#ayaotdchallenge

New York Nears Completion of Relocation Program he reads, letting his thumb swipe down to read more of the article.

“Almost three years after the globally devastating event in which Earth’s population was reduced by half, the people of New York City are finally seeing a light at the end of the tunnel in their relocation efforts for residents whose homes were damaged or destroyed in the aftermath of the Decimation. The project, one of the last proposals by Tony Stark before his retirement from the Department of Damage Control, is expected to end-”

He closes his phone.

**********

There are three support group meetings that he attends each week - two as a leader, one as a participant.

“You should come, Nat.” He’s a broken record, but he just keeps spinning. Like the planet, like the solar system. If he falls out of orbit- “Just once. You might be surprised…”

“Some of us still have jobs, Steve.” She raises a still perfect eyebrow, now back to its natural red. He finds a little comfort in that.

“They’re not mutually exclusive.”

“Maybe not. But don’t wait up for me.”

The Tuesday meeting is the hardest, though it was the first one he ever lead. It caters to a specific group, a group that looks to him because...well, because he lost what they lost. He wonders if they know, if they realize, that it’s all his fault.

“Jackie was...she was my rock, you know?” The new woman, Elsie, sniffs as she continues. “We went through a lot together, and I remember thinking all that time ‘God, what would I do without her?’ And now I know the answer - spiral and-and become an alcoholic.”

“You can’t blame yourself for all of that.” Steve shakes his head. “There was so much more going on - the world was practically in flames, and you were trying to cope. What matters is that you’re here now, trying to get better.”

Elsie is nodding, accepting a tissue from the man sitting next to her. She gives a shaky little smile and settles back in her chair, done sharing for now. Steve glances around the circle, waiting for someone else to speak up.

It was such an odd reversal for him, especially at first. When he first wandered into one of Sam’s support group meetings, he had felt out of place and alone - and that feeling was exactly why he belonged in a place like that. Sam could see it. It was one of his gifts; he was better at reading people than anyone Steve knew, except maybe Natasha. Even when Bucky came along, and Sam played the tough act, he could see all of that fear and pain, and knew exactly what to do with it. Over the years they were in hiding, Sam would secretly reach out to Bucky - during their visits in Wakanda, Steve found the two of them sitting at the lake behind Bucky’s hut and talking, low and intense.

“You know, sometimes-” It’s a man on the opposite side of the circle, dark-skinned with a greying beard. “I don’t know about all of you, but sometimes...I wonder if they can see us. If they know what we’re doing. Does that make any sense?”

He gets a few nods and murmurs from the group, so he goes on.

“I mean, after my old man died, my mom used to say he was watching over me.” He swallows thickly. “She was on her own, tucking a 9-year-old boy in at night, and telling me that Daddy could see me from heaven, that he was looking out for me. And I just think....well, I wanna know - where are they? Are they in heaven? Is that even possible?”

He turns to Steve, several of the people in the circle do. It’s always like this - whenever the sessions turn to specific questions or musings about what happened, they look to him. Because shouldn’t he know? He had lead them, he failed them, he was there when their lives went up in dust.

“Well, I don’t think I’m qualified to offer religious advice,” he starts with a rueful smile. “And, from everything I’ve seen, I don’t think we even know what’s possible. All I know is, we can’t live in the past...even if they see us, wherever they are, we have to accept that they’re really...gone.” He crossed his arms. “They’re not here with us anymore.”

The group has gone quiet, reflective. Most are staring at their hands rather than him, each lost in their own haze of memory and ashes. He wishes he could offer them more, but he knows grief like this, and Steve Rogers is honest to a fault - he won’t lie, even for the sake of comfort.

“We’re on our own now.”

**********

He goes for runs alone now.

No Bucky to keep up with him, pushing the pace and trying to trip him. No Sam to complain about his hamstrings and insist on coffee afterwards. Not even music on those weird tiny headphones she had gotten him. Just his sneakers and pavement and the sound of his own breath. Sometimes he hated that - how he never got winded anymore, never sounded hurt and tired, the way he would wheeze through his asthma attacks with Bucky holding him up and reminding him how to pull in air. The machine of his body was too efficient for that.

In his apartment, he takes short showers, cold and fast, like in the Army. The soap is blue, with a generic smell that is clean and reminds him of nothing. He turns and tilts his head back under the spray, allowing a few more seconds to rinse and-

He nearly jumps when a burst of heat runs down his back.

