocence, “Please, you gotta believe me." 

You look over to the capsule behind him, the mould of a body in a high-tech casing that makes your thoughts race. If he were telling the truth, then he was a definitive experiment for Valentina just as you suspected John Walker to be. His enhanced strength only something you’d seen from your former Avengers—Steve Rogers and Bucky.

You thought back to when Bucky told you about the super soldier serum and how people continued to test in cruel ways to see just how far they could push the human body and create the perfect human.

The perfect experiment and weapon.

Your brows knit together, and you met Yelenas gaze. She's frowning like the gears of her mind have clicked into place and made the same realization as you. Of course, Valentina was playing you, she was always playing both of you. 

Valentina was killing people she had working for her previously—this was cleanup and you were doing the fucking dirty work for her.

"Okay," Yelena says finally, her gun going into her waistband and her other hand reaching to yours, lowering the weapon, "it's clear we have all been played here and all worked for Valentina in some capacity."

John grumbles, lowering his gun too, "What are you saying?" 

The Ghost rolls her eyes, "Are you a dense, dime-store Captain America? Valentina clearly sent us here to die," gesturing around the room. 

John stares at her, evaluating and intense, "I didn't know that Ghosts could speak." 

She smiles, a small hum of a laugh that was entirely humourless, "It's Ava, actually."

John scoffs again just as alarms blare and the bunker goes into lockdown. Bob scurries closer, and no one stops him. 

Yelena breathes out heavily, "We don't have time for this, you guys," staring at the elevator shaft, then at Ava, "We have to get out of here." 

Then they're all moving.

Without really telling anyone what to do, they were working in unison, as though this was what they were meant to be doing. John breaks open the power source, Ava unlocks the door, and Bob has the bright idea to get out of the Bunker by climbing. After listening to them bickering and scraping your knees against the elevator shaft a couple of times, you eventually do get out. 

In the car, Yelena shot an apologetic look at you from the front seat.

You gave her a tight, slightly annoyed smile back. You were sitting next to John Walker and the Ghost lady you now identified as Ava, and the loud man driving the car kept nudging Yelena and asking her questions, whispering about her having found her calling. You smirk to yourself a little when you see Yelenas' look of annoyance, not missing the silent acceptance there that she had found something worth fighting for. Ava adjusts something on her suit, while you stare out the window over John's head to watch the landscape. But he catches your eye, staring at you.

You frown, "What?" 

"You're Bucky Barnes's ex," he announces, and the pair in the front stop talking. 

"What does he say? Winter Soldier has a girlfriend?" Alexei catches your eye in the rear-view mirror, "You are Winter Soldier's girlfriend?"

You stammer, "No, I'm not."

"She is right technically, she's not his girlfriend." John says again, never shifting his gaze from you, "She's the one who backstabbed the Avengers." 

You wince, and Alexei gasps. Yelena doesn't even move because she already knew about this, even without you telling her about the part about Bucky. Ava doesn't budge either, unfazed by the declaration of your disloyalty as though she had anticipated it or had known somehow. 

Alexei suddenly laughs, "You are badass, like Lena, like Tasha!" he looks to Yelena, then you in the mirror again, "No mercy like the Soviet Union!" 

Yelena cuts him off, "Okay, Dad, please just stop. Let's just get out of here and go home." 

"Go home?" Alexei says, looking personally offended by her declaration, "No, no, no, this is a beautiful group, a new friendship and family to have and cherish. You cannot go home and forget all about this, Lena." 

"There is no point, they took Bob already," she says, looking out the side mirrors. 

"This is a glorious team! Just like when Natasha was Avenger!" Alexei gleams. Yelena shakes her head and groans at him. 

John snorts from next to you, "Yeah, go Thunderbolts." 

Alexei gasps dramatically, "You tell them of your little league team? Oh my, you already bonded." he snaps his head to look at you all, making the car jerk, "You know, one time someone pooped in the middle of the game, right there, on the field. It was so funny, they were so bad." Yelena grabs the steering wheel, steadying them. 

Ava suddenly announces that; "someone is following us."

Without waiting for anyone to say anything, she puts her mask back on and geo-leaps to the trunk of the car, facing the vehicle chasing you. 

Everyone quiets to look.

Yelena glances out her window, spotting three bulletproof vehicles roaring behind Alexlei's shitty taxi car. Despite his claim that it was bulletproof earlier, the shells whizzing past you now and shattering the windows proved otherwise.

A deafening screeching sound is played over the speakers of the truck behind you, and Ava nearly falls out of the car when you and John yank her back in through the broken window. She's disoriented over your lap as the shooting ensues.

In a swift move, Yelena peels out of the car, shooting out one of the tires and sending the vehicle crashing. Amongst the fiery crash, the other two roar closer to Alexei's terribly slow car.

Yelena sits back inside, fiddling with her gun, "That was my only bullet." 

John reaches for his gun, the magazine missing, "shit, I'm out too."

He glances back through the broken window, a roaring motorcycle appearing from the smoke of the crash, chasing behind the last of the three.

The name he utters makes the colour drain from your face, "Bucky?" 

You turn with him, and there he was. You feel your body run cold again, blood freezing in your veins. Bucky suddenly stops his motorcycle, grabbing the hitch of the other vehicle and pulling it to a taut. Anyone else would’ve been ripped in half but the sheer strength of him, Bucky yanked the enormous tank backward, punch the chain hard into the concrete below him. The car is then flying away from you and rolling into another fiery crash before you knew it.

John and Alexei laugh in relief as Bucky launches something beneath the other car, causing it to explode. Alexei hits the steering wheel, hollering something about ‘the Winter Soldier never retiring.’

The cheering dies down as Bucky turns his focus on Alexeis' car, pointing his weapon at it. 

But it felt like he was pointing right at you.

Suddenly, something is launched beneath Alexei's car and John curses. The explosion booms white as the car is airborne. Then you're sliding from the backseat, gasping as the car begins to flip. Ava and John hold onto the grab handles of the car, but you don't grab anything in time. 

You groan awake, wanting to rub your head.

Cuffs digging into your wrists as your eyelids flutter open.

Chatter makes your ears perk up, recalling what had happened, turning your disoriented head around and taking in the faces around you. You glance to your left, looking at John as he notices you lucid again, shooting you a reassuring smile— something you weren't sure about just yet. He mouths, asking if you were alright, and you nod, giving him a tight smile before turning your attention to a loud Yelena and Ava. 

"Yes, Bob!" Yelena exclaims as Ava continues for her, "We have been trying to tell you that!" 

But you feel eyes on you, piercing and intense. The hairs on your neck stick up. Looking into his eyes, you felt like all of your old emotions were back in full force, like they had never even left. His hands were on his hips, listening but not really hearing them as he watched you. Looking past all the other obstacles and through you like he knew what you were thinking. Probably because he knew you better than anyone else—and it felt like you were alone in the room when you looked up into his eyes. 

Shamefully, you looked back down, not wanting to meet his gaze. It was too hard, and you didn't know if you could take it. The last time you'd seen him, he said he never wanted to see you again. Said that if he saw you ever again, he would kill you. You betrayed him, broke his heart and made him feel like he was when controlled by Hydra; used and weaponized.

After a beat, he speaks, interrupting the rest of the group's bickering, “we have to move then.”

To your surprise, he walks over and uncuffs Yelena, breaking off the cuffs swiftly then Ava’s. "Valentina won't expect us to go together, let alone work together." 

Ava narrows her eyes, "You're letting us go?"

He moves to uncuff Alexei and Walker. 

"No, not exactly. But I'm trusting you guys won't betray me," he says, and you bite back a wince at his words.

Still, you avoid looking at him, staring down at your shoes as though it could get you out of this situation. John leads them outside as they’re too focused on their own quiet discussion to notice the tension between you and Bucky. 

Finally, Bucky stops behind you as everyone else regroups. He bends close to your ear, hands undoing your wrists, taking more time than you knew he needed.

He says your name, "So, will you?" 

"W—what?" you rasp, rubbing your unbound wrists together and trying not to look into his piercing blue eyes.

Watching you intently, he tilts his head ever so slightly, as though he were studying you. Looking over just enough to catch your eyes.

"Betray me again. Can I trust that you won't do that?"

You couldn't stop staring at the facial hair on his face and how his scruff had grown fuller. You wanted to badly to lean into him again, feel the touch of the one you'd been aching for and finally force him to listen to you, even if you knew it was self-serving to do it now that he'd clearly gotten over you.

You nod your head at him, biting the inside of your cheek. The sound of Yelena calling you guys to hurry up and come out from outside doesn't make him flinch, and he leans in a little closer.

The familiar scent of him—cedarwood and rich suede—engulfs your senses. 

An unexpected tug at the corners of his lips makes your skin bloom bright as he eyes the features of your face, stopping over the curve of your lips. He steps away enough to give you space to move. Reluctantly, you stand and walk over to the door, needing a breath of fresh air from his sudden proximity—when you catch something he says something just before you walk outside. A foot out the door and you still hear him with the smirk in his voice evident.

"You're so beautiful, even when you lie to me."

A familiar sense of bitterness filled your mouth when you entered the Watchtower. 

You probably should've been more specific about when asking Yelena about where she was leading you up to, because she failed to mention that the Watchtower was just the Avengers tower—renamed.

As you got out of the elevator, you couldn't help but notice the same features in the building you once resided in. Your eyes trailed over to the kitchen, where you'd cook with Natasha and Steve. Where you'd walk in at an ungodly hour for a snack, and Bucky would find you. The place Bucky cooked the meal for your first not-date, setting out wine, pasta and salad— before Sam and Steve had crashed it and ate more than either of you. It was once domestic and safe, but you could never fully let yourself simmer in it. Nagging in the back of your head like a virus that had no cure, you would never relax entirely. 

Distant discussion grabs your attention as you emerge from the elevator. 

"We are taking you in Val," John crosses his arms, staring over at Valentina, who had shifted her attention to you as you walked in with Yelena.

"Hmm, I don't think so, Junior varsity, Captain America." She smiled wickedly as John angrily pulled his gun out of his holster. 

A familiar velvety smooth voice called out to John to stop—Buckys.

"Walker," Bucky warned, and John let his gun fall back into his side. 

Valentina giggled, swirling her drink in her hand and looked to Ava, "Ah, Ava, it's nice to see you again," she shifted her focus over to Yelena, "Yelena, you look awful."

Before turning back to you and saying your name slowly, "I knew you wouldn't stay dead."

You give her a tight, unamused smile, "Still a cunt then, Valentina?" 

She smiles right back, turning to Bucky, "One betrayal wasn't enough, Congressmen? You want her to actually kill someone from your adorable little team this time?" and his jaw tightens uncomfortably. She continues, looking back to Yelena, "And you, are you sure you're still ready for that public-facing role?"

Yelena steps forward, "Hmm, eat shit, Valentina. Where is Bob?"

"You mean Sentry?" She tilts her head, and you turn to Yelena again, the documents you saw at the bunker filling in the blanks, "come on out." 

You all turn to see Bob walking down the stairs, clad in bright yellow and gold attire, looking entirely imperfect. His hair is now blonde and slicked back neatly. Yelena breathes out his name, but he avoids her gaze. His smile was uncertain and nervous as he stood next to Valentina. 

"Sentry is my protection plan, and my reason to sway the committee. I will be unimpeachable," she smugly glances around for your reactions. 

Bucky scoffs, "That is never going to happen."

"Enough talk, nobody messes with the West Chesapeake Valley," Alexei charges forward, towards Bob, "Thunderbolts!" 

Without breaking a sweat, Bob punches Alexei once, sending him flying backward into the wall.

Everyone is suddenly on edge as Bob becomes a bigger threat than anyone had expected. Your fists clench as you feel the tension rise above anything you could ever contain, snapping as the unsheathing of weapons filled the air around you.

Bucky points his gun, Ava geo-leaps and reappears behind him before he sends her staggering back again. John launches his shield, and Bob easily sends it back to him like a Frisbee. Yelena begs them to stop, both of you running towards him when Bob sends a current of energy, sending all four of you flying backwards again.

You groan as you hit the hard wall next to Alexei, distant thoughts of CTE rummaged as you daze at the concrete. Alexei is up before you and warily he helps you stand again. 

Bucky looks back towards you, sending you an evaluative look that borders on concern, before turning his attention to Bob and firing straight at him. You gasp when Bob stops the bullets midair and pushes them full force back towards Bucky, moving too fast for him to dodge them. Pushing yourself forward, his name name slips from between your lips. Everything swirls, it happens so fast, but John is there faster, blocking the bullets with his shield and staggering backwards. Ava and Alexei get there in time again for Bob to disarm them both effortlessly and throw them to the corner of the room. 

Yelena pleads again, jumping onto Bob's back, electricity flowing from her gloves to his neck, "Bob, you don't have to do this, you have a choice."

You feel your face heat; the situation Bob was in was all too familiar to your own, and Buckys ' gaze prickled at your back. You knew it was useless, but you grabbed Buckys disgraced gun off the floor and pointed it up at Bob since Yelena clearly didn't believe that he would disarm her like the rest of them. Suddenly, the metal of the gun is burning your skin and slipping through your fingers. You yelp at the seering sensation, dropping it to the ground, watching as the gun melts into a mush.

John reapproaches him as Bob throws Yelena over to the elevator and grabs John's shield, bending it in half. John eyes widen in shock as Bob grabs you both by your necks. You’re thrashing, clawing with the remains of metal flicking off your gloves as you try to get him off before he’s flinging you over to where the rest of the team was lying. 

Then Bucky flips his knife in his hand, launching it before John pulls him forward with just his mind. The knife uselessly clattering next to Bob. He holds him in the air for a moment before letting him crash to the ground again. But Bucky was headstrong, and you knew he wouldn't give up so easily.

He strips off his jacket, horrifically seductive in a time like this, and strides back for Bob, punching at him hard with his vibranium arm. But Bob was too strong, beyond anything any of you had ever seen and he catches Buckys hand, gripping tight. Bucky groans, trying to free himself when Bob yanks his arm out from his body, and you gasp sharply. Swaying a little, Bob hits Bucky hard over the head with his arm and knocks him out as he's sent back over to the five of you. 

You crawl over to his unconscious form and cradle his head in your lap, frantic.

"James, hey, wake up," lightly grazing his cheek as you shook him slightly.

The rest of the team is up quickly, Ava grabbing Bucky's arm off the ground and Alexei and John moving towards Bucky. You let them hold him up and drag him out of the room, into the elevator. Bob lets you all leave, the look of regret evident on his face, which made your heart pang for him, because you knew that look.

You’d basked in that feeling for too long, the emptiness and the loneliness that devoured you whole; you could see it all on his face even as the elevator doors closed. 

Staring at the Buckys' arm in Ava's hand, you couldn't help but think about when you had done the same to him. You gulp as you step away from him, hand clutched over your mouth with effort, just as the doors opened and Bucky began to stir awake.

Stomach twisting in knots as his detached arm brings you back. You look to Yelena, stepping out of the elevator before anyone else,

"I shouldn't be here when he's awake again." 

She briefly met your eyes, her own teetering on the edge of disdain for herself and for Valentina for turning Bob into this. But she knew what you meant and gave you a tight nod. 

You brush past the rest of them, walking fast and panting harder, memories flooding back in full force. Unable to stop yourself from dry heaving into your palm, anxiety peaked and caused you to breathe harder. Once you were far enough, you turned into an alleyway and threw up, clutching the brick wall for something, anything to ground you. Hacking up the shame and the guilt, despite not knowing when you had last eaten.

Bucky slips out of John's grip and mutters a quiet thanks as his eyes immediately begin scanning around— for you. 

He walks over to Ava, taking his arm from her and clicking it back into place, swinging his arm and recalibrating it. He says your name, "Where did she go?"

Ava shrugged, "Not sure, but she seemed kind of out of it before she walked off." Bucky frowns, and she continues, "She said something to Yelena before leaving, maybe ask her?" 

"Right, thanks," but Ava stops him from leaving too quickly.

"You two used to date, right?" she asks softly, like she wanted to coax the answer from him. But Bucky didn't need any coaxing. 

He nods and smiles fondly, "Yeah, we used to be together. Why do you ask?" 

She smiles at his admission, as though she knew something he didn't, "Oh, no reason." Bucky narrows his eyes but drops it, giving her another thanks before starting after Yelena and Alexei. 

He jogs into the street, finding civilians running around aimlessly. He ushers some of them quickly, yelling to get inside. He moves further into the crowds to find you and Yelena, helping a family up and inside another building. Multiple crashes shift his focus again. A helicopter strikes a nearby apartment building and sends debris flying towards a young girl. Alexei runs fast, getting to her and shielding her with his body. Alexei crouched over, standing once the debris broke over his broad shoulders. Alexei helps the girl up just as a dark shadow looms over the streets of New York and people begin disappearing. The little girl next to Alexei also disappears. The thought of you also getting engulfed in the darkness suddenly sends him into a panic, and he runs toward you and Yelena, yelling your names. 

"We need to get inside, come on," he rasps, urging you both. You nod at him, pulling Yelenas arm along, but she stays standing there, staring up at Bob. 

Your eyes shift to Alexei, dangerously close to being in the darkness as well, "Okay, look, you get him, Bucky, I will bring her," letting out a shaky breath, he doesn't move yet, so you try again, "I will be right behind you." 

He hesitates and then reluctantly nods because you were right and you were more than capable, he knew that. He starts towards Alexei and from the corner of his eye, Ava hauls John up onto his feet, and sprints towards the nearest building where the darkness hadn't reached quite yet.

In seconds, Bucky is pulling Alexei up, who was still trying to wrap his head around the little girl flickering out as well. They reach the arch of the building, panting and overexerted. Ava and John are already there, hands holding the wall as they try to catch their breath.

Bucky glances around, turning over, scanning and searching for you.

But you still weren't there yet. 

Alexei pipes up from next to him, glancing over to John, then to Bucky, "Where is Yelena?"

Ava points toward the dark shadows looming beneath the Void—Bob.

There was Yelena, walking closer and closer to it, and you, inches behind her. It looks like you’re saying something to her, but she doesn’t run. You keep following. Moments later, Yelena disappears, shifting from physical form into a shadow. Milliseconds later, you follow her, drowned out and turned into a shadow of yourself.

Alexei screams, moving out of the arch to get to her, but John holds him back tightly, not letting him go.

And Bucky nearly folds in on himself, breathlessly leaning forwards like the sight of you disappearing had punched him in the gut. He had just gotten you back, even if it was glimpses. He was breathing the same air as you just like before, and he refused to lose it again. You didn’t have enough time yet—he had to right his wrongs this time.

Bucky's body moves before his mind does, starting after you when John calls his name, "Bucky, you can't!" 

His chest heaves, "Why the hell not?" 

"It makes you relive things,” giving Bucky a solemn, knowing look, “it’s like a shame room that loops your worst mistakes. It's gonna make you— wait!, Bucky, hold on!” 

Bucky knew you must've been eating yourself alive for what happened back then. He knew you already had demons before he even met you, that kept you from being entirely honest with him, and that was enough for him. He doesn’t wait for another reason, running into the shadows of his past life and aching for his future to emerge—you.

Bucky crashes through mirrors and drowns in baths of blood in his shame rooms. He relives the worst things he'd ever done and has to feel the weight of the lives he'd taken as the Winter Soldier. Memories of the training he had done in the Red Room, where he had trained countless Widows and ultimately led them to their demise. 

He gets out of it, out of all of it, because he had made his peace and found the closure he needed years ago, because of you. 

While it hurt and he hated himself for those things he had done, he shook the you had already helped him through all of this and brought him to the conclusion that it was not his fault. This was forced onto him, and he was weaponized for this. 

That's what gets him through his shame rooms. 

In a blink, Bucky finds himself in the old Avengers tower in an all too familiar room — your old bedroom. Under the morning light, shining and glittering against your soft, bare skin, there you were, smiling at a past version of him. The two of you were lying under the sheets, naked and tangled together. He was asleep there, which was rare for him until he had met you. He watched as your eyes scanned over his sleeping form, running your fingers softly through his dishevelled hair and grazing his scalp, pulling a soft hum from him. he didn't understand why this was part of your shame room. He didn't understand why this moment could have been so shameful for you if this was all it was, since it felt domestic. 

That was until you kissed his cheek lightly, like waking him was a sin. Your expression shifted to a pained one as you scanned over his sleeping face, burning it into your memory. You spoke softly, careful not to startle him awake,

"I love you, James," tears prickling your pretty eyes as you lay your head on his chest, "I am so sorry that I love you because this is gonna hurt so much more. And it's my fault." Wet droplets touch his sleeping form as he stirs and grips you tighter amid his dreams. 

He furrows his brows at the scene before him. The thought that you loved him enough to be ashamed of it, confusing him all over again. His stomach backflips when he recounts your words. It dawns on him that you really did care for him and didn't mean to fall in love with him. At least it was real to both of you. He steps closer to the bed to watch you there, resting on his chest, eyes closed and eyelashes wet, when the memory reloops itself. 

You weren't in this memory, so that meant you got out of it.

This wasn't your worst. 

He leaves the bedroom and that memory behind, starting down the hallway of the tower. The sound of distant yelling pulls him in that direction, and he jogs faster, reaching the lab and pushing the door open. There you were, the past version of you that he had been pained over for so long that it started to numb itself. You were beneath the past version of him, wide-eyed as Steve held Tony's gunshot wound to keep him from bleeding out. 

You writhe from under his weight, bucking your hips up to get him off of you. He watched you closer, not missing the desperation in your attempts and the pain in your eyes this time. He watches as a single tear slips down your face, as though in preparation for what you had to do, while the past Bucky adjusted himself over you, gripping one of your hands tight to stop your pounding at his chest.

"Please, baby, I don't wanna hurt you," he pleads. 

He watches as regret begins to flood your face and you reach up his arm, grazing up it like practiced movements. because you had done it dozens of times before, showing him that you loved him despite all of the odds and all of the things he had been forced to do. Showing him that you loved him, despite his past. He knows what's going to come next, and he hears your voice crack like it wounded you to say it this time around.

"But I need to hurt you, James," you admit before a mechanical click shifts from beneath your fingertips and his arm dismounts his body, clattering to the floor. 

The past version of him backs off from you and stares at the metal, hitting the ground, not taking in the look on your face. The past version of him didn't see the immediate regret plastered on your expression and the way you shut your eyes before moving and getting up. 

Then the memory loops. 

The pieces he had missed years ago were falling into place, and he was understanding you better now. With a heavier heart, Bucky looks around the room, looking for the next memory you might be stuck in. He stops at a reflective surface beneath a computer when he sees a glimpse of you—the real you.

The room was dark and only illuminated by the dark street lights. But there you were, sitting on the twin-sized bed, hunched over and looking towards another person. A younger girl with the same colour of hair and skin sat by the window, still, looking outside. The girl was maybe ten or eleven years old, and her back was facing him. Bucky couldn't shake the feeling that he knew her. He calls your name, and nothing happens. He tries again, and the lab darkens, mimicking the memory you were stuck in. He turns around to find you closer and himself in the room with you. He hesitates to reach out and touch you when a distant gunshot rips through the air, and he sees you flinch, retracting his hands. Deciding to watch and try to understand what you could never tell him, he sits next to you quietly, your eyes still trained on the younger version of you.

He watches the scene before him just as the memory reloops itself. 

A ten-year-old version of you sat by your window, reading from a book: The Giver. The spine was cracked, and you had a finger in your mouth, biting your nail like the story was keeping you on the edge of your seat. Before his brows could furrow, the doorbell rang, and you perked up. You called out your parents' names—no response. Placing your book carefully upside down to keep your page open, you stood up and walked out of your room and past your father's study. He was on the phone, looking angry and completely busy, your mother asleep in her bedroom after a long day at work. You thought you were being helpful. 

The young you rubbed at her eyes and walked to the front door, undoing the latch and unlocking it. When you opened the door, a tall man wearing a suit and tie peered down at the young you, grinning wickedly. 

"Are your parents home, sweetheart?" the man asked, taking his hands out of his pockets. 

"Yeah, who are you?" you asked. 

He said your father's full name and his workplace, easing the tension on your face. You thought you could trust him.

"I have a meeting with him, hmm? Would you let me inside to see him?" his eyes were dark with malicious intentions that a child would never understand.

You nodded and let him inside, pointing him toward his study. You were so young, so naive. You thought you were doing them a favour by allowing him inside the house. You thought that this was your father's friend, or his business partner or something. A horrible gut feeling pulled at Bucky as he was forced to watch what he already felt was coming. 

"Dad?" you called out, pushing your father's study open, the man inches behind you. 

Your father looked up at you, his expression quickly falling at the man standing there, holding a gun just low enough that you couldn't even see, but your father could.

"Be a dear, go get your mother too," the man said. 

You turned to ask him why when you saw it, the weapon in his hands. The white gun aimed towards you, bearing the symbol of the enormous building situated in New York.

The unmistakable name etched on the barrel of the gun—Stark Industries. 

You stared at it a moment too long, focused on the name and sealing it in your core memories. Encoding the name and wondering where you recognized it from, when the man nudged you.

"Get your mother. Now." 

Panic set in, and you turned to your father, a similar look painted over his. He nodded for you to listen and gave you a smile that was meant to soothe you. Even the young version of you understood, something was wrong.

You left the room, walking as quickly as your little legs could take you to the master bedroom and pushing the door open. 

She sat up, calling your name and asking if everything was alright. You told her everything, stuttering at parts because it was happening so fast. She calmed you down, sat you in her lap. She asked you to describe the man, and when you did, you saw the colour drain from her face. Now you knew you really had messed up, and you started to cry. She sat you on the bed alone, moving to her closet to the safe you were never allowed to touch and unlocked it. 

When she came back to you, she pressed a heavy gun to your hand and whispered your name, hurried in her actions. 

"I want you to lock the door after we leave. When you do that, go to your room and stay there. Do not open the door for anyone," you were crying as you listened to her. You protested, trying to put the gun down, but she held it in your hands, "If someone comes upstairs, you use this." 

You were shaking with fear and guilt for letting the man into the house, crying for your mother not to leave when she stood up. She kissed and hugged you tightly, and you knew what it meant. She left the room and walked towards your father's study. After a minute, you heard arguing about money, about a debt. The man laughed while you heard your mother cry. Suddenly, the study door opened, and hurried footsteps went through the front door. You ran after them, doing as your mother said and closing the door, locking both bolts. 

You sprinted back up to your room, sitting by the window still and knocking the book you had been reading earlier to the ground, letting it shut. Distant pleading bled through the glass of your bedroom window as the man dragged them out back, exactly where your room was facing. He lined them up, facing towards the house, on their knees. The man held the gun to the back of your father's head first, before turning it on your mother's. The gunshot rang through the air and through Bucky's ears, and instinctively, his eyes shut. The man in the suit left them there, bloodied and horrific, just below where you were, and purposefully met your eyes. The bastard knew you were watching, giving you the same wicked smile as before as he waved his gun at you and walked away. 

The young you watched the whole scene, hand pressed over your mouth to muffle your cries, as the real you remained slumped next to him, letting the scene replay all over again. Bucky didn't even realize his face was wet with tears until he looked back at you, watching your expression. He says your name softly, touching your shoulder. 

A shudder leaves you at the contact, finally looking up into his eyes, 

"I killed them, Bucky. Not Tony, not his fucking father. It was me."

He shook his head, turning you to look at him, "No, you didn't kill them. That man did. He pulled the damn trigger." When you shook your head and tears rolled faster, he cupped your cheek, concern etched over his face, "You can't blame yourself for this, sweetheart."

The distant chatter of the younger you leading the man up the stairs, letting him go to your dad's study, it was all too much. You had been in this room for so long, you couldn't recall when you weren't anymore. You gasped for air through your tears, trying to inflate your lungs fully but you couldn't do it. 

The air felt thicker—it felt wrong. 

It felt like the air that was filling your lungs was solidifying as it sat there, weighing you down. Bucky saw it; he always caught it. He says your name again, but it dilutes itself between your ears, echoing off the thumping of your heart. The sound is an echo in the cave between your chest cavity. 

You rasped through your tears, "Their blood is on me, James. I let him inside," pulse pounding through your ears. You're ripping at your chest as breaths come too short and words too fast, "It was me all along and I blamed Tony, and now he's dead and I can't take it back—"

Bucky recognizes the signs of a panic attack, having had many himself. 

His face shifts and his eyes grow warmer, "Hey, don't do that," pulling your hand off your chest and taking it in his, "You gotta breathe for me." 

He takes deep breaths, encouraging you to copy him. You do, but are continually unable to calm yourself down. He kneels on the ground, his hands still holding yours as he situates himself between your knees. For a few minutes, he just stays there, breathing with you. The warmth of his hands grounded you amidst the cold storm that threatened to pull you under again. Wiping the tears as they flowed down your face. You couldn't help but lean into his familiar touch, seeking his reassurance.

He spoke softly, squeezing your hand gently, "You were a child then, sweetheart. You couldn't have known." You couldn't tell where reality began and the past ended, but his voice, his grip, grounded you. You began breathing more evenly. He waited for you to calm down enough to squeeze his hands back before pulling them to his lips and kissing them softly, "It's not your fault, you hear me? You did what you thought you had to."

Your breath still stuttered, but your stomach twists, "Why are you in here, Buck?" 

Bucky doesn't look at you for a moment, and he doesn't answer right away. Then he looks up with his gaze of something too raw to name, "you. I came for you." 

You feel your throat tighten at his confession; you want to say something, but you're at a loss. The gunshot echoes through the air again, and you squeezed your eyes shut before the memory started to loop once again. 

He stands, pulling you up with him and steadying you next to him with a hand around your waist, "We gotta go, okay?" 

You nod. He lets you stay silent, giving you time to gather it all and find your peace in the quiet. Without disturbing your sobered tranquillity, he leads the way out. 

Back at the Watchtower, you were bundled up in an old blanket you found in the closet. Thickly knit and cozy, it faintly smelled of antiseptics. You knew it must have been one of Bruce's he'd kept in the lab for when he would work too late in the evening and sleep there. Vaguely, you wondered if Bruce came by this tower anymore or if he and Clint even spoke. 

The television was on and snapped your attention just as it showed a rerun of an important announcement. Valentina had announced the New Avengers, featuring you, Yelena, Alexei, Ava, John, and Bucky. The crowd oohs and ahs as the group of you steps forward. You watch as Yelena leans forward to whisper in Valentina's ear, and her face pales. 

Bucky walks in, holding a stack of paper in his hands and reading it like he had a personal vendetta. He was focused muttering to himself about his distaste for the people he works with. You sit up straighter, pulling the blanket off you slightly,

"Hey."

His eyes meet yours and he gives a slow, warm smile, "Hey."

You catch his eyes scanning over you, fondly like he remembered something.

Bucky crosses the room, setting his paperwork down on the table. He glances over at the television, "You were there, remember? What are you watching this for?" 

Glad that he didn't start with unpacking the heaviness in the room, you shrug, "I just turned it on, and I don't mind watching Valentina realize she's fucked herself over with us."

Bucky snorts, scooching himself closer to you. You're not sure how well you hid your surprise when he lifted the blanket and situated himself underneath with you, the domestication of the action making your heart skip. The warmth of his skin radiated off the shell of his thin shirt, even though he isn't touching you, just hovering close enough. You sigh softly, shifting your back against the couch to create some distance. 

"Thank you," and his eyes snap to yours, expression turning more serious. 