The water has suddenly turned hot, a steamy, balmy, sultry hot that turns his soft Irish skin pink. He had never had this problem with his showers before - never run out of cold water certainly. Maybe something was wrong with the…

When he turned around, he saw the hot water knob turning slowly clockwise, centimeter by centimeter, untouched.

He shut off the water and got out.

**********

“I’m gonna have to call a plumber sometime.”

“Oh yeah? I thought all you old guys were handymen.”

“Ha ha.” He watches Nat scoop some spaghetti into bowls for the two of them. “I was the artist type. Not really handy around the house.”

“Guess that means Barnes was wearing the pants?” She’s smirking, and he feels like he’s seeing the real Nat again, so he goes along with the joke.

“How could he not? Who’s gonna let a 90-pound asthmatic wear the pants?”

“So what’s wrong with your plumbing?” Nat peeks over the fridge door as she grabs some parmesan and a bottle of wine. Steve, under strict orders not to help, is watching from the kitchen table.

“It’s my shower, something happened the other day. The water turned hot while I was in the middle of showering, even though I had it turned cold.”

“Hm. Weird.”

Steve comes out here at least once a month, or as often as he can. He sees the way that Natasha would rather slip into her work, lose herself in the business of holding the pieces of the world together, let go of her own life. The pantry, open and visible from where he’s sitting, is stocked with the bare minimum dry goods and canned foods; the fridge isn’t much better. He’s seen her on missions, seen her at home in her mismatched socks; he knows that she’d barely feed herself, surviving on a sandwich a day, if the thought or the hunger struck her. So he comes and threatens to cook and she saves the compound from being burned down by making a meal for the two of them.

It’s a far cry from normal. From pizza nights with Sam and Wanda at the compound, the two of them taking turns introducing Steve to movies he missed - all the “classics” he hadn’t heard of. They were missing their monthly family dinners, too; Tony always made room in his schedule to attend, dragging Pepper along from the office, and Steve sat at the head of their long dining table watching this strange, funny little family he had share and eat and laugh with each other.

Now he sits across from Natasha at a table otherwise occupied by her scattered files and reports, a pair of pointe shoes laying in the chair next to her. He didn’t come often enough to expect her to clean for him. She had enough on her plate.

“You know, I was talking to Carol last week,” Nat says, twirling her pasta around her fork. “And she said she might make it to visit us next month. It’ll depend on that trafficking case she was working in the Pegasus galaxy.” She shrugs a little.

“That’s good.” Steve chews, sips his wine. “It would be nice to see her.”

They don’t talk much throughout their meal; there isn’t much new to share. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows along the wall of the compound, Steve watches the early sunset fall over the grounds, shadows reaching and reaching, as quiet as it was empty.

**********

Sometimes, sometimes, when he’s feeling more stupid than usual, he opens the drawer.

That drawer. The lower one in his bedside table. With her box inside.

The box isn’t really anything special - just plain black, with her name written on the top. He got it at the suggestion of the team’s - his - therapist, Dr. Rajan. She recommended that putting some things away, rather than leaving them around his room, might help him move on, realize that his life had changed. He thought about putting the compass in the box, too, but it felt wrong. She wouldn’t want that in there. Somehow it mostly ends up in his pocket, and he stares at it from time to time, at the picture inside, thinking about words like should have and what if.

He’s staring at the drawer now, remembering the night before, when he thought about getting the box after he shuffled in from support group. When he was halfway through his flask of that Asgardian shit he kept under the bed. Steve had shuffled out of his clothes and fallen asleep in his underwear instead, flask still clutched in his hand, just sober enough to turn down the bad idea.

So why was the drawer open?

**********

“Have you thought about getting back out there? Dating again?”

His laugh is humorless.

“Doc, come on. I think we both know I’m not the type.”

“All we know is that you’re a serial monogamist.” She smiles. “And a very eligible one.”

“Sure, but…” Steve pauses, rubbing his palms against his jeans. He looks around the office, trying to find something to focus on. “I feel lucky...really lucky, to have had the kind of love I got. I mean, I never really expected to have it, not after I woke up in this century. And then, with her, it just sort of happened so naturally...well, lightning never strikes twice, as the saying goes.”

“It seems like, for you at least, it did,” Dr. Rajan raises her brows. “Two great loves in one lifetime? More rare than lightning.”