"Don't thank me," shifting in his seat and tugging the blanket, "I did what I had to." 

You frown a little, brows knitting as you turn your head back at the television. He was being serious, or he was just flat out lying to you now, right? 

You murmur your words, "You didn't have to come in after me. Especially not after everything I put you through." 

From the corner of your eye, you see his lips curl into a smile. 

"I think if you did try to kill me, I might thank you at this point," he turns to face you fully, tulting his head so he could see your whole face, "I mean, as long as you don't leave again. Or try to kill someone on the team. Actually, forget that last part, I can excuse it.”

You shake your head in disbelief, "You don't mean that." 

Squinting at you, he takes your hands off your lap and leans over, closing the distance between you, dropping his head in your lap. You freeze with your hands lingering just over his head as he situates himself, ocean eyes staring up at you like you'd hung the stars. The feelings, the memories, the love, all of it came flooding back like a dam that had been straining against itself, the current overwhelming. 

"You need to stop telling me what I do and don't mean." his hand comes up to tuck your hair behind your ear, "This would've all been solved a lot quicker if you would quit doing that, sweetheart." 

His fingers linger a moment longer than necessary over your ear, moving over to cup your cheek. Alleviated from his touch alone—you don't know how to trust it or yourself not to ruin things again. His eyes shone as they looked into yours and through you, as though he alone could grasp your thoughts. 

"If you told me you wanted Stark dead, I would've listened to you." Bucky quietly admits, his head still in your lap. 

"W—what?" You look down at him, not sure you heard him right. 

"I would've followed you anywhere, I would've loved you even after you did all of that." he slowly sits up, "You and Steve were the only ones who saw me beyond the things I’ve done. I know it’s wrong and I know it wasn’t his fault but for you…” he trails off before finding other words, “you just had to say the word.”

The sincerity in his tone felt like it had seized time, and you swore you could hear a pin drop.

How do you even respond to that?

Here you were thinking he hated you for all of this, and he's telling you he just wanted the truth from you. Mindlessly, your hands ran through his hair, calming your nerves and earning a soft hum from him.

With Bucky, you had been the one who first uncovered the mush of a man he always was behind that hardened armor—but he did the same to you.

Your guard was always down at his touch. He says your name like honey on his tongue, the sound familiar to your starved ears.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, but you can't tear your gaze from wanting to smooth the lines around his eyes when he’s deep in thought or touching the stubble he’d grown in your absence. 

"I'm thinking of how to apologize," your voice soft, hands even softer as you massaged his scalp for what felt the first time in an eternity, "and I don't know where to begin with it, and you're being too nice about it, like I didn't treat you badly." 

He laughs, hands dropping in surrender, "Being nice is a problem now?" 

"It is when you've fucked up and hurt the people you care about as many times as I have, James," and he laughs again but you can’t help but crack a smile back, "what the hell is so funny?" 

"I just realized you only call me James when you get worked up about something," you sigh, and he continues, "and you know I am not exactly the most innocent person in the world. I have definitely fucked up plenty more than you, and I will continue to fuck up cause that's just life." 

"You make it sound so simple," 

"And you make it harder than it needs to be. Redemption isn't erasing the blood that's been spilt to stop the bleeding; that's just counterintuitive. You're the one who helped me come to terms with that.” He touches your hand, “Let me help you do the same, hmm?"

You ponder it, not sure what to say. With a heavy sigh, you let it soak in the self-doubt and confusion that deluded you. When the weight feels like it has condensed, he sits up next to you. 

"When did you get so wise, Mr. Barnes?" 

"Oof," clutching his chest dramatically, "I was born in the 40's, pretty girl. I know a thing or two about life and having regrets.”

You laugh a little and he smiles at the victory, "But really, I am sorry for, you know, taking your arm and not telling you what I was really feeling."

He coos, "Yeah, that was a low blow, babe, hitting a man while he's already broken-hearted by taking his metal arm? You're a menace.”

His expression shifts into something more serious as he is more intentional with his words. Running a hand through his hair he sighs,

“Truthfully, you have haunted me for years. And that version of myself. What I said to you…” he trails off.

You let the air fill with uncertainty and unease as he tries to find the words; you didn’t have anything to say and ease the quiet with. When he sighs deeply, your eyes briefly meet his and his brows lift as the words finally find him.

“—When I told you to leave that day, I didn’t mean it. I wanted you to stay, and I have nightmares of the last time we spoke often. Every waking moment we have been apart has felt like I couldn't breathe freely."

"James," you breathe like the rug might get pulled from under you. You don’t miss the quiver of his lips as his gaze falters.

"—I thought you might've been the bane of my existence, but after I saw you again, that weight was lifted and I could breathe. I can't sleep without you near me. No, I haven't slept without you. I went to morgues, I called hospitals, I became a fucking Congressman to get access to more government documents, just in case you were mentioned in something, anything—"

The gasp that left you was soft and surprised. You couldn't help how your hands trailed up his arms while he continued pouring his heart out as though he just couldn't stop. 

"—I knew I’d fucked up as soon as I closed that door behind me. I should've let you explain, and I shouldn't have told you to go," but you're moving over him, starting to straddle him as he spirals in his own doubt, "I wanted you to stay so badly but you seemed so hellbent on leaving, I thought saying that might've made you stay, or helped me cope with it—" 

"James, I love you too," snapping his attention to you, holding his face in your palms.

He lets out a shaky breath, hands resting on your thighs in uncertainty and barely concealed restraint, “you do?”

You nod as his hands wrap around your torso, finally. Holding you tightly like he needed you to ground him in this moment to believe it. The feeling familiar but something still felt far away. You sigh deeply, trying to revel in the feelings of him, trying to hide the exasperation in your tone.

"You don't have to say it back, but you said it in the lab, and I should've said it back then." 

He shakes his head quickly, "but I do. Fuck, I do. I love you, I—I, God, I have always loved you, and it has been consuming me." 

You pull back just to look at him, and he immediately closes the distance, crushing his lips into yours. It was hurried, exhausted and hungry all at once. it was the kind of kiss you’d wanted from him for so long, the press of his soft lips threatened inhibitions. The taste of him could get you addicted all over, like a drug you’d long forgotten. You craved him and he was already here. You couldn’t have enough of him and you just got it back.

This feeling could drowned you with ecstasy but it be worth every second, as long as you felt it this vividly. The promise of his permanence could make you a religious person. The threat of not touching him like this again, it could end your sanity.

He breathes you in as you scrape your nails up into the nape of his neck, laughing into his mouth as he moans into yours. 

"You have no idea how long I have been dreaming of this," pressing quick, wet kisses, “of you.”

His hands tangling softly through your hair as though he couldn't possibly let go. Pecking sweet kisses as if he couldn't believe this were real and he needed to touch you just to know it was really happening.

He drops his hands to trail down your sides and graze the curves he had memorized so fondly. Trailing to your hips and gripping them tight, he bucks his instinctively up into yours, coaxing a moan to let his tongue slide inside. He sucks on your tongue, persuading another gasp and making you say his name. you try to pull away for some semblance but he follows your candied lips, entirely feral. 

“Down boy,” You say as you try to pull away again, putting a hand on his chest in between you. But he won’t let you, chest pressed flush against yours like he couldn’t bear being further.

"I'm not letting you go again," your back arches as you lean backward, laughing as you try to create space.

Bucky has that same charm, smiling against your lips to make all reason disappear as you kiss him with the same reverence. You whimper into him as he drags your hips back and forth, just the way he knows you always liked.

He moans as you give in, almost whining when you follow his hips, "missed you baby. I’m never leaving you alone now yeah? Better get used to this sweetheart." 

You’re about to say something when a voice from the doorway startles both of you, "I don't think I'm ever going to get used to this, ugh."

You nearly jump out of his lap as you turn to face John, looking at you in disgust. Ava, Yelena, and Bob snickering next to him, Alexei striding in past them, headed straight for the fridge. Yelena walks past the couch to get to the kitchen, Bob and Ava following behind her and shooting you smiles like they knew this was coming. You mutter quiet apologies as Bucky rolls his eyes, not sorry at all.

They stop at the kitchen island just as Bucky reluctantly lets you hop off of his lap to sit next to him, adjusting your top and dishevelled hair. You reach over to fix Buckys, and he smiles at you almost drunkenly, his lips swollen from ferociously attacking yours. 

You don't have to look at Bob to hear the smile in his voice, "I think you guys are perfect for each other." 

Yelena snorts, "Yes, both are broody and try to kill people, so perfect."

"That is what all good relationships have, Lena, passion! That means they love each other, eh?" Alexei winks at you. 

Heat prickles at your cheeks as you look over to Bucky, who's already staring at you, smiling sheepishly when you catch him. He can't help the need to be closer to you, and he tugs you closer to his chest. You let him, humming in content as he pulls the blanket over both of you once again.

Everyone else is already lost in their own conversations, the sounds of utensils and pans clanking—you're distracted by the sounds that prove Bucky is alive.

Drowning out everything that isn't the sound of his heart thumping under your ear and the rumble in his voice when he talks. You're shutting your eyes and smiling when he catches you basking in the feeling of him. He kisses the top of your head as he changes the news channel to something else that you couldn’t care less about.

The weight of the world rolled off your shoulders like raindrops and everything that had been done felt fleeting and utterly unimportant. You drift asleep for the first time in a long time and, with photo evidence that Yelena showed you the next day, so does he.

In his strong arms, forgiveness came easy and adoration could’ve consumed you whole. You were smitten but he was infatuated.

Unconditionally, undeniably, and terribly in love.

tag, you’re it: @herejustforbuckybarnes @thewitchhofoz @sebastians-love @onlyjunisworld @houseofhyde @letterstoangel @your-everyday-weirdo @flockoff-featherface @bratsoldier @wandanatissuperior @glorpalicious @little-letti @metal-armed-muse @emmaiscool22 @yyiikes @mamacocha9 @taylordaughter @heldbybarnes @mfstargrll @sakiigami @ultrahoney @skitwantstaste @winterdvil @himikoquack @dansplayboy

The compound at night always feels different. During the day it is loud in that chaotic, comfortable way that comes with too many strong personalities sharing the same building. Someone is always sparring in the training room, someone is always arguing in the kitchen, and Tony’s lab is always humming like the walls themselves are alive. But when the night settles in, the noise disappears until the place feels cavernous and hollow, long corridors lit only by dim strips of light along the floor and the quiet ventilation system whispering through the walls.

At the end of one of those corridors, a thin line of light slips beneath a bedroom door that should have been dark hours ago. Inside the room, Wanda sits curled slightly forward on the edge of her bed, her laptop balanced on her thighs and casting a pale glow over her face. Her hair is messy, falling around her shoulders in dark waves, and she hasn’t noticed how long she’s been sitting there. The video on the screen reflects in her eyes while she watches with a stillness that borders on unnatural focus, the kind of attention someone gives when they are afraid to blink and miss something.

On the screen, it’s you.

The footage is clearly recorded from a distance, the frame slightly shaky like the phone had been held carefully but not perfectly steady. You’re in the training room, standing in front of the heavy punching bag with your hair pulled back and your shirt damp with sweat from a long session. Every strike you throw makes the chain above the bag creak softly, and the force of your hits sends the bag swinging away before snapping back toward you again. Your breathing is heavy but controlled, shoulders tense with effort as you reset your stance and throw another punch.

Wanda doesn’t move.

Her eyes track every movement you make, every shift of your body, every small habit you probably don’t even realize you have. The way you roll your shoulders when your muscles tighten. The way you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist instead of stopping to grab a towel. The way your jaw tightens slightly when you get frustrated with yourself.

She has watched this exact video so many times she could probably recreate every frame from memory.

Still, she drags the cursor back to the beginning and presses play again.

Your first punch lands again with the same dull thud, and Wanda leans slightly closer to the screen without even noticing she’s doing it. Her fingers rest lightly against the laptop near the edge of the frame, almost close enough to touch the image of you frozen in motion when she pauses it for a moment. Her lips part just slightly while she studies your face on the screen, her eyes moving slowly across the shape of it like she’s committing it to memory again even though she already knows it better than she should.

“You look even better angry,” she murmurs quietly to herself, her voice soft and almost breathless in the empty room. The words aren’t ashamed or hesitant, just thoughtful in the way someone might admire a painting they’ve seen a hundred times but still can’t stop looking at. Her fingers tap lightly against the trackpad before the video begins moving again, and her gaze sharpens with the same intensity it always does whenever you’re on the screen.

Her laptop is full of these videos.

Not just one or two.

Dozens.

Clips she recorded without you ever noticing. Moments she caught when no one else was paying attention. Little fragments of your life inside the compound that she collected slowly over weeks until the folder filled itself without her even realizing how much she had gathered.

There’s one of you asleep on the couch in the common room during movie night, your head tipped back slightly and your arm hanging lazily over the edge while everyone else argued about what film to watch next. There’s another where you’re sitting at the kitchen island early in the morning, half-awake while you drink coffee and stare blankly at nothing like your brain hasn’t fully started working yet. There’s a clip from a mission where you’re shouting instructions over the chaos while civilians run behind you, your voice calm and steady in the middle of absolute disaster.

Wanda opens that one next.

The street in the video is loud and messy with dust and smoke curling through the air, distant sirens wailing somewhere behind the buildings. The camera angle is high up from a rooftop where she had been standing earlier that day, far enough away that no one noticed she had pulled her phone out for a moment. She watches the footage with the same quiet intensity while your figure runs into frame below, your boots splashing through a shallow puddle as you move toward the fight with your weapon in hand.

“You didn’t even hesitate,” she says softly, almost admiringly, as the video continues playing in front of her. Her thumb traces lightly along the edge of the screen while she watches you crouch behind a car and shout something toward Steve across the street. Your expression is sharp and focused, your attention completely locked on the mission like the chaos around you barely even registers.

That was the moment she started recording you more often.

Because she realized something then.

She realized she could watch you whenever she wanted.

All she had to do was keep the moments.

Her laptop shifts slightly when she moves it closer, the glow of the screen lighting up the dark room while she scrolls through the folder again. Each file name is meaningless and random, but she knows exactly what each one contains without needing to check. Her memory for anything related to you is perfect in a way that almost surprises her sometimes.

She clicks another video.

The common room appears this time, warm lighting filling the space while the team relaxes after a long day. Sam is sprawled across the floor with snacks scattered around him, Clint is half-asleep in an armchair, and someone is talking loudly near the kitchen entrance about something that clearly isn’t important.

But Wanda barely notices any of them.

Because you’re sitting on the couch.

And next to you is Natasha.

Wanda’s gaze sharpens immediately, her attention locking onto the screen with an intensity that makes her shoulders tense slightly. The video had been recorded casually like the others, her phone angled from the hallway where she had been standing unnoticed while everyone relaxed inside the room.

You’re laughing at something Natasha says, leaning back against the couch cushions while you shove her shoulder lightly in playful protest. Natasha smiles in that small knowing way she has, her body turning slightly toward you as the conversation continues.

Wanda’s fingers tighten against the laptop.

She watches carefully.

Every second.

Every small shift of your posture.

Natasha leans closer to say something quieter.

And then you kiss her.

It’s quick. Soft. Casual in a way that makes it clear it wasn’t the first time.

But it’s enough.

The moment it happens, Wanda goes completely still.

Her breathing stops.

Her eyes lock onto the screen like the image might change if she stares hard enough.

The video keeps playing, but she isn’t hearing the voices anymore. The only thing she can see is the way Natasha smiles against your lips before you pull away, the two of you continuing to talk like the kiss meant nothing at all.

Wanda’s chest tightens in a sharp, sudden way that makes something inside her snap.

The laptop slams shut.

The sound echoes sharply through the room.

For a single second the silence hangs heavy in the air.

Then the room erupts.

Scarlet energy bursts from Wanda in a violent wave that rattles the walls, the desk across the room lifting into the air before smashing sideways into the wall hard enough to splinter the wood. Papers scatter everywhere as the lamp shatters against the floor, glass exploding across the carpet in glittering shards.