He runs a hand through his hair, still long on the top.

“I-I guess so. But it won’t strike a third time.”

“Because you’re not going to give it a chance?”

“You know me too well, doc.” His smile is apologetic, kind.

**********

At night, he sweats through dreams of her. His legs tangle in sheets where they used to twist and curl around her. The pillows smell only of him, his blue generic soap, but in his mind, locked somewhere far and sweet, her scent fills the air. Fills him up until he tastes it.

He tastes her, too, in dreams; under him, around him, pressed close in that intimate haze only lovers can know. Her lips chase his and smile into his mouth, following the curve of his jaw as he tucks his own face into her neck. It’s in his veins now, her smell and taste, ripe and alive on his tongue and oh, he’s swimming in it. She sighs, blissful, and sinks her teeth into that spot at the base of his throat-

Bedsheets fly off him as he bolts upright in bed, chest heaving, the sweat rolling in little beads down his temple. The smell is fading, drifting away from the room even as he tries to hold on to it; she was here, right here, and it had all felt so real, having her in his arms again. But now he’s wading back to consciousness, unwillingly, the tide of his dream pulling away from the shore and tugging at his ankles, carrying her with it. He wants to drift out to sea on it, drown in it, never resurface in this half-empty world.

Always so dramatic, Rogers.

Something nags at the corner of his eye, and he turns to the bedside table. In the pre-dawn light of the window, he can see the second drawer open. Her box is pulled forward to the front of the drawer with its lid propped up, asking, begging to be seen. He feels himself almost chasing the tide, diving back in as he leans over the side of his bed…

He slams the drawer shut.

Steve blows a harsh breath past his lips and swings his legs out of bed, tugging the sheet from between his thighs. His bare feet brush the cold wood and he arches up on his toes, tight muscles protesting the stretch. Palms scrub at his heavy eyes, brushing away what he can of his sleep. He has no plans to go back to bed, not now. He’ll just get an early start on his run. Maybe put in a few extra miles. He runs a hand through his hair, fingernails scratching absently at his scalp.

Stumbling into the bathroom, he turns the cold water tap in the sink and splashes his face a few times, feeling the two-day stubble on his cheeks. The shave can wait until after his run, he thinks. He stands straighter and reaches for the towel next to the sink, patting his face dry - he leaves his eyes closed, buried in the cotton for a moment before meeting his own gaze in the mirror. Immediately his eyes are drawn down to - what the hell is that?

At the base of his neck, just where it meets his shoulder, is a small red mark. A love bite. He presses it with a finger and hisses at the tenderness of the skin. Unbidden, the wave of his dream crashes over him, rolling him under, and he can almost feel her lips again…

The hair on the back of his neck and arms is standing straight up, his body gone cold all over. He thinks, maybe, he should go back to bed after all. Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, he hears his own name. What if...what if she’s waiting for me? He almost turns around, almost looks at the rumpled bed, almost expects her to be in it, rolling over in that tangled mess and smiling past the curve of her shoulder…

He yanks on a hoodie and running pants, toeing into his sneakers without socks, and leaves the apartment unlocked. Hardly knowing it, he clocks 50 miles, the sun high overhead before he can force his legs to stop, even his enhanced muscles starting to twitch. His sweat is still cold.

**********

There’s a memorial. Lots of them, actually.

All the major cities have at least one, and New York has built theirs, unsurprisingly, in Memorial Park. It’s huge, a sprawling garden of sculpture installations covered overhead by a soft white canopy. A retaining wall, approximately 3 feet high, lines the garden beds and holds in the dark rubber mulch, its outer white brick etched with the names of the lost. Even Steve could admit that it was beautiful, and so different from the solemn obelisks and walls of names he had expected when the memorial was announced.

The city had commissioned a team of artists, led by the famous Chihuly, to create blown glass sculptures using...well, as much of the collected ashes of decimated people as they could. “Cremation glass” it was called. The concept was morbid; though symbolically beautiful, most hadn’t imagined a stunning art gallery, more suited to the Met than this mass grave of the unknown.

Steve was there when it was dedicated, as was Tony. He was asked to say a few words, and he did; he has no idea, now, what he read from those cards handed to him by the administrative team. A black suit stretched around his shoulders, no shield in sight, his tie more like a noose as he watched the somber faces of the attendees. Loved ones and friends of people he had failed. A living memorial. Tony stood next to him, year-old wedding band still shining as he crossed his hands in front of him and declined to speak.