Her breathing becomes uneven as another pulse of power ripples through the room, sending a chair flying into the door with a

heavy metallic bang that dents the surface.

“She doesn’t get to touch you,” Wanda says under her breath, her voice low and shaking with something darker than anger. The red glow around her hands flickers violently while the mirror above her dresser cracks straight down the center, splintering outward into jagged lines.

“You don’t even look at me,” she mutters, almost like she’s thinking the words out loud rather than saying them intentionally. Her gaze drifts toward the fallen laptop on the floor across the room, her chest rising and falling sharply while the faint scarlet glow around her fingers continues pulsing with restless energy.

Another surge of power rattles the walls again before finally beginning to fade, the red light slowly dimming until the room falls back into silence. The destruction left behind is scattered everywhere, broken furniture and glass littering the floor while Wanda kneels in the middle of the wreckage with her hands resting loosely against her thighs.

Her eyes stay fixed on the laptop.

Because it still has the video on it.

The moment with you.

The moment that should have been hers.

And then—

There’s a knock on the door.

The sound freezes her instantly.

“…Wanda?” your voice calls gently from the other side, muffled through the metal but unmistakable.

Her heart slams violently against her ribs.

“I heard something crash,” you continue, concern threading through your voice as your hand touches the handle. “Are you okay in there?”

Wanda doesn’t move.

Her gaze drifts slowly toward the door.

Because you’re standing right outside it.

And suddenly the distance that had always existed between you—the safety of watching from hallways, from rooftops, from the glow of a laptop screen—is gone.

Now you’re here.

Only a door between you.

And Wanda has been watching you for far too long to pretend she doesn’t want it opened.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

Masterlist

you didn’t have the luxury of living a normal life. you didn’t get to vacation to Mexico or retire to the south of France. you were cursed to this hell from day one; you all were. 

that’s the life of a fighter, a soldier. cursed to live in battle and to die a warrior’s death.

the little girl in you didn’t want to believe that. the little girl in you, the little girl you once were...

she had hope. she had dreams of happiness, of having and being something more than the future you now lived. 

maybe she thought both you and him had already been through so much that maybe, just maybe, you’d gotten through the worst of it. that the universe would show just a little bit of mercy on you. 

that’s stupid. it’s all so fucking stupid.

that’s what you told yourself when you couldn’t stop your endless crying at the funeral, that you were stupid and idiotic for not being able to hold back your tears in front of everyone.

that’s what you told yourself when you sobbed yourself to sleep for weeks afterward, still picturing the life you could’ve had together in another lifetime. 

another lifetime?

you’d both already lived too many lives, and yet the final outcome would never change. no matter how many alternate universes your mind could conceive, universes where you could’ve been happy, it would never work. 

you were cursed to a life of war and eternal despair in every universe.

you cried a little harder at the thought.

~~~

you tried everything to move on from your grief.

you tried taking time off, you tried throwing yourself into your work. you tried going to the gym, you tried going to therapy (although you’d never admit that to a single soul). you tried isolating yourself, you tried being in the company of as many people as possible at all times. 

you tried drinking, but it didn’t take long before your job was being threatened because of it, so you swore off alcohol real quick. intoxication never worked, anyways, no matter how much you wished it would. 

maybe if it did, it would be worth losing your job over. just to not have to feel the loss of him.

nothing worked. 

you would never forget how safe you felt in his arms, even though he worried he’d hurt you with them. you would never forget how beautiful his eyes were, his hair, his scars...

you had never loved anyone before him.

anyone.

you let yourself be stupid, naive, and vulnerable with him. you let yourself fall in love with him no matter how bad of an idea it was, and now you’d learned your lesson in the worst way possible.

maybe...

maybe if he had never fallen in love with you, he’d still be here.

~~~

John Walker couldn’t pretend to understand exactly what it was that you were going through, but he could empathize. losing the love of your life was a universal experience no matter how different the circumstances were. 

at least you had the opportunity to leave things on a positive note.

he hated himself for thinking that, for trying to compare your situations. what he was dealing with wasn’t the same, didn’t hold a candle to the pain you were feeling. you were distraught, and rightfully so. 

no one on the team, other than him, had ever seen you like this. you were always so put together, the perfect soldier who never let anything get to her. you were untouchable, indestructible. 

until one of you didn’t come back from battle.

then? then you were a wreck, losing every ounce of the self-composure that you’d trained into yourself, regardless of how you felt inside. 

he hated himself for trying to delude himself into thinking that you were the lucky one. he hated himself for trying to reason that at least you had still been in love in the end, that you had been truly happy in your relationship. 

he hated that your loss wasn’t your fault. 

but, in a way, his faults were also a comfort you didn’t have.

when his relationship was coming to an end, he saw it from a mile away. of course, it didn’t make the truth hurt any less, but at least he knew it was coming. his divorce was inevitable.

your heartbreak had come out of nowhere. 

the stab in the gut he felt was far more painful than any injury he’d ever sustained when he realized that unlike you, he at least had the chance to say good-bye. 

~~~

he watched as you went through the motions, trying to pretend everything was fine. he watched as you tried to make changes in your life, giving yourself the grace to fall apart to try and let the grief pass. he watched you try to drown yourself in alcohol, and work, and everything else possible to try and move past the all-consuming pain.

everyone else tried to turn a blind eye, because that’s the same thing they would have wanted if they were in your situation. they tried to pretend that everything was normal, that you were fine.

that’s what they thought would help you.

besides, they were dealing with their own grief, too, no matter how different it was from yours.

but Walker knew better. he knew that space was the very last thing you needed, because he’d been where you’d been. he was still mourning the marriage he lost, and as such, he had a semblance of insight into your situation that the rest of the team didn’t have. 

the one thing he had, that you yet hadn’t had, was time. he thought that with the passage of time, you’d get better. he just needed to give you the space and privacy to work through it. 

so yes, he pretended to turn a blind eye. without your knowledge, he observed you carefully, watching you as though he had inherited you as his to protect. 

he did a shitty job of it, he’s sure, but at least he kept you alive. 

on top of that, he made damn well sure you weren’t going to lose your position because of your drinking. that was the one time in the three months following the accident that he stepped in.

he had truly believed that letting time go by would help. that by now, you would at least come back to some semblance of yourself. 

but he saw what everyone else didn’t: you were losing yourself more and more every day.

~~~

he can’t keep doing this.

he can’t continue to stay out of it and leave you alone like everyone else, the way you want everyone to.

comforting people, getting involved in their personal business...

he tried his best when the situation presented itself. but actually approaching you, trying to have a serious discussion with you about your feelings?

yeah, he knows how that’ll go. you’ll do the same damn thing he would do to someone else, which is to yell at them for being nosey and slam the door in their face. 

he lets out a sigh as he stands outside your door. he has to at least try. if not for you, then for your lost love. 

it’s late, later than most colleagues would bother each other. but, he argues to himself, he isn’t here as a colleague.

he is going to try to be a friend. if he even knows what that means anymore.

so he summons the courage to knock on your door.

~~~

the majority of the time, when you were needed for any reason, you were notified in a more efficient manner: a phone call, a text, even a blaring siren throughout the building. any of those would have been the expected notification that there was something that required your attention.

nobody had knocked on your door in months. not since him.

you pause for a moment, knowing you can’t avoid whoever is standing on the other side of the door. something serious could be going on, something work-related. so you bite your lip and force yourself to stand from your comfy spot in the bed, pulling a hoodie over your head before answering the door. 

when you open the door, you honestly expect it to be anyone but Walker. what does he want from you? 

“what’s up?” you ask, trying to remain monotone. you shove your hands into the pocket of your jacket, hiding the way your hands shake in anxiety. your assumption is that something is wrong, something having to do with your position on this team. 

you know you deserve it, but you truly don’t want to get let go. you need this, this job, this team. if you lose this, too, after everything that’s happened…

you might not survive it. 

he stutters for a moment, trying to figure out what to say. he had this whole plan to come up here and actually say something, do his best to try and offer you some support. and yet it never crossed his mind how to actually broach the topic with you.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing,” is what he eventually settles on.

you fight with yourself in your head, concerned he’s about to give you the can, while also angry at the fact that he dare ask you that. 

is he serious? it’s only been a few months since you lost him, how well can you possibly be doing right now? 

no, he’s just trying to help.

a little late for that.

better late than never.

you shove down your anger and elect to return the polite sentiment. now isn’t the time to make things worse, not when you’re still not sure if your job is in trouble. 

“yeah, I’m alright, thanks,” you respond. 

he notices your attempt to put on a brave face, which normally, you’re so good at. normally, no one would know you had any other emotions than pure confidence and “danger is my middle name!”

he caught you off guard coming up here like this, he knows he did. so he predicts his next words will most likely either send you into a spiral of rage or fear. 

“I know you’re not.”

excuse me? you think to yourself. 

how dare he? how dare he act like he knows what you’re going through, like your entire life isn’t over, like he knows how badly you want to just end it–

“and before you yell at me, I don’t mean to intrude. I’m just trying to help.”

why the fuck would he think he can help you? he doesn’t get it, of course he doesn’t.

he sees the look in your eyes as you contemplate how you’re going to respond, how you’re boiling with anger as he predicted you would be. he doesn’t blame you for it. 

you must stand there seething for a little too long, apparently, because he starts answering every question that you’re quietly asking yourself. 

“I know I haven’t gone through the same shit you’re going through, but,” he pauses, trying to gather the will to talk to you openly in hopes that it will encourage you to do the same. “but I did lose my partner in combat, you know that. and you know about... about my wife.”

the words burn his tongue as they leave his mouth, leaving nothing but a rotten taste in his mouth as he’s forced to confront his own wrongdoings. his own past, his own losses. 

“I know it’s not the same, but I can understand how you’re feeling. so, you can talk to me,” he gently encourages. it’s a long shot, and he’s still somewhat convinced you’re going to blow up on him. you should, he thinks. he’d do the same if he were in your position. 

“he understood me,” you hiss, your voice so low that he may not have heard it if not for his superhuman hearing.

he sighs in acknowledgement. he feels your pain in his chest, in his bones. 

“I know,” he quietly tells you. 

once again, you contemplate for far too long. 

but after silently deliberating for a moment, you step back from the entryway, cracking the door wide enough for him to step inside. 

you don’t end up talking much for the rest of the evening. you sit cross-legged on the bed, staring down at your twiddling thumbs while he sits on the edge of the bed, scared to push further than he already has. 

“it’s just a lot to deal with,” you mumble, “and nothing seems to help.”

he hums his acknowledgement, resonating with what you’ve just told him. he wishes he had something more he could say to you in this moment, something he could do to aid you more than just sitting here in silence. 

regardless, the sentiment went unspoken that evening: you were grateful he was trying.

~~~

the next time he knocks a week later, you’d missed an important meeting in the afternoon. after he had set you straight regarding your drinking not long after the accident, you’d taken every precaution to make sure your work wasn’t affected. you could still be a productive member of this team, and you would prove it. today, though, you let yourself look bad by not showing up. 

“what’s going on?” is the first thing he asks you when you open the door.

“I’m sorry. it won’t happen again,” is all you tell him. 

there were a lot of things that had fallen to him after the accident. in particular, someone had to step up and fill the ‘leader’ role that your partner had once filled. 

irrespective of the leadership position he now assumed in place of him, he now felt a sense of responsibility towards you. even though he’d failed at being there for you in the past few months since the accident, it didn’t stop him from feeling obligated to care for you. 

up until now, he thought he was doing what he was supposed to by giving you space. but now it was time for him to cut the bullshit and fucking do something. 

“no, come on. I’m not... that’s not what I meant,” he tries to explain, “I’m not going to yell at you. just talk to me.”

talking. wow. now he wants to talk to you? after all this time?

you force yourself to take a pause before throwing around any accusations. knew he wouldn’t have wanted you to be angry with the world, no matter how much you are.

you channel your anger into a productive response, as your therapist once told you.

(clearly, there was a reason you didn’t go back after one session, but you had to at least try.)

“you seriously want to know?” you ask him. you feel weak, and stupid, and you know you should shove down your feelings in place of putting your emotionless mask back on. you’d perfected the art of pretending to be fine before the accident. why couldn’t you do that anymore? had the loss of him truly stripped you of your ability to maintain your composure?

“yes. I want to know,” he clarifies firmly, stepping closer and leaning inside the doorway.

you fucking hate this.

this is what he would have wanted for you.

you reluctantly let him into your room for the second time this week, shutting the door behind him. he takes the same seat on the edge of your unmade bed, looking at you, waiting for you to say something.

“it was a rough day,” is all you can muster up.

he blinks at you, unappeased, expecting you to continue. of course that’s not enough to placate him.

“this is stupid!” you laugh nervously, staring into the distance as you consider your next words. “this is so…” you trail off, getting lost in your thoughts. it’s childish. pointless. 

painful. 

a moment passes before you take a deep breath.

“today would have been our anniversary. two years. we... we had talked about…”

the memory haunts you. you can’t deal with this, you don’t want to be confronted like this, forced to admit the reality you face. forced to accept the loss of the future you could’ve had.

he just watches you and waits patiently for you to continue. 

“we had talked about getting married today. like, just going down to the courthouse and signing a piece of paper. nothing big. we just wanted to make it official. I don’t know, it feels so impossible now, so stupid. like, what was I thinking? that I could get married?” you ramble, beginning to laugh at yourself in your stupidity as you finish, “I don’t deserve to have that luxury.”

you think to yourself for a few more moments, considering the fact that you’d finally said it out loud. saying it aloud made it real, giving existential proof to your thoughts, to your sadness.

you take a few more breaths, all the while he doesn’t yet respond.

you finally look up at him, frustrated with the situation, resting your hands on your hips as you wait to see what he has to say. if he’ll even bother. 

except he isn’t looking at you anymore, his head hung as he stares down at your floor.

oh, fuck.

you were talking about marriage, about not deserving it, shit.

“fuck, you know I didn’t mean that,” you try to recover, feeling even more anxious and panicked. he was trying to help you, and what did you do? you went and offended him.

“no, it’s alright,” he says, still not looking up to meet your gaze.

he’s the one lost in thought, now. 

what business had he ever had getting married? did he really think that someone like him, a proud military man turned fuck-up Captain America, could hold onto his marriage? his kid?

he would have been better off never getting involved with a woman in the first place. he could’ve spared her, and himself, all that heartache. 

he could have spared his son from a life of wondering why his father didn’t care enough.

he finally looks back up to you, noticing the anxious expression on your face. he’s still not used to seeing you look as anything other than put-together.

“how do you do it?” you whisper to him, feeling the way your eyes well up with tears. don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, you urge yourself. “how do you deal with the pain?”

he wishes he had an answer for you.

he stands from the bed, makes his way towards you slowly, and embraces you like you’re made of glass. 

the only person who had ever hugged you this tenderly was him.

~~~

the next time he knocks on your door, he feels selfish. 

it’s only been a few days. although you haven’t missed a single meeting since, still learning to maintain your facade in front of the team, he can tell you’re still stuck. how that hollow emptiness in your chest, where your heart is supposed to be, only grows more and more inside you every day. 

he feels like he’s being incredibly self-absorbed showing up at your door like this, making it about him, when you clearly don’t have the mental wherewithal to deal with his issues on top of your own. 

he knocks anyway.

this is becoming habit, you think. 

you don’t hesitate to let him in this time. as he walks in, you can tell something is wrong. he’s quiet, not inquiring about your well-being the second he sees you. you watch as he proceeds to sit in his trademark spot on the edge of your bed. 

“you’re going to hate me for what I’m about to say,” he begins. you prepare for the worst, assuming you’re going to be kicked out, kicked off the team–

“I’m jealous of you. in a way,” he admits.

you’re severely depressed, severely lost in life, all because you lost the one person who meant the most to you. and now Walker is jealous of you? 

if you’re honest, you’re more curious than angry.

“why?” you whisper, sitting down next to him on the edge of the bed.

“because at least you know what you had was real. at least you don’t spend every day questioning whether he actually loved you. and, fuck, I know this isn’t fair to you,” he rambles, shutting his eyes and shaking his head in frustration. 

you don’t know what you’re supposed to do. what the fuck do you say?

“every day, I wake up and I can’t stop thinking about how it’s all my fault,” he admits to you. 

you didn’t know John Walker had it in him to be vulnerable, to be honest with you in such a way. sharing his deepest fears to you, someone he barely knows beyond work? 

you should question it, but you don’t. 

you do the only thing you know to do, and you wrap your arms around him the way he’d done for you days previous.

you let him bury his face in the crook of your neck for as long as he wants, never once letting himself shed a tear in front of you, before excusing himself. you watch him wipe his nose and eyes as he runs out of your bedroom.

your stomach twists when the door shuts behind him, leaving you all alone once more.

~~~

you can’t breathe.

it feels like your lungs are on fire, your throat is collapsing, and your stomach is plummeting, you can’t breathe–

you instinctively reach to his side of the bed. he always knows what to do when this happens. he understands what it’s like to be woken in a panic, fearing that you never escaped, that your past is not in the past after all. 

but he’s not there.

and your whole world comes crashing down all over again.

you bury your head into his side of the sheets, clinging to his pillow, praying that your breath doesn’t come back to you. 

you pray that your lungs give out, that your lips turn blue from lack of oxygen. you pray that you choke on your own vomit, you pray for anything to let you escape this reality that’s far worse than any nightmare your subconscious could ever dream up.

is this living? is it even worth it to keep going, to keep powering on when your heart died along with him three months ago?

you sob for god knows how long, your chest aching and your nausea increasing as your turmoil never settles. 

eventually, your lungs find their breath again. your stomach does settle.

except your heart doesn’t stop hurting. your mind doesn’t stop berating you.

your feet move of their own accord. you don’t know where you’re going, what you’re going to do. 

you think about going to a bar, getting blackout drunk, starting a fight, and letting someone beat you until the lights go out forever. 

you consider breaking into the med bay, stealing and swallowing as many opiates as you possibly can before your body finally shuts down. 

you debate taking one of your knives, going into the bathroom, and slitting your wrists until all the blood in your body has seeped out, the feeling of freezing taking over.

except your feet have other plans, taking you to stand outside a door you’ve never found yourself in front of before. 

it’s 3am. you’re a mess of tears and emotions, and you’re barely even dressed in anything except one of his red henleys. you’re not thinking about any of that when you begin knocking on the door. 

he wouldn’t have wanted you to end your life. he would have wanted you to do something, find someone to help fill the void inside you. 

so you’re pounding on the door, your forehead resting against the wood, sobs wracking through you as you rest your whole body weight against the door.

when it opens, you almost fall.

he catches you. 

~~~

when he woke up to the sound of banging on his door, he wasn’t particularly happy.

until he heard the sound of crying from the other side, and he knew something was wrong. there was nobody else it could be except for you. 

when he opens the door to see you there, you clearly aren’t prepared for it, and you stumble as you lose the support of the door holding you up.

he quickly wraps himself around you, preventing you from crashing to the floor, and you fall into his arms.

he holds you there for a moment as you cry, unsure of what to say to soothe you. his mouth parts in shock, trying to force himself to wake up and figure out what the hell to say. 

every convulsion of your body is like a dagger through his heart, watching as the pain consumes you whole, unable to do anything to help you. he knows that pain, has felt the pain of losing the most important person in the world. 

“he’s gone, he’s gone,” you sob into his chest, your hands shaking as you dig your fingers into the skin of his back. he feels tears come to his own eyes as you cling to him, unable to support your own weight as the pain envelops you entirely. 

“I woke up, and I needed him, and… and he’s gone,” you whisper, your body starting to relax as the exhaustion consumes you, forcing you to settle. he recognizes the sudden change and finally moves. 

“come on,” he whispers back to you, carefully wrapping his hands around the back of your legs, picking you up and laying you down in his mussed sheets. “you’re going to pass out from dehydration.”

you lay there, in a bed that’s not your own, still desperately reaching for a man that’s never coming back. 

Walker returns to you only a moment later with a small bottle of water, forcing it into your hands.

“no,” you mumble, burying your head in the pillow beneath you, refusing to accept it. 

“yes,” he says firmly, still trying to get you to take it.

you don’t. your face is pressed into the softness of the pillow, muffling your next words:

“I want you to kill me.”

he takes a pause, jaw stuttering as he tries to come up with an appropriate response. he shouldn’t be surprised by your statement, and yet, he is. 

“you don’t mean that,” he tries, looking at you with caution. 

“I do,” you reply, turning back to face him.

he stutters again at hearing your words. 

“listen to me. you have to stop saying that. I’m not going to kill you, and I don’t want to have to report you for this,” he tells you. 

the thought stings. the idea of losing you? after they’d already lost him?

“you’re not going to report me, Walker,” you whisper back, voice soft and devoid of emotion.

he knows you’re right. 

“you’re right. I won’t. but I won’t have you hurting yourself, either.”

the exhaustion begins to force your body to fall back asleep, your eyes shutting against your will.

he forces the water into your hand again.

“sip. and go to sleep.”

~~~

you wake up a few hours later, in a bed you don’t recognize, all alone.

all alone.

alone.

your eyes are so swollen it feels difficult to open them. you blink a few times, all while beginning to remember the night previous. 

in your pain and suffering, you ended up embarrassing the hell out of yourself. 

you quickly stand from the bed to bolt, memories of the night before collecting in your mind, a whirlwind of your desperation to just end it all. 

you dart down the hall towards the staircase, trying to head back to your own room, when you bump into him coming around the corner. 

“fuck, I’m so sorry,” you say, beginning to apologize profusely. “for everything. I shouldn’t have burdened you with all that, I shouldn’t have… wait, where did you sleep last night?” you inquire as your thoughts become a conflicted, indecipherable mess in your mind, still half asleep. 

“couch,” he says, looking at you, the pinch in his brow and small frown on his face telling you he’s fairly concerned.

it’s then that you realize you’re pants-less and he’s shirtless.

just as he opens his mouth to speak again, you bolt. you can’t stand to hear the lecture. 

~~~

he wants to tell you there was no need to apologize, to tell you that you don't need to hide from him. 

instead, he lets you go.

except he knows he can’t forget about this. after what you said last night...

you were right: he isn’t going to report you. but he doesn’t trust that you’re not a danger to yourself, that you’re capable of working in the field right now. 

Walker was never supposed to be in this position. he was. he was your boyfriend, he was the leader, and now...

he didn’t know what to do.

he always knew.

but he had to do something. 

that evening, he knocks on your door earlier than usual. you know it’s him, probably here to give you the lecture you narrowly escaped hearing this morning. 

let’s get this over with, you think. 

when you open the door, he sees the darkness of your room, just now taking in the sight of the windows completely covered by tarps and blankets, the lights turned off. he notes how you don’t appear to have changed your clothes from the night before.

he takes a breath and hopes his plan works. 

“get dressed. we’re going out,” he asserts, not giving you any room to protest. 

“what? what’s wrong? is there–” you begin to panic, assuming that there’s a worldwide crisis that suddenly needs your attention. 

“nothing is wrong,” he clarifies. “just... get yourself together and come downstairs, yeah?”

now you’re confused. where are you going? who else is going? you’ve barely bothered to go out, unless it was absolutely necessary, since before the accident. 

by time you think to argue with him about it, he’s already walked away. 

~~~

so he takes you to... an ice cream parlor. 

“seriously? this is your definition of going out?” you question him. the expression on your face reflects your confusion, yet your tone is teasing. 

“oh, shut up. just go with it,” he responds, nodding his head towards the door to urge you inside. 

you end up sitting in the corner of the place, sharing a cup between the two of you. you watch as people come in and out, placing their own orders.

families. young couples.

happy people. 

it pisses you off.

“why the hell did you bring me here?” you ask him, your anger boiling over. you turn to face him, no longer amused by his choice of outing. 

there’s a reason you don’t go out anymore. how, exactly, will it help you to see the rest of the world going on as usual, when your world stopped spinning months before?

you shouldn’t have come.

“you needed out of your depressing room,” is all he says. his response is curt, and to the point. maybe he’s right, but this? fucking exposure therapy? this is no better.

“oh, come on. that doesn’t tell me why we’re here, of all places,” you complain to him. you’re really not happy. 

he takes a pause.

“Olivia and I came here the first night we moved to New York,” he confides in you, all while refusing to meet your eyeline.

oh. you almost feel bad for your sarcastic and unappreciative tone. 

except you continue to ponder his response, and realize that technically, his explanation isn’t an explanation at all.

“so you purposefully wanted to relive painful old memories, then?” you pry. “because–”

“I just wanted to get you out, okay?” he snaps back at you, his gaze meeting yours once more. you shut your mouth after his outburst, and he sighs, frustrated with himself. he continues, softer now, “just eat your ice cream.”

you sit in silence for a little while longer before he decides to bring up the night before. 

“I need to know that you’re not going to put yourself in danger,” he says. he sounds like your boss right now, not your… whatever you are to each other. friends?

you could roll your eyes. you could scoff. you could curse him out.

you do none of the above.

“I won’t,” you say blankly, shrugging your shoulders. 

“except I’m really not inclined to believe you. it’s not just you I’m concerned about. if you get out into the field and do something stupid, any of the rest of us could get hurt. I know you understand that.”

the memory flashes across your mind like a horror film playing out right in front of your eyes. the one you haven’t gotten out of your head in three months. it’s a much needed eye-opener for you, finally hearing what Walker is saying. 

“I’m not going to hurt myself, and I’m not going to do anything stupid,” you tell him in earnest. 

you think on it for another minute. he’s right: you know better than to jeopardize the safety of your fellow team members. maybe it’s your overconfidence, or maybe it’s your clarity in this moment that encourages you to give him a nod.

“I mean it, Walker. I promise you,” you affirm. 

you sincerely mean it. 

~~~

a few nights later, you wake up in the middle of the night from another nightmare.

it’s the same damn thing every time: you’re confronted with a terrible memory from your past, you wake up unable to catch your breath, and you reach for him.

except he’s not there.

he’s never going to be there ever again.

what’s different this time is that your first thought isn’t to act rash, or to consider all the ways you can end your life. 

you let yourself accept that what you need right now is to not be alone.

you find yourself outside his door again, except your tears are much softer, your body not as shaken as the time before. you manage to stand on your own two feet as he opens the door for you. 

“I need you,” you tell him softly, looking into his tired eyes, your own red and watery as the tears continue to fall down your cheeks. 

you’re shocked by your own admission. you never let yourself need anyone except him. you thought that the worst thing you could do was open yourself up again, to be vulnerable with anyone ever again. 

but he would want you to. 

Walker is shocked, too, but he doesn’t hesitate to reach for you, pulling you inside the dark room you almost feel safer in than your own. 

you stand there for a long time, clinging to him in the middle of the room as you softly cry into his chest. he doesn’t once let you go, whispering softly into your ear as he massages the back of your head. 

your breathing begins to even out. the waterworks soften as your mind calms itself.

before him, you hadn’t known what it was like to feel comfortable with someone enough to be open and honest, to let yourself go in front of them. 

if you went back in time and told yourself that of all people, it would be John Walker that you cried in front of, you wouldn’t believe yourself, and yet, it was true. you felt safe, comfortable with him in a way you’d never felt with anyone other than him. 

when he lifts you off the floor, you don’t hesitate to wrap your legs around his waist and let him lay you down on his bed. 

and when he begins to pull away so you can get some sleep, you only cling to him tighter. 

~~~

something about this feels wrong.

no. that’s a lie.

he wants it to feel wrong. to hold his girl, to let her sleep in his bed. to be the only person she trusts with her pain, the only person who can provide her solace?

he wishes it felt wrong. 

to hold someone new. someone who wasn’t Olivia, for the first time in…

it doesn’t feel wrong, no matter how much he knows it should.

as you sleep, he watches you. he watches when your face finally relaxes and your tears finally quit as sleep grabs hold of you. he can’t help that he feels something as he watches you like this. he had intended to leave, to sleep on the couch, to not cross this boundary.

but you had held onto him. you didn’t want to let him go. 

you didn’t want to be alone.

so no, he isn’t going to leave you here all by yourself. you’d come to feel comfortable admitting to him that you weren’t okay, that you couldn’t be alone. 

he knows what it feels like to wake up alone, desperate for your person beside you, only to find them gone and be reminded of the harsh truth: they’re gone.

he isn’t him, and you aren’t her. but he isn’t going to let you wake up the tomorrow morning all alone. 

so he holds you as you sleep, one hand rubbing your back, another cradling your head to his chest to keep you close until his own mind drifts off. 

~~~

as you wake up the following morning, you feel the heat of a warm body wrapped around yours, a hand in your hair and one around your waist. 

for the first time since the accident, you didn’t wake up alone. you always woke up alone. 

even when you startled from your sleep, terrified out of your mind and bawling your eyes out, you were alone. you always reached for him, but he was no longer there. 

this is the first time in months now that you’ve woken up in a bed that isn’t your own, curled up in someone’s arms, with someone that isn’t him. 

it stings, thinking about him. how much you miss feeling him beside you, the feeling of him kissing you awake.

but more than that, it feels nice to be held. it feels nice to be cared for, to not be alone for once.

you bury your head deeper into his bare chest as he holds you, strength uninhibited even in his slumber. you shove down the feeling that you shouldn’t be here, that it’s wrong to let yourself relax into the arms of another man. 

you need this. 

when he wakes not long after, he glances down to where your face is pressed against him. you look like you’re trying to hide, he thinks to himself. 

“you okay?” he whispers, voice rough from sleep. you immediately perk up at hearing him speak, tilting your head upwards to face him. you can almost feel his gentle breathing on your skin as you meet his eyeline. 

“I’m alright,” you confirm, voice quiet. your mind is conflicted, distraught.

you miss him. you miss waking up in his arms.

but why aren’t you revolted by the thought of waking up next to Walker?

you’re so close, so entangled with one another, and you’re suddenly made aware of every little touch. one of his hands traces circles over the back of your neck, the other pressed against your back where your shirt rides up, his pinkie finger just barely brushing over the skin of your lower back. you have to take a deep breath. 

he’s looking down at you so carefully, as though he thinks you’re about to start crying again. 

the feeling of him wrapped around you is too good to be true. you will yourself to gently pull away from him, losing the heat of his body against yours. you suddenly feel as though you’re hypothermic. 

“thank you for letting me sleep here,” is all you can muster. you want to thank him for taking care of you the night before, for not letting you wake up on your own this time.

you don’t.

you sit on the edge of the bed for another minute in silence, neither of you quite sure what to say.

the worst part? it should be awkward. it should be tense, uncomfortable, weird...

but it doesn’t feel that way.

you stand and make to leave when you hear him say, “you don’t need to knock next time.”

you don’t let him know you heard him.

~~~

you get a phone call later that day. 

there’s a part of you that’s kind of upset that you haven’t heard from him since the funeral, but honestly? you’re just glad he reached out at all.

“Sam!” you say excitedly when you pick up the phone. “it’s so good to hear from you!”

he proceeds to explain he’s been busy, dealing with bureaucratic bullshit, but he’s been meaning to reach out. 