There are a few locations he has memorized around the park, the Lost Garden, as it has been named. A blooming blue hydrangea bush, sculpted white flowers and leaves pressed between the green, with the name “James B. Barnes” carved a few inches below. Across from it, red and yellow globes hang from a white tree, the round shadows falling over “Samuel Wilson”. Two rows over, an exploding tower of tangled green and blue spirals, surrounded by bushes, guards the name “Wanda Maximoff”.

Hers is carved neatly - block letters, plain font - into the white brick near the entrance of the memorial. Above it, a cherry blossom tree blooms sweetly, the pink flowers joined by purple and pink glass stems sprouting up from the ground around the trunk of the tree. Soft green bushes hem in the sculpture, as though keeping the glass from growing too far. It’s whimsical, charming. Elegant.

He fucking hates it.

He hates how this is meant to honor her - the vibrancy of her memory, the slyness of her smile, the passion of her love, the ferocity of her anger. She was more solid and real and hard than the delicate stems of glass that stood for her now. It wasn’t even her ashes in there anyway - he knows that for certain. He knows because he felt her drift through his hands under a hot Wakandan sun. He had watched the dust float and settle and knew that all the parts of her he kissed and held were under his feet and in his mouth and Jesus God it made him want to scream.

He doesn’t know whose ashes are here, in the glass above her name. But he wants to smash it. Put a fist through it. Hear that tinkling glass shatter on the ground the way she did. It would only be right.

As he stands there, staring at the falling cherry blossoms scattered around the sculpture, he feels the air go cold around him. His whole body breaks out in goosebumps and the little hairs on the back of his neck start prickling. He shudders, looking around, but no one else is nearby. It’s a late spring day, warm and getting warmer, with the sun beaming through scattered clouds. He shouldn’t be shivering.

The wind picks up, light breeze growing stronger, and the long stalks of glass begin to vibrate. A low hum builds as the wind carves its way between the sculptures, a plaintive, lonely noise that he feels low in his belly.

Steve…

He whips his head around, looking up and down the row, but he’s alone - no one else is here. That whisper, his name, it was so close…

Steeeeve

He’s turning a full circle, looking for a microphone or a drone or something tiny like Scott’s suit.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

Stevie …

A cloud of cherry blossoms billows into his face, making him jump back. The chill sinks through his skin, slips down his spine bone by bone with each breath. His heart is hammering hard and fast. That name, that voice - it’s been three years. They’re gone. It’s not possible. He closes his eyes as he feels a presence close beside him, right at his shoulder, and he knows, he knows if he turns his head she’ll be-

“Captain Rogers? You alright?”

He jumps again, startled, and looks over to see a policeman watching him, eyes wary and concerned. The officer was young, like all of them now - mass recruiting in public services has been going on for a couple of years, with things nearly falling into chaos after...everything. The military, the police, trying to swell their numbers enough with what was left of the population to keep the world in check. Not like the Avengers were doing a very good job.

“Captain?” The young officer asks again, inching a half-step towards Steve. His hand, unconsciously, twitches towards his radio.

“I’m fine - really,” Steve shakes his head and offers a smile. “Everything’s fine. Just...remembering someone.”

The kid nods; Steve wonders if he himself ever looked so young in a uniform.

“I understand.” He’s tugging at his uniform jacket. “My, uh, parents - they’re over there.” He points at a patch of lilies, not far from Wanda. “And my brother.”

“I’m so sorry.”

That’s all he ever says these days. I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Everyone pretends that it’s enough.

He walks the kid - the officer - back to his patrol car, shakes his hand; the boy has to crane his head back to look up at him, and he stares up at Steve like there’s still hope in this world. Steve doesn’t have the heart to tell him.

**********

The chill follows him into the summer. Even with the sun high and New York sweltering with heat, Steve shivers in his apartment, cold biting at him until he aches with it. He cranks the heat on his thermostat, yet still finds a harsh breeze blowing through his apartment somehow. He allows the shower faucet to continue turning hot - blistering hot, the way she liked it - now that this chill won’t let him go.

Despite that, he finds himself staying in more than ever. He was never exactly a social butterfly - Bucky could testify to that. It tumbles him into memory: Bucky, slicked-back hair and spit-shined shoes, a rose tucked into the lapel of his jacket; Bucky, chin thrown back and ready to laugh at the world, an arm around Steve’s shoulders as he drags them on yet another double date. “Ya gotta get out more, Rogers,” he’d say, cigarette tucked behind his ear. “I’m a piss-poor excuse for real company.”

The only people he sees now are Dr. Rajan and the members of his support groups. Occasionally Nat, but she’s been traveling more lately, following the crumbs of Clint’s trail. Their emails are few and far between, containing only the bare bones.

It’s a Friday night - or maybe it’s Saturday, Sunday. He sits on the edge of his bed, turning the little thing over in his hands. The compass stays in his pocket most days. He flips it open, stares at the portrait inside, the one he’s had memorized since ‘43. He could draw it with his eyes closed, probably.

Suddenly, the compass snaps shut, unbidden, in his hand. It shakes, the mechanisms inside rattling violently, and grows hot to the touch. He yelps and it falls from his palm, dropping to the floor between his feet. The skin of his hands is red, scalded, and he flexes his fingers, watching the trinket warily. It lies on the floor, perfectly still.

Behind him, he hears the second drawer of his dresser roll open.

**********

More dreams come to him, sweet ones, and he sinks into them without protest. He falls into his bed at night happily, searching for the smell of her somewhere behind his eyes. She’s always there, always smiling for him, reaching and pulling him further down into their own special hiding place. She’s there in her uniform, in her sweatpants, in his t-shirt, in nothing at all.

“C’mere, Stevie baby,” she nuzzles his nose, and he’s close to tears but he doesn’t know why. Then she’s tugging at his own clothes and he’s not thinking about it at all.

The ache in his throat returns when he wakes empty-handed and alone. Beneath his jaw, a line of hickeys leads down his neck and across his shoulder. His breath puffs in small clouds as he pants and tries not to cry.

**********

“You don’t look so good, Steve.” Nat’s tone is worried, her voice tight. She watches him stare at the wall with a cup of coffee in his massive hands. “Have you been sleeping?”

He nearly chuckles at that.

“A little too much, I think.” He goes quiet then, mouth turning back down, carved sadness in that larger-than-life face.

“I think...God, Nat,” Steve slumps forward, elbows on his knees. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

“Join the club.” She sits down next to him, sliding a soft hand across his back. Her voice is just above a whisper. “We’re all still struggling. You know that. You’ve seen it. Sometimes it feels...it feels like...you’re just holding on by a thread.”

He’s shaking his head before she finishes.

“Have you - do you dream about them? Ever?”

“Of course.”

“No, I mean…” Steve rubs his eyes. “I mean...do the dreams feel...when you wake up, does it feel like it really happened.”

Nat frowns.

“I’m not following you, Steve.”

He sighs, heavy and resigned.

“No, I know. I’m not making any sense.” He leans into her embrace a little. He likes the contact of it. Hasn’t had that in a long time.

“Listen, Nat. I know S.H.I.E.L.D. used to keep a lot of records of...enhanced individuals…”

“Sure. Everyone that pinged on their radar,” she nods. “So, pretty much anyone with abilities.”

“I need to have a look at them.”

“Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

“Yes. But if I told you, you’d have me committed.”

“Yeah, that really makes me want to help you.” She leans her head against his shoulder, fingers squeezing his bicep. Her voice still soft and low. “Tell me what you need.”

**********

They meet in a public place. It’s not hard now, with the world half-dead, to go about their business as though they are two men with nothing to hide. A bright, hot July sun beats on their heads, and Steve adjusts his sunglasses as a bead of sweat slides down his neck. On the street, traffic grumbles along, bikers and street vendors and tourists darting between. The hard metal chair of the café presses into the soft underside of his knees, leaving little dents in his skin.

“It is nice to finally meet you, Captain,” the man across from him smiles. The white symbol on his forehead stands out starkly against his dark skin. “I understand we move in different circles.”

They’re sitting outside a small restaurant in Port-au-Prince, only coffee on the table in front of them. The heat is sweltering, oppressive, different from the New York heat that Steve knows. Part of him wishes they were near the beach, with the wind coming off the ocean. She would have begged him to go to the beach.

“That we do,” Steve raises his eyebrows. “Even with everything that’s happened, aliens, Thanos...things like magic are still...hard to believe.”

“Hm.” Jericho Drumm leans back in his chair, steeples his fingers. “I think you are here because...it’s not so hard anymore, yes?”