“I’m in town. you wanna grab dinner tonight? it’ll be good to catch up,” he offers.

~~~

you have to admit, it does feel good to get out. you end up wearing a dress you haven’t worn in a while. 

it’s one he bought for you.

you stare at yourself in the mirror and remember the look in his eyes when he first saw you in it, the way he about cancelled your dinner plans just so he could have you all to himself.

you look away from the mirror and refuse to start crying at the memory. now isn’t the time. 

you grab your purse and make your way to the elevator, looking down at your phone as you wait for the doors to open. when they do, John is standing on the other side, covered in sweat from head to toe. 

“gym?” you inquire as you trade places with him, stepping into the elevator.

“yeah. but, where, ah... where are you going all dressed up?” he asks. you look more like yourself than you have since before the accident. it’s refreshing to see. 

you look beautiful, he thinks. 

“I’m getting dinner with Sam,” you tell him.

he wasn’t expecting that.

“have a good time,” he says, but by that point, the elevator doors have shut in his face.

obviously, Sam and John had a rocky start. you’d only ever heard things from his point of view until the whole "New Avengers" thing had happened. and yet, he’d never spoken disrespectfully about John. he may not have liked the guy, but nobody knew better than he did that everyone has their own shit going on. 

by time the team formed, he and John had seemed to move on from their issues. 

but Sam... John didn’t know where he stood with him. 

he just had to pray you didn’t come back from dinner deciding that you hated him.

~~~

“so, how have you been? really, I mean,” Sam asks as you snack on some appetizers.

“that’s a loaded question,” you laugh, trying to brush it off. you knew he was going to ask you that, and you knew he would push you for the truth if you lied and claimed you were fine. “what matters is that I still have a job.”

“you know that’s not all that matters,” he says with his trademark smile, and you know he’s about to say something that makes him sound like a shrink. “you deserve to be happy outside of your job.”

happy. that’s an interesting word to use in this line of work.

“I haven’t gotten myself killed or fired, and I think that’s enough,” you tell him with an obviously fake smile. you take an obnoxiously large drink of your wine. 

“look, I know he and I weren’t exactly on good terms before the accident. but I know he would’ve wanted you to move on.”

you have to bite your tongue at hearing that. Sam continues when you don’t respond. 

“Walker told me–”

“what?” you suddenly perk up. what the hell? has John been talking to Sam behind your back, telling him things you thought were just between the two of you?

“Walker told me that you were doing just fine, and that I shouldn’t worry about you,” he assures you. “but I think he’s wrong. I don’t think he’s paying enough attention to make sure you’re okay to work, and I need to be sure that you are.”

instantly, you feel the relief sink in. he covered for you. John lied to Sam and didn’t reveal to him a single thing you had said in confidence.

“when did you talk to Walker?” you ask, trying to deflect from the point Sam is trying to make. you knew he would bring this up, but you’re still distracted by the discovery that John put himself on the line to protect you. 

you have to force yourself to pay attention to Sam as he continues. 

“it was purely a professional discussion. if any of the members of your team aren’t fit to work, including you, you know I have to step in,” he tells you. 

“and yet you asked Walker about me before you asked me about me,” you speak up, trying your best not to sound overly accusatory.  

you don’t really understand any of the bureaucratic stuff, nor do you care to. you either have a job or you don’t, and that’s fine by you. but the fact that he spoke to John before you?

does he think that little of you?

“it’s just because I’m worried about you,” he excuses, “and I needed to cover all my bases.”

you nod your head, pretending to agree without saying much else on the topic. you don’t want to fight him on this, not here, not now. it’s upsetting, yes; but you’re more concerned with the fact that John protected you. 

“so, tell me: is he right? are you safe to work?”

your mind is already elsewhere when you answer.

“yes. I’m safe to work.”

~~~

you walk right to his door when you get back to the compound after dinner.

your mind is all over the place right now. why would he cover for you? you could both get in trouble for this. he could get in trouble for failing to report you for all those destructive things you said. did he just lie to Sam out of spite, because they had a difficult history? or did he actually do it for you?

you needed to know.

you know this isn’t what he meant when he said ‘you don’t need to knock next time.’ he meant you don’t need to knock when you’re in crisis, not when you’re deliberately trying to bust his door down to demand answers. 

but you don’t care. you’re uber-focused and desperate at this point.

when his door suddenly slams open, so quickly that it smacks against the wall from force, he’s not expecting it so suddenly, so soon. 

when he sees you, he expects the worst. you just had dinner with your close friend, someone who hates him, and he can’t know for sure what went down. what Sam might have said to you to make you come to your senses about him. 

is this over? whatever this is, between the two of you? are you done with him?

are you about to cuss him out, yell at him to stay out of your life?

he mentally prepares himself for whatever you’re about to say to him, no matter how bad it’s going to hurt.

“you spoke to Sam,” you assert. the look on your face is one of confusion, and yet, you seem determined. your tone of voice is upset as he had expected.

“yes, I did, but–”

“you didn’t tell him,” you interrupt. it’s just then that you realize his TV is still blaringly loud on the wall, that he’s not wearing a shirt, preparing for bed.

it sends you back into reality, your whirlwind of emotions calming. it makes you want to apologize, run out, and quit being a fucking bother to him.

you can’t do that.

“you didn’t tell him any of it,” you repeat, still stunned.

his jaw stutters as though he’s working on finding the words.

in his head, he’s just surprised you don’t seem angry. you don’t seem like you’re about to freak out on him. 

as you walk over to sit next to him on the bed, he clicks off the TV and you give him a moment to gather his thoughts.

“it wasn’t any of his business,” is all he says to you. you notice the way he avoids meeting your gaze, the way he stares down at the remote in his hand and fidgets with it. 

“it is his business,” you claim, “having suicidal thoughts–”

“it’s not his business!” he reasserts, raising his voice and cutting you off. he takes a breath to calm himself before speaking again, in a much softer tone, “what you’ve told me stays between us.” 

“you should’ve reported me. you should’ve... I don’t know, but you shouldn’t be protecting me,” you whisper. “I’m not worth the trouble.”

he sighs in frustration at hearing your words.

“listen to me. we’ve talked about this. I know you’re not going to do anything stupid, okay?” he tells you, resisting the urge to reach out and take your hands in his. sure, you’ve already slept in the same bed together, held one another, but...

he doesn’t know the right thing to do here.

“how do you know that?” you ask, your tone reeking of desperation. normally, those words in this context would sound like a threat, a challenge to what he just said. but your tone of voice conveys the truth: you’re genuinely asking. you want to know why on earth he believes that.

“because I trust you. and I think you trust me enough at this point to just talk to me instead of hurting yourself.” 

you go silent. 

he’s right. you do know better by now. you know he’s here for you, and something about the way he holds you eases the hurt more than the idea of never waking up again.

you sit together in the silence for a few minutes. you feel his gaze on you, looking at your profile with what you think is a look of concern on his face. you stare down at your lap, fiddling with the hem of your dress. the dress that he bought for you, goddamnit–

the tears start again thinking about the memory of when he bought it for you, the first time you wore it for him. 

“John,” you whisper, still staring down at the fabric over your knees, anxiously trying to smooth it over your thighs. your voice is shaky and barely comprehensible, only loud enough to be picked up due to the fact that you’re sitting so close to him. you feel the warmth of your tears beginning to flow down your face, and you try to wipe them away when he finally reaches for you. 

he brings a hand to the back of your neck and another to your cheek, turning your face to look at him.

“I miss him,” you whisper. 

you let yourself feel the way he pulls you in close, his hand on the back of your neck trailing up to thread itself in your hair and pressing your face gently into the crook of his neck.

you let him move you into his lap, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, tears falling down your face quicker now. 

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your ear, rubbing his other hand up and down your back in his best attempts to soothe you. “I know you do. I know.”

~~~

when you wake up in the middle of the night a few hours later, you’re taken off guard. the first thing you register is the fact that, once again, you’re in John’s bed. once again, you’re entirely wrapped around one another.

your brain quickly catches up with the fact that you’re still wearing the dress, and your face feels gross and sticky from crying the night before. you slowly begin to untangle the mess of limbs you’re trapped in so you can get up. the movement must wake him up because his grip suddenly tightens on you.

you freeze in place, your lungs holding in your breath as you anticipate whatever comes next. 

“don’t,” is all he says. 

he’s awake enough to know better, you’re sure of it. he’s awake enough to know this is dangerous, to be aware of what it is he’s asking of you.

the fact that this had already happened once was pushing it. to become a repeat offender?

“I need to shower,” you whisper back to him. not once does he open his eyes, but even so, you see the way his facial expression shifts as he processes your words.

he doesn’t immediately let go of you, no. he keeps you in place as though he’s thinking about if he’s going to let you go.

“come back.”

fuck.

this is dangerous. you both know it. you both know that you’re hurting, that you’re missing him. you know he’s missing her, too. 

you don’t have it in you to say no to him. 

it’s the middle of the night, but you’re wide awake. you have no more excuses left in you to explain away why it is you’re doing this, why you’re deliberately returning to his bed, in nothing but your pajamas and dripping wet hair. 

you know exactly what you’re doing. 

the bubble of guilt in your stomach grows bigger with every step you take back towards his bedroom, slipping inside the door and under his sheets, into his arms. 

you still wish that you were being held by him.

and yet you’re glad to be in the arms of the man currently holding you tight, protecting you from your thoughts, protecting you from letting the pain consume you entirely.

~~~

in hindsight, you should have known that it was only a matter of time. your sad, broken heart had never let you think that far ahead, never let you think that there could be a time, a person after him. 

how could you possibly move on from losing the love of your life? the man you would have died for, killed for? even now, you still would. you’d fight until your dying breath just to defend his honor, to uphold his good name. 

and yet…

the next morning, you wake up in the same intimate position you’d found yourself in the morning before. your arms around his shoulders, your face up against his bare chest, legs intertwined with his. he must be awake, you think, because you feel a hand gently massaging the back of your head. you’re boiling alive, beginning to stir while encompassed by his warm figure. 

“good morning,” he whispers to you, watching as you pull your head back in order to face him. 

“hi,” you respond, your eyes still blinking themselves open. you’re suddenly aware of how puffy they are, how swollen your face feels from crying once again. you pull one hand away from his skin to dab at your own, diverting your gaze away from his as you realize how red and inflamed your face must look. 

he’s still looking at you, though. 

“I’m a mess right now, sorry,” you tell him, tucking your chin further into your chest as you lean back, rubbing your eyes. 

“you look beautiful.”

your heart stops beating. your whole body freezes in place, his words not processing in your mind. he’s complimenting you, comforting you, it’s…

it’s all wrong. this has to be some inexplicable dream you’re having. 

“last night, you looked… and now, still.”

he pulls his hand away from where he’s holding the back of your head, bringing his fingers to gently tilt your face back up to his. 

he’s looking at you… like… how he…

your breathing restarts all too quickly, rapidly picking up its pace as you realize the position you’re in. 

he’s been taking care of you, putting your pain above his own, giving you privileges he would never grant to just anyone. he’s held your hand in your darkest moments, protected you from ruining your career and from taking your own life. 

he was never ‘just a friend.’

it was only a matter of time, you think, when you lean forward and press your lips to his.

~~~

you’re soft. 

he doesn’t deserve soft. 

and you’re hurting. 

he pulls away from you, choosing his next words carefully. 

“I’m not him,” he whispers to you, “and I never will be.”

“I don’t want you to be,” you whisper back to him. 

that’s enough for him. 

his lips find yours once more. harsher, faster this time. 

you’re being rolled back, splayed over his sheets, laid out underneath him. the way he kisses you is deep and slow, somehow so distinctly John. 

not once had you ever imagined this happening, and yet, the way he touches you is exactly what you would have expected from him. a hand in your hair, tugging at your scalp and tangling the strands in his fingers. yet he seems needier, more desperate than you’ve ever seen him. 

his other hand at your hip repeatedly adjusts its grip, unable to determine if you’re truly real and underneath him right now. the repeated motion continues to draw your attention, a repetitive movement that his anxious mind won’t let him quit. 

you press a hand firmly over it, trying to still the motion and ground him in the moment. 

it seems to work. 

he never quits kissing you, tasting you through it all. you feel the change as one of his legs slots itself between yours, his knee pressing up against the fabric of your underwear. a choked noise falls from high in your throat, alerting him to what his actions are doing to you. 

his fingers keep toying with your hair as he tentatively moves his leg against you, paying close attention to how the action makes you react. 

your whole body shivers in response. your lips finally break apart from his as your head dips to face down to where your hips are now mindlessly rutting against him. he gives you another one, once more increasing the pressure against you, and in the same instant, he ducks down to catch your lips with his again. it’s perfectly timed for him to feel the way you gasp as he moves against you, for you. 

he does it over and over, his lips gently brushing with yours as you gasp repeatedly with each one of his movements. his eyes are parted just enough to see the way your eyes are shut tight, your whole body reacting with everything he gives you. 

“look at me,” he encourages you, “open your eyes.”

you blink your eyes back open, your whole body distracted in experiencing a pleasure you haven’t felt in a very long time. you’re a trembling mess, whining and gasping against him as your hips try their best to keep up with him. 

once your eyes have opened, you take in the view of his face just above your own, staring down at you observantly. 

“that feel good?” he mumbles to you, pace never once faltering. 

you stumble over your words, stuttering like crazy as you respond, “you know it does,” before letting your eyes fall shut again. your head tilts into the pillow as your back gently arches up into him. 

he moves his mouth to your neck, pressing wet kisses against your skin, not daring to leave a mark. it’s not his place, not right now. 

right now, his priority is making sure you feel so good you can’t think about a single thing else.

a part of him wants to inundate you with praise, shower you in all the compliments he can while he has the opportunity. 

but in this moment, it’s peaceful. it’s quiet, save for the beautiful litany of noises coming from your mouth. the part of him that wants to savor this, the part that just wants to let you worry about feeling, keeps him from rambling. 

he’s got all the time in the world to say the things he wants to tell you.

“can I take these off, sweetheart?” he whispers to you, his fingers tugging at the fabric of your panties where they’re bunched at your hips. his movements slowly pause, easing away from where he’s pressed up against you. 

you let out another throaty whine as he stills. you find your voice once more, reminding him, “it’s been a while.” 

his fingers trace over the fabric where it meets your skin. “that’s okay,” he tells you, his voice like honey in your ears, “and it’s okay to tell me no, too.” 

he’s trying his best to be careful, you realize. he wants, needs you to be sure of this.

“go ahead,” you whisper. 

the pressure between your legs ceases entirely, followed by the feeling of both his hands hooking fingers beneath your underwear. he slowly drags them down your hips, your thighs, past your knees until they’re completely off.

you gulp, trying not to let the nerves set in. 

you haven’t done this with anyone since him, since before the accident.

your jaw goes entirely slack the moment you feel his fingers brushing between your sensitive folds, already slick with your desire for him, having gone untouched for so long. 

and in that moment, 

it finally stops. 

the constant whirring inside your head, your thoughts reminding you of your loss, every second of every day. it all stops as your mind goes blank with John’s touch. 

he sees it. he sees the moment your mind finally quits berating you, lets you give in to something more powerful than the pain. your body releases its tension, your hands blindly reaching for any part of him to hold onto. he leans in to kiss you, dragging you out of the fog and into the light, back into this moment with him where it doesn’t hurt anymore. 

his fingers press deeper, pushing inside you as he positions his hips strategically to keep your thighs spread for him. you wind up with both your hands in his hair, tugging, playing with it as he licks into your mouth. you whimper against him as his hand pulls back, only to push inside you once more, deeper, twisting inside you with each withdrawal. 

he works you like this for a few long minutes, lazily kissing you and enjoying the way you toy with his hair, relishing every noise you make for him. you’re so warm, so inviting, so good for him. 

he pulls back from the kiss, just for a moment. “you okay?” he mumbles quietly. he can distinctly hear the wet noises coming from between your legs, noises that would probably embarrass you if he brought them up to you. 

it’s music to his ears, same as every sound that falls from your lips. 

he could spend forever listening to you. 

“yeah, fuck,” you respond, the sound high-pitched and desperate. “more? please?”

you’re irresistible, impossible to say no to. 