He grits his teeth. There are fingernail scratches on his back and they chafe against the sweaty cotton of his shirt.

“You’re a smart man, Jericho,” he sighs. “And I think you might be the only person who can help me.”

Jericho Drumm nods.

“Yes, I think so, too.”

According to the S.H.I.E.L.D. files Steve spent all his free time digging through, there were only a few enhanced individuals with supernatural abilities. And now half of them were gone. Some, like the sorcerer Tony told him about, had managed to stay under the radar for thousands of years. With precious little to go on besides an alias, Steve commandeered a quinjet and packed a bag for Haiti.

“What you are asking me...communication with the spirits…” Jericho shakes his head. “It’s not what you think. Or what it looks like in the movies.”

“Then tell me,” Steve presses, leaning his elbows on the table. His coffee is half full. He can see his reflection in the oily surface of it.

“I’ve served as a houngan for many years; I’ve served as Sorcerer Supreme. In fact, with Stephen Strange gone, they may ask me to serve again. But inviting spirits into this world is a dangerous practice - not white magic.”

“But it can be done?”

Jericho narrows his eyes. The white streak in his hair is bright in the noonday sun.

“When Thanos tore a rift in this world, in this universe,” he speaks slowly, choosing his words with careful consideration. “He tore through the other side as well. The things he’s done affect us all, the living and the dead. It is possible, the things you describe, are caused by this. A ripple effect, if you will. A door not closed.”

“A ripple.”

“Yes. However,” Drumm raises a finger, leaning forward to speak in a low voice. “I will say something else. I may have years of experience with the supernatural, but I studied psychology as well. My time in America was mostly in a university, studying the human mind, how it works…” He pauses for a moment, giving Steve a look that is on the suspicious side of apologetic. “Our minds are powerful. When a person wishes for things, even terrible things, the mind can give them what they seek.”

Steve closes his eyes, jaw tightening.

“Believe me, I know how I sound,” he sighs. “I know. My therapist says the same thing. But if anyone’s going to believe me, it’s you. This is not in my mind.” His fingers are shaking and he curls them into fists. “This is real. She’s...it’s real. It’s her.” Haunting me.

Dr. Drumm nods, sympathetic and quiet. He watches this captain, this legend, the age showing in his young man’s body. With the sunglasses propped up on his head, the dark circles beneath Steve’s puffy eyes are on full display. His shoulders curl in, posture defensive, small. His knee bounces under the table, and his jaw ticks every so often, teeth clicking in his mouth. There is a bruise visible at the base of his neck where the collar of his shirt has shifted to one side.

“Very well, Captain. I will do my best to help you.”

**********

He sits cross-legged on the tile floor of the bathroom, surveying the items in front of him. According to Dr. Drumm, he would need only a few candles, items that belonged to her, a circle of salt to protect himself. Incense, too, burning in the corner, the smell of sage and smoke floating around him. The lights are off, only the flickering candles illuminating the room.

He feels a little silly, setting all of this up. When he was a boy, vampires and werewolves and ghosts were all just stories - hiding under the covers with Bucky and scaring themselves silly. No real monsters hid under his bed. All of that came later.

Under his shirt, the amulet rests against his chest, growing warm with his own body heat.

“If you must do this alone as you insist,” Jericho had said, shaking his head. “Then wear this. Bene gris-gris. It is the best I can do to protect you from dark magic.” His steel grip closed around Steve’s arm. “And this may be a dark thing, Captain. Her coming back to you. It doesn’t feel like white magic.”

Steve had only nodded, his hand closing around the amulet. He was beyond light and dark now, beyond counting costs. He had chased ghosts for so long after he woke up. It’s only right for him to chase her, too.

Here, in the bathroom, toes pressed to cold tile, he digs two more items out of his pockets. Dr. Drumm said to bring something that would ground him to himself, something special. He turns the compass over in his hand, flicks it open, and sets it on the edge of the circle. From the other pocket, he fishes a black velvet box. His fingers twitch, feeling the soft fabric; he doesn’t want to open it. He hasn’t opened it, since he took the ring off their nightstand in Wakanda and put it back in the box. She hadn’t worn it - didn’t like wearing it on missions or in fights. Afraid of scratching it. She had wiggled it off her finger, smiling at him, leaving a kiss on his bearded jaw-

He leaves the box closed for now, and places it in the center next to the other tokens - a photo of her, a necklace with a small silver pendant she used to wear whenever they went on dinner dates, a little jar of seashells from a beach vacation she took in college. All the little things he had packed away in that nightstand drawer. Memories he had put into storage.

Safe inside his little circle, he reaches in his shirt and grabs the amulet tight in his fist. He closes his eyes. Breathes deep the incense and soft curling smoke from his candles.

He says her name softly in the dark.

In his mind, he shifts his awareness down the plane of his body, piece by piece. He learned meditation techniques during his therapy sessions; now he has another use for them. He says her name again.

“I want to speak to you.” He says, voice low, a lover’s intimacy. “I call on your spirit.”

Her name. Her name. Her name.

He’s not sure how long he stays there, curled on the floor, but the chant of her name lulls him into a trance. His eyes are half-open, the candles wavering in front of him, casting long shadows on the walls. He licks his lips, calls her name again.

One by one, the candles snuff out.

He goes quiet. Smoke curls up to his nose, but he can’t see - the only light is coming from underneath the bathroom door. That familiar chill trickles down the back of his neck, raising the hairs. His flesh is covered in goosebumps; his muscles tense up, coiled tight, ready to spring. His tongue lies dry and thick against his teeth.

“Hello?”

Steve?

He sighs her name. “Sweetheart, is that you?”

A cold breeze passes over his face, rumpling his shirt.

“Are you there?”

The compass flies up and smashes against the wall.

Steve…

Her voice is harsher. Sadder.

“Baby, please,” he’s begging now. He can feel how close she is, she’s in the room, he knows it like he knows his own body. Like he knew hers.

For the first 25 years of his life, he lived with asthma - any little trigger could set him aching for air, his lungs betraying their purpose and seizing up on him, his whole body trembling in relief when he managed to pull in oxygen. He feels that ache for her now - acute and sharp as it was the day he first lost her, a physical pain and its cure so close, so close, if she would only let him - let him breathe-

Oh, Steve.

“Honey, I’m here, I’m right here.” He stands in his little circle, spinning around, though he still sees nothing in the darkened bathroom. He feels the tip of his nose go numb in the frigid air, his body shivering slightly.

I’m here, too, Stevie.

“Where, baby? Where are you?” He’s desperate, so desperate. He’s going to cry if she doesn’t-

I’m here. Look.

He feels, thinks he feels, cold fingers brush down his cheek, and he turns. The mirror above the sink is frosted over, he can see it now that his eyes are adjusting to the pale dark, and he stumbles towards it. Pulls a sleeve down over his hand and wipes at the fog, the remains of his body heat melting it away in streaks.

“Oh...oh god.” He grips the edges of the sink.

Hi, baby.

There she is. There she is. Standing right behind him, over his shoulder. His eyes sweep over her face in the mirror, scanning the details he never forgot, not for a moment. Her lips quirk a sad little smile, tilting her head.

You don’t look so good, Rogers.

His laugh comes out as a sob, and he nods. Fingers curl tighter over the edge of the sink because it’s all that’s holding him up right now. In the reflection, he sees her take a step closer to him - feels her presence, her smell is right behind him and if he can just turn and take her in his arms then everything will be alright again…

NO DON’T!

The force of it is loud in his mind, sends him reeling forward against the sink. Her lips are trembling in a soft frown.

Don’t look behind you.

It sounds so soft. So sad. And he knows, knows in the marrow of his bones, that this is it, this is all they can have. This halfway, this inbetween, this ships in the night barely seen as they pass - it’s all he gets. All he has left.

He presses his hand to the cold glass of the mirror, tips of his fingers stroking the image of her face. His chin feels weak, jaw slack, his hip leaning against the sink. She’s crying, too, tears shining against her soft cheeks.

“Where are you? Do you know what’s happening?” He manages to ask. It’s the question, the question everyone would ask of their ghosts. She shakes her head a little.

I...I don’t really know. But I know I’m not with you.

He nods, tries to swallow around the thick lump in his throat.

Wherever I am, I’m not with you. And I miss you, Steve.