“you want more, hmm? what do you want?” he mutters, pace holding steady as he continues the motions of his fingers. 

“I want to feel you, please. I need you to fuck me,” you whisper back. 

he can’t deny the attractiveness of your words. 

he has to take a pause. 

“say my name,” he instructs, looking at your face more urgently now. his bows cinch together as he waits. 

“John,” you whisper back. your eyes are glazed over when you look into his. 

“one more time, can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

“I know you’re not him,” you whisper, holding his eyeline as you say it. “and I’m not her.” 

he lets out a breath of relief before repeating, “I know. I know you’re not her. I want you,” he responds back. 

“I want you, John, please… I’m okay. I’m ready.”

his hand slowly retreats from its spot between your legs, his fingers coated in you reaching for the hem of the shirt you’re wearing. he watches as more and more of your skin is revealed to him, each and every mark that you would consider an imperfection only drawing him in. he wants more, wants to touch, wants to feel you. 

most importantly, you trust him. you trust that he understands, trust him to be the one after him.

you never expected that there would be, never wanted there to be someone after him. 

and yet here you are, willingly sharing a part of yourself with someone who isn’t him.

“please,” you whine as he sheds his shorts, “please, please, please…”

he calmly hushes your begging, assuring you, “I’ve got you. I’m gonna give you what you want, I got you.”

you’re distracted, your hands grasping at his shoulders as you grow impatient. you grit your teeth, trying to hold on, trying your best to wait. 

and then you finally feel him against you, finally pressing inside. 

your eyes roll back in your head, your entire body going lax underneath him. you haven’t felt this full, this good in a long time. 

he sees how your mind shorts, his own sense of self-control melting away just as yours is. there’s not a thought in your head as he stretches you open so beautifully, all for him.

“say my name,” he whispers into your ear one last time, when your mind is empty, when there’s only one thing you can think of–

“John,” you whine out in your stupor. 

that’s the confirmation he needed to hear. 

“good job, sweetheart,” he whispers. 

next thing you know, he’s moving against you, putting all his efforts into taking you apart one piece at a time. after a few tentative thrusts, your warmth absolutely decimating his reserve, he brings his fingers back between your legs to rub your clit.

except he’s already got you worked up, nearing the edge. you haven’t orgasmed in months, and your body is rapidly falling apart under his touch. 

“I’m– you gotta slow down, or I’ll…” you plead with him, a part of your mind telling you to be embarrassed, telling you you’re going to scare him off. 

“I’ll give you as many as you need,” he tells you, “go ahead.”

with his affirmation, your mind and body let go. your breathing stops as your brain focuses on nothing but how it races through you, the feeling intense and overwhelming. 

he doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t fail to continue providing you with the stimulation between your legs, the only thing you’re consciously aware of in this moment. 

he can’t hold himself back anymore from running his mouth, sharing with you every thought that populates in his head. 

“doin’ so good for me. I bet you don’t even know how goddamn pretty you look when you come for me, sweetheart… wanna watch you do that forever,” he rambles, all while holding his pace constant. 

he means every word of it. 

~~~

you lay in bed with him afterwards, the afternoon sun shining in through the blinds. you stare at the rays of light as they come through the window. 

you’d practically boarded up your own windows after the accident, refusing to let the positivity into your depression room. 

it’s nice, though, you think. the heat on your face, the brightness waking you up for the day. 

he’s laying on his side while you’re on your stomach, holding yourself up by your elbows, your head tilted the opposite direction from him as you look towards the window. his fingers trace over your skin, drawing random patterns into your hip as you lay there in the quiet. 

you haven’t run away yet, and you have no intention of doing so. 

the physical pain that’s lingered in your chest since the accident has finally dissipated, the headache you couldn’t shake finally easing. 

you finally feel a kind of peace inside, a peace you didn’t know you could find with someone other than him. 

~~~

over the course of the next week, you begin to feel better, closer to normal than you’ve felt in a while. 

you spend most nights in John’s room, sleeping in John’s bed, wrapped up in John’s arms. he never fails to whisper soft praises in your ear as you drift off to sleep, telling you how grateful he is for you, calling you his sweetheart. neither of you push any further than lazily kissing in the comfort of his sheets. 

you feel loved in a way you’ve only felt once before in your lifetime. 

you still miss him. you can’t go more than a few minutes without being reminded of something you used to love doing with him, something personal about him that he only ever shared with you. you’re surrounded by the memories of him in everything you do, everywhere you go. 

as you peel away the coverings you’ve hung over the windows in your own bedroom, desiring to feel the light filtering in, you’re reminded of something that hasn’t crossed your mind in a while: 

his room remains untouched. 

you freeze in place, still holding the blankets in your hands as you look through the glass and onto the lively city, beautiful weather blessing the people below. 

you haven’t been in his room since about a month after the accident. 

you stand there, your fingers fidgeting with the soft fabric in your hands as you contemplate whether or not you should go. 

except the decision was made for you before you even considered it. 

a few minutes later, you find yourself standing outside of his room. the door is slightly ajar just as you had left it the last time you were here. 

the last time you were here. 

the last time you set foot inside his room, you’d been clinging to his sheets, bawling into his pillows with the pain still so fresh in your heart. you had spent every night and day in his room after the accident until you considered the idea that being there was only hurting you. 

you had retreated back to your own bed, assuming that it would help you somehow. 

of course, it didn’t. but by then, you had made up your mind that it would only hurt more if you ended up back in his space, surrounded by him. 

thus, you haven’t been back since. 

you will your hand to move, to reach for the knob, to push the door open. you barely work up the courage, almost convinced you should just walk away–

you shove the door open before you can change your mind. 

you shouldn’t be surprised that everything is exactly the way you left it. the sheets mussed, the blinds drawn, his pillow on the floor. the room is cold and empty. 

stepping forward into the space, you take a shaky breath in and wipe your nose when you hear yourself sniffling. you manage to maintain your composure as you walk further inside. 

you walk by his dresser, littered with various objects: a picture of him and Sam. a handful of photo strips the two of you took while out for date night. a few polaroids of yourself posing in a dark blue lingerie set he had bought for you, smiling at him on the other side of the camera. 

there’s a bottle of cologne next to the messy pile of pictures. a small mirror hangs on the wall above the dresser. you see a book you used to pass back and forth between each other about overcoming PTSD. 

on top of the book lay his dog tags. 

with shaky hands, you reach out to pick them up. the metal is cold to the touch. you trace your fingers over the indentations in the metal, over the numbers imprinted: 32557038. 

as you stare down at the tags in your hands, your eyes get warm, threatening tears. 

you direct your gaze up towards the mirror before the waterworks start, holding eye contact with your reflection as you pull the chain over your head. you fidget with the tags for a minute as they lay on your chest before turning towards the bed. 

the sheets are all over the place and his pillow is still laying on the floor where you’d unceremoniously dumped it the last time you walked out. you had told yourself that coming back wasn’t an option for you if you had wanted to heal. 

look how well that turned out for you. 

you stand near the side of the bed, reaching down to pick up the pillow and clutching it tightly in your arms. it’s fluffy, and it’s soft, a luxury he never thought he deserved to have. 

it had been important to you that he got to have those luxuries, to remind him that he could enjoy them. no way in hell would you ever let him go without only the best. 

you set the pillow down on the bed with the rest and adjust them to look presentable. you reach to pull the sheets and comforter back into place, but before you can, the urge to lay down overwhelms you. 

the sheets are soft on your skin, the pillow comfortable under your head. 

and then you sense it: 

the overpowering scent of him on the sheets fills your nose, tripping every alarm in your head. 

it’s only a matter of seconds before you’re sobbing your eyes out, burying your face into the pillow, dragged right back into the crippling pain that you’d felt the instant it happened. 

the instant you watched his life get taken away. 

except the moment you inhale against the pillow, the scent is intensified, the pain made inexplicably worse than it already is. 

you force yourself out of the bed, away from the terrifying reminder of the worst day of your entire life. your feet trip over themselves with how quickly you move, how suddenly you run out of the room, barely able to keep yourself upright.

the only semi-comprehensible thought in your head is to get the smell off me. get away from the reminder as it clings to your clothes, your skin, lingering in your nostrils no matter how much you pinch and pull at your nose. you’re stuck, trapped in the worst moment of your life even as you try to run. 

tears continue falling from your eyes as you finally end up back in your bedroom, tugging at the fabric of your clothes. the sound of ugly sobs fill your ears as you rip your shirt over your head, trying not to fall flat on your face as you run to your bathroom. you’re trembling from head to toe. your lungs feel like they’re collapsing in on themselves as you struggle to breathe through your crying. 

the nightmare is real. in this moment, you’re there: on the field, falling to your knees, wailing out at the realization that he’s gone. 

you slam the door shut behind you, once more falling over yourself as you make for the shower. if you can just turn on the faucet, feel the hot water on your skin, then maybe it’ll go away, maybe–

there’s a knocking at the door, followed by the sound of your name being called out from the other side. “sweetheart? are you okay?” he asks you. 

“fine,” you call back, except it’s a sorry excuse for a lie. your voice comes out as nothing but shaky and squeaky, and it’s obvious that you’re still sobbing even as you say it. you finally get in the shower, pressing one of your hands up against the ice cold tile and using the other to reach for the shower faucet. you press your forehead up against your hand on the wall, trying to calm yourself.  

the water just needs to get hot. just let the water get hot, and it’ll all go away.

you shiver under the cold spray, pleading with it to get warm. 

“can I come in?” he calls out, his concern all too obvious. 

you don’t respond. the water finally heats up, finally gets hot enough to burn your skin and hurt so bad that it should distract you from the scene that continues to play inside your head. 

it doesn’t work. it doesn’t fucking work. 

you let out a wail, trapped in your own mind with the vision of the love of your life dead, in your arms, and there’s not a thing you can do about it. you can’t save him, you can’t tell him one last time how much you love him. 

your cries are so loud that you don’t hear it when the bathroom door opens and shuts. you don’t even process John’s presence in the bathroom, stepping into the shower behind you until you see him turning the water temperature down out of the corner of your eye. 

in your rush to strip yourself of your clothes, the dog tags around your neck somehow managed to stay in their place. 

“he’s gone,” you cry out, tilting your head to the side as you feel his arms wrap around you. “he’s gone. he’s gone, he’s dead, and he isn’t coming back to me,” you cry out, your sobs almost loud enough to drown out your pained words. your free hand finds its way to the chain wrapped around your neck, frantically tugging and pulling at the tags in your desperation. 

“I know,” he whispers, curling himself around you from behind. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

you don’t know how long you stand there, leaning against the shower wall, bawling your eyes out and feeling sick to your stomach. John never once lets go of you. 

~~~

by time the exhaustion takes over, your crying has stopped and your body is slumped, no longer capable of supporting yourself. 

“come on,” he whispers to you, turning you to face him. “I got you.”

the next thing you know, you’re waking up in your bed with a bath towel wrapped around your figure, his arm draped over you. 

“what happened?” you begin, disoriented and struggling to speak with how dry your mouth is. 

“I found you in the shower, crying. and then you fell asleep,” he tells you lowly.  

your fingers come back to your chest, feeling for the chain around your neck. you fidget with it for a moment while still facing away from him. 

“do you wanna talk about it?” he offers. 

a month ago, when he first approached you, you were reluctant. you were angry at the world, as you still are now, and a part of you was angry at him for trying to involve himself in your business. 

you’ve come a long way in your relationship in the last month. 

you nod, sitting up and accepting the glass of water he hands you. 

“I went into his room,” you begin, nursing the drink in your hands, “I thought I was ready. I… I spent the first few weeks sleeping in there after it happened, but I haven’t been back since. I laid down on the bed, and it just sent me into a panic. all I could see was that day, John, the day he died. I couldn’t escape it, and… and I lost it.” 

he doesn’t say a word, just rubs your arm softly as he listens.  

you take another sip of water, the tags around your neck jingling as you move. it catches your attention. 

“John,” you say quietly. he looks up to meet your eyes and waits for you to continue. 

“is it okay if I wear these?” you ask him, indicating to the dog tags around your neck. “it won’t… it won’t upset you, will it?” 

he’s surprised that you could ever think that. 

“of course, you should wear them,” he reassures you, sitting up next to you and cupping your face in one hand. “why would it upset me?” 

“because they belonged to him,” you explain, “another man. and now, we’re…” you trail off, unable to come up with the words you mean to say. 

what are you to each other? 

you’re certainly more than friends, and you’re certainly not just fuck buddies. you’ve only slept together once, and it’s more than obvious that something real is happening here.

that word stops you dead in your tracks: real. there’s something real between you and John, a connection, a trust that you’ve only ever had with him before. 

you’d still be with him if he was still here. nothing other than this, than death, would have broken you up.  

you were never supposed to end up with anyone else. 

which gets you to thinking: 

he’s only been gone for four months now, which in the grand scheme of things, is barely any time at all. 

is it too soon? 

is it wrong for you to let yourself have whatever this is with John?

“I’ll never be upset with you for that, sweetheart,” he assures you, reaching to brush his thumb over your hand as it fiddles with the metal chain.  

he’s genuine, sincere. you know he understands what it means to lose your soulmate and be forced to keep going. he knows what it’s like to be left with a million questions regarding what the hell you do after losing your person, the one you never should have lost.

he’s lost his person, the same as you have, and now? 

you’re both the person after. the person who was never supposed to exist. 

you nod your understanding and lean in to give him a kiss, all while your hand still clutches the chain on your neck. 

a pit begins to develop in your stomach, then. 

what if this is wrong? you’re not supposed to be happy, not with the things you’ve done, not after losing the most important person in your life. 

how could you replace him like this? 

~~~

regardless of your hesitance, you continue to find yourself spending all your time with him, in his room. 

you’re lying on your back on top of him in his bed, food wrappers from the take-out you ordered covering the surface of the nightstand. the sun outside begins to set, the room overtaken by darkness as the light fades. it’s quiet. 

“I was so excited when I found out Olivia was pregnant,” he says, breaking through the silence of the room. 

you can tell he’s deep in dark thought, saddened by what he’s just shared with you, based on the sullen tone of his voice. you turn your back to look at him as he continues. 

“I was so ready to be a dad, you know? it just… it felt so right. I wanted to be able to be the dad I never had. I was going to break the cycle, and be there for him, and then…” he trails off, shaking his head at the reminder. “clearly, I’m not cut out for that.”

“hey, no,” you begin, “don’t say that, you–”

“how am I supposed to keep a kid safe in this world? with all the crazy things that happen, alien invasions… I couldn’t even keep my own partner safe.”

“John, no,” you say more firmly now, taking his hand in yours and adjusting your body to face him better. “Lemar’s death was not your fault. it never should have happened, but it’s not on you that it did, okay?” 

he sits there in silence, contemplating your words. he stares down at where your hands are connected. 

“well, he’s better off without me. and even if I wanted… it’s my fault I can’t see my own son,” he says, voice cracking. 

you hate seeing him like this, forlorn and hopeless. 

“don’t say that, please. it’s not too late. your marriage may… it may be over, but he’s still your son. you can still be there, you can be his dad,” you tell him. you’re trying your best to be supportive and opportunistic, but you have no clue if it’s even helping. 

“I can’t. there’s court orders, I’m actually not allowed to see him,” he confirms, and you can see his eyes grow watery. “being… an Avenger, or whatever we are, doesn’t look good on papers. and my history…”

you squeeze his hand a bit tighter.

“they think I’m reckless, dangerous. so I don’t get to see him.”

his words break your heart. everything he’s done, everything that’s happened is what he was conditioned for, trained to do, and now? 

you’re out of words to reassure him. 

you lean forward and wrap yourself around him, stroking his hair while he begins to softly cry against your shoulder. 

you’ve lost the love of your life. 

but he’s lost three of them.

~~~

after the next team meeting, Yelena approaches you when you begin to head back to your room. 

“how are you doing?” she asks you tentatively. “you seem better.”

you can tell she’s trying her best, knowing she’s no good at this. none of you are, truly, the lot of you emotionally constipated from years of shoving everything down and pretending like your trauma doesn’t bother you, like you’re completely fine. 

“I am starting to feel a bit better, yeah,” you respond with a soft smile. 

“you’ve been spending time with Walker,” she says. nothing about the way she says it sounds like an accusation, or like she’s teasing you. she’s simply mentioning an observation she’s made.

“yeah, he’s… been helping me, I guess,” you say, the nerves rising up again.

does she know? does she know that he’s grown to be someone you care about, someone you can depend on? 

does she think it’s too soon? has the rest of the team made the same observation that she has?

do they think you’re being unfaithful to him?

“well, Ava and I would like to take you out for drinks sometime, if you feel up to it,” she offers.

a part of you is hesitant, as is the nature of trying to cope with your grief. but in truth, it sounds fun. you should get out and socialize. it will be good for you.

“yeah, I’d like that,” you tell her. 

~~~

a few drinks in, and you realize why this was a bad idea. 

“so, what the hell do you see in Walker?” Ava yells to you over the noise of the bustling crowd, the overwhelmingly loud music. 

up until this point, the evening has been nothing but pleasant. you’ve finally been able to spend time with the other members of your team, friends, if you’re allowed to call them that. the conversation never once veered into personal territory, never asking you about him. 

the sudden change in topic, especially while tipsy, isn’t doing you any favors. 

“well, he’s just been helping me,” you say, trying to keep up your positive demeanor even as your mood falters. “I can talk to him about… you know.” 

“his death,” she says. it’s obvious she’s had more to drink than you have, that the only reason she’s speaking so bluntly is due to intoxication. 

you try your best to swallow down your feelings as you respond. 

“yeah. that,” you acknowledge, your voice coming out more softly than you intended. 

“do you, though? see something in him?” Yelena asks you, taking another sip of her drink and looking at you intently. 

you know it’s just conversation. they don’t mean any harm. 

but it’s getting to you. the words are tearing at the walls you’ve built around your guilt, forcing your fears to come to light inside your head. 

“but he hated Walker, didn’t he?” Ava pipes up.

“no, no,” you say urgently, your heart racing faster. “he didn’t hate John, he–” 

you cut yourself off mid-sentence. you’re nervous. you feel like you’re on trial, being forced to explain yourself. explain how the hell you could end up in the arms of someone he hated–no, that’s not what’s happening here–

“did you sleep with him?” Yelena asks you suddenly. 

it’s harmless. they’re just asking, just trying to…

you can’t handle it anymore. 

your heart is beating way too fast, your anxieties surrounding the situation spiking.

what the hell is wrong with you? how could you do this to him? he died, knowing that you were it for him. you were his soulmate, and of course he was yours–

so why the hell are you doing this? 

why are you getting yourself involved with John?

you’re a terrible person. how dare you ever think you could be worth his love, worth more than the sum of the terrible things you’ve done, the lives you’ve taken. 

“can we get the bill and head back? I think the alcohol is getting to my head,” you say, narrowly avoiding tipping over your glass, your hands shaking while you try to reach for your purse.

you don’t deserve to be happy, to fall in love again. 

you never even deserved him in the first place. 

~~~

you don’t go to John’s room. you can’t. 

seeking out his presence, the comfort you find with him will only worsen your mental state. letting yourself feel better when he is dead is nothing more than cruelly turning your back on him. 

how could you ever do that to him?

you don’t shed a single tear when you slip under your sheets. your mind is moving too fast, berating you for letting yourself move on. 

for letting yourself fall in love again. 

is that what this is? are you in love with John Walker?

you tell yourself you’re not. you try to convince yourself that you’re just hurting, you’re latching onto him in his absence. it’s not real, it absolutely cannot be real, because then it means you’re a traitor. 

a traitor to the love of your life, your fucking soulmate, the only man you’ve ever held so close to your heart. 

it hurts. it hurts every fiber of your being to know that you do love John Walker, that you have another shot at being happy. that you’re finally learning how to move forward. 

except to you, it just feels like moving on. like you’re leaving him in the past. 

you’re in love.

and you despise yourself for the excitement that builds up in your stomach at the realization. 

~~~

the next morning, you wake up early. way too early, early enough to see the sun begin to light up the sky as it rises. 

you don’t bother getting out of bed. sleeping on all of your conflicting thoughts didn’t help, it only intensified your fears. you woke up in a daze of despair. 

you still miss him, that’s a given. you’ll always love him, until the day you die. 

but now you’re in love with someone else. 

and you don’t know what you’re supposed to do with yourself. 

at that moment, your bedroom door quietly opens and shuts. you look up to see him sneaking in. 

“sorry,” he whispers, laying down next to you, “I tried to be quiet, didn’t mean to wake you.” 

he cuddles up behind you, wrapping an arm around you and settling in. you don’t move, don’t bother to get any closer to him. 

“you didn’t come to my room last night. missed you,” he whispers, sleepy. 

“now isn’t the time, John,” you say bluntly, beginning to retract yourself from his hold and getting out of the bed. you find yourself standing in front of the window, staring through the cracks in the blinds. 

“sweetheart, what’s–” he starts, but you interrupt him. you’re angry, and confused, and you can’t stand to hear the term of endearment from him right now. 

“don’t,” you hiss, “don’t fucking call me that. don’t.” 

now he’s confused. what’s going on? did he upset you somehow?

he sits up, his mind waking up with the abrupt shift in the air. 

“would you… would you look at me?” he asks you. 

you shake your head. you won’t. you can’t. 

when you don’t turn to face him, you hear the shuffling of the sheets behind you indicating that he’s standing up. you see him come into your field of view as he walks up next to you. 

“talk to me,” he says, sounding more like an order than a request. “tell me what’s going on.”

“we can’t do this,” you say flatly, refusing to meet his gaze. “we’re not doing this. whatever this is, it’s over. we’re done.”

“no,” he protests as he begins to get upset. “you don’t get to just tell me out of nowhere that we’re done without giving me an explanation. so tell me, what is going on with you?”

you exhale, frustrated, anger boiling up inside you. you finally turn to face him. 

“I don’t owe you anything,” you snap, no matter how much it hurts to say to him. you don’t want to push him away, you don’t, but what else can you do at this point? 

this is your only option. 

he takes a deep breath to calm his own anger before he continues. “you’re upset, and something is wrong. tell me what’s wrong.”

“we can’t do this!” you cry out, “we can’t! it’s not right, it’s not fair to him!” 

“sweetheart–” he tries, but you don’t let him get the words out. 

“no, you can’t call me that. you can’t–” you say, your voice breaking with every word. your heart and mind are both tearing at the seams, trying to compensate for the gaps in the other’s feelings. 

John pipes up, his own anger coming to surface. “goddamnit, would you listen to me? he would’ve wanted you to be happy! B–”

“don’t. don’t you dare say his name!” you scream back at him, seething. 

“Bucky would have wanted you to be happy!” 

everything stops.

your mind stops.

not a soul has said his name since the funeral. you haven’t said his name since the funeral.

you feel like you’re going to lose control of your breathing, your lungs practically frozen. your anger morphs, turning back into sadness. this is too much, it’s too much–

“can you honestly tell me that he wouldn’t have wanted us to be happy together?” he asks you, his tone pleading, begging you to try and understand where he’s coming from.  

you can’t help the way your lip begins to quiver, and your eyes heat up. fuck.

“he would’ve wanted me to protect you. he would’ve wanted you to be looked after.”

you can’t help but protest against him. “John, you don’t get it. I feel like I’m betraying him–” 

“–I know, sweetheart, I know, but listen–”

“–but the worst part is that I know I’m not. I know we’re not betraying him. I know that you’re right, I just…”

you pause. you don’t know what you want to say next.

“I know,” he whispers. “every day, I wake up, and I hope that she’s going to call me, but she’s not. I know that she’s not going to. I know that she’s gone.” 

he inhales as he takes in your sulken appearance, the sight of tears falling down your face once more. 

“they’re gone. we lost them, and that’s it. but that doesn’t mean that we can’t be happy without them!” he tries to reason with you, raising his voice once again. 

he doesn’t get it. why doesn’t he get that your relationship is doomed, the same as yours was with him? this was all a mistake, the whole time. the two of you were doing nothing but setting yourselves up for more heartbreak. why can’t he see that? 

you can’t hold it in any longer. your resolve breaks as you yell back at him, “I don’t want to lose you like I lost him!”

your words hit hard. the thought of that happening to you, of you dying on the job, is the worst thing imaginable.

but it’s an excuse. 

it’s an excuse coming from the part of you that’s still heartbroken, still traumatized from the accident. anything could happen to any of you, at any time, regardless. 

“so you think you’d be better off by yourself? not letting yourself have what you want, sacrificing your own happiness because you think it might save my life? news flash: it doesn’t work like that!” he responds. 

you go silent, his words reaching into your heart and yanking at each and every one of your heartstrings. 

“you deserve to be happy, sweetheart,” he pleads with you, taking another step forward, bringing his hands to rest on your arms. “let me make you happy.”

you’re quietly bawling by this point, unable to control how your body silently shakes over and over again. John moves closer, wrapping his arms around your trembling figure and embracing you while you cry. 

“I love you,” you say between sobs. “I love you, John, I love you so much. I can’t lose you,” you tell him, baring your entire heart and soul to him once more. 

“shhh… you’re not going to lose me,” he whispers to you, rubbing your back. “that’s not going to happen.”

of course, neither of you can know that for sure. the life you both lead is one of fighting, defined entirely by nothing other than tragedy. 

but you both believe it when he says it. 

“look at me,” he whispers, pulling back and leaning down to look at you face to face. he takes in your red face, wipes your tears as you sniffle. 

“I love you, sweetheart. I love you, too.” 

you nod vehemently. 

“I love you. and I know you think it’s not right, like you’re forgetting him. but you’re not. he’ll always be a part of you.”

as you take in his words, letting them soak into your mind and your heart, you begin to settle. you nod once more. 

you watch as a small smile crosses his face when you nod. 

“let me make you happy,” he repeats to you. 

you want that. you want to let yourself be happy. 

you can be happy with John without forgetting about him. 

you can let him fill the void in your heart. 

~~~

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You’d been in Wakanda for two weeks with the rest of the Avengers, helping integrate some of Shuri’s new tech into the compound systems. Tony and Bruce were in heaven; Steve was helping coordinate defense drills. And you… well, you’d somehow ended up spending most of your time with King T’Challa himself.

It wasn’t intentional. You’d just clicked.

He admired your wit and your bravery, and you admired his steady grace, that quiet strength he carried like it weighed nothing. You laughed easily around him, traded stories about your missions, teased him when he smirked just enough to make your stomach twist.

It was innocent. Mostly.

But Bucky couldn’t take it.

He watched from across the courtyard as T’Challa leaned in slightly to whisper something in your ear, and you tipped your head back to laugh, sunlight glinting off your skin.

Bucky felt his jaw tighten.

He’d had feelings for you for months—hell, maybe years—but he’d never said anything. Never wanted to risk ruining the easy friendship you two shared. The one built on late nights after missions, quiet car rides, shared energy drinks and knowing glances when Steve went all Captain Mode.

You’d kissed once. Under the cover of darkness, pretending to be a couple to sneak past guards during a mission in Prague. Just a mission, you’d said after. But he’d replayed it a hundred times since. The soft press of your mouth, the way your breath caught when his hand cupped your jaw.

And now you were smiling at another man like that.

Bucky turned away, trying to keep his face neutral, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. Steve noticed immediately.

“Buck,” Steve murmured beside him, following his gaze. “You’re gonna snap that vibranium arm in half if you keep clenching your fist like that.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked. “M’not.”

Steve hummed, unconvinced. “You’ve been staring at them for ten minutes.”

“Just keeping an eye out,” Bucky muttered. “Security detail.”

Steve chuckled softly. “Sure you are.”

By the time the mission wrapped, everyone was more than ready to head home. Wakanda had a way of spoiling them—the peace, the people, the food—but the jet was fueled and waiting.

You were the last to board, of course, saying your goodbyes to the king.

“Until next time, Y/N,” T’Challa said with a warm smile, taking your hand in both of his. “Wakanda will always welcome you.”

You smiled, a little shyly. “You’re gonna make me want to stay, Your Majesty.”

He chuckled, eyes glinting. “Perhaps that would not be such a terrible thing.”

It was harmless flirting, really—until you caught the faintest movement behind him. Bucky, standing at the ramp of the quinjet, eyes narrowed just slightly, jaw locked.

You blinked, a flicker of guilt sparking in your chest, and quickly waved a goodbye before jogging toward the jet.

“Take your time, why don’t you,” Sam muttered as you climbed aboard, earning a playful eye roll from you.

The rest of the team settled in, but Bucky stayed quiet, gaze fixed out the window as the landscape shrank below.

Steve waited until everyone else was distracted before leaning across the aisle. “You should talk to her, pal.”

Bucky didn’t look up. “About what?”

Steve raised a brow. “About the fact that you look like you’re about to storm back down there and challenge a king to a duel.”

Bucky shot him a glare. “Not funny.”

“I’m serious,” Steve said, voice gentle now. “You like her. It’s obvious. Has been for a while.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “She doesn’t feel the same.”

Steve’s lips twitched. “You sure about that?”

Bucky frowned.

“She only flirts when she’s nervous,” Steve said, nodding toward where you were curled up in a seat across the cabin, fiddling with the straps of your gear. “You think she jokes around with T’Challa like that because she wants to? Nah. It’s because she’s trying to ignore the fact that you haven’t said anything.”

Bucky followed his friend’s gaze. You laughed softly at something Natasha said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes flicking up just once—to him.

You looked away almost instantly, cheeks warm.

Steve grinned. “See?”

Bucky groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe. But I’m right.”

Hours later, when the others had fallen asleep and the hum of the engines filled the quiet, Bucky finally found you sitting alone near the back of the jet.

“Hey,” he murmured, settling into the seat across from you.

You looked up, smiling. “Hey. Couldn’t sleep either?”

He shrugged. “Guess not.”

A moment passed, quiet and loaded.

You sighed, shifting slightly. “You’ve been quiet today. Everything okay?”

Bucky hesitated. “You and the king seem close.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “T’Challa? Oh—he’s just easy to talk to. Kind of reminds me of you, actually.”

He huffed. “Yeah, well, he’s not me.”

Something in his tone made you freeze. “Bucky…”

He looked up, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them. “You don’t gotta pretend I’m not jealous. I am. Watching you with him—it messed with my head.”

You opened your mouth, but he kept going, voice low, rough around the edges.

“I’ve had feelings for you for a long time, doll. I just didn’t think I had the right to say anything. Figured you’d move on, find someone better. But seeing that today…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Guess I realized I don’t wanna stand by and keep my mouth shut anymore.”

For a second, all you could do was stare.

Then you leaned forward, resting your hand on his knee. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

He blinked. “What?”

“I waited for you to say something. For months.”

He froze. “You—what?”

You smiled softly. “You think I kissed you on that mission just for the cover story?”

Color rose to his cheeks, his composure finally breaking into something boyish and stunned. “You could’ve told me.”

“You could’ve told me first.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound low and disbelieving. “Guess we’re both stubborn.”

You tilted your head. “Guess so.”

Then, quietly, “So what now?”

Bucky leaned closer, his voice a whisper against your skin. “Now I stop pretending I don’t wanna kiss you again.”

Your breath hitched. “Then stop pretending.”

He did.

It was soft this time—no missions, no covers, no excuses. Just him, finally letting go of every hesitation, every jealous ache, every unsaid word.

When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, he murmured, “Still jealous, though.”

You grinned. “Of a king?”

He smirked. “Of anyone who gets to make you laugh like that.”

“Good thing you make me laugh more than anyone else,” you whispered.