“I miss you - God, honey, I miss you so bad-” his breath hitches, and he wonders in the back of his mind if he’s going to have another asthma attack, his first in 70 years. “I-I need you, sweetheart. Jesus Christ, I miss you. I don’t know what I’m doing without you and-and-”

He’s hyperventilating, breaths stuttering in his chest. The hand that’s pressed to the mirror has gone numb with cold but he won’t move it, not if it’s the closest he comes to touching her face. He watches her come closer to him, behind him - her smell fills the room, no smoke, no incense, only her. His teeth are clattering in his mouth even as he tries to grit them together, lungs stuttering and he’s so so cold but he only half feels it; the muscles in his back jump and twitch as he feels her, really feels her, right behind him. And then-

I know, baby. I know.

Her forehead presses between his shaking shoulder blades. Icy hands creep up beneath his shirt, pressing right over his heart. Her arms lock around his ribs and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze - as if she could brand herself there. In the glass, Steve’s lips are blue and his sobbing breaths come out as little frozen clouds. The mirror is starting to frost over again; the goosebumps on his body won’t lie down. His eyes slip closed, tears chilling in their tracks on his cheeks, and he presses his hand over hers at his heart.

I’m right here.

The ache in his chest sharpens, then dulls, slow and familiar. Something he always carries. His breaths are slowing now, the trembling in his muscles calms a little. She traces a frozen circle over his heart.

I’m right here.

He sighs her name before he blacks out.

**********

Natasha watches Steve in his kitchen, her green eyes sharp and narrow. She hasn’t been to his apartment in a long time, but three days of no answered phone calls, texts, or emails and the Black Widow will investigate. He seems...fine. As fine as Steve has been since it all happened, when he went clean-shaven and cropped his hair, like girls do after a break-up. He smiles over his shoulder while stirring the pot in front of him.

“It’s the one thing my ma made sure I knew how to make for myself,” he says. “She knew I’d need this soup every time I got sick.”

“That’s sweet,” she says. And it is, though she’s never heard him mention it before.

They eat on barstools at the island, sharing little bits of conversation, small talk, mission updates. Sound bites of friendship. Still no explanation for his radio silence.

“Can I use your bathroom?” She sighs as he scoots back his stool, scooping up their bowls to take to the sink.

“Of course - you don’t have to ask, Nat.”

She slips down the hall. Doesn’t go to the bathroom - turns right instead.

On the floor of his bedroom, she sees the candles. The circle. The pictures. A little jar of seashells on his nightstand. While they were eating, she had seen something new - a little chain around his neck, the shape of something underneath, suspiciously like a ring.

Natasha leaves without saying a word, maybe hugs him a little tighter at the door.

There is quiet, measured amusement in your voice when you ask, “You going to help me with this, honey?” 

He groans. “Too early.” 

“Not that early, Buck.”

“Still too early.” 

“You said you would help me decorate.” 

He lets his eyes open when the couch shifts with your weight, when he feels you press into his side, warm and solid and real. Looks up at you through a bleary gaze, your beautiful face, your kind eyes. Hums when you stroke your fingers through his hair, lips pressing to his temple. 

“How did I ever manage to wind up with such a lump?” you tease. “Don’t you want to decorate for Halloween?”

“Too tired,” he argues. Startles when a slight weight lands on his legs, little paws digging into his thighs, moving up to his belly. An all too familiar chirp sounds through the air. 

“Look who’s awake,” you say, and Bucky turns his face down, finds those gorgeous green eyes, that expanse of shiny, smooth black fur. 

“Good morning, Princess Cricket,” Flesh fingers stroke behind her ears, down her back.  Affection bubbles in him when she goes pliant, flopping down to lay on top of him on her side, chirping and extending her face up for more attention. 

You echo him, smiling as you pet at Cricket’s side. “Good morning, Cricket,” turning to him, you add, “Wait here a second,” then you stand, taking your heat with you. Bucky misses it in an instant.

He whines, reaches a hand out to you as you walk over to the bin of decorations you abandoned on the floor, digging through it, “What are you doing? Come back.” 

“I bought a present for the baby, I’ll be back in a second.”

Bucky grins, mock innocence in his voice as he calls back, “Am I the baby getting the present?” 

“Well,” you say, turning back once you’ve found whatever it is you were looking for, a small object hidden between your hands, “you’re certainly a baby.” He tickles your side when you take your seat next to him again, tender warmth curling in his heart as you laugh and swat at his hand. “But this present isn’t for you.” 

A frown pulls at his lips, but it’s teasing. “No fair.” 

“Because Halloween is practically your holiday, Miss Cricket,” ignoring his words, tapping Cricket’s nose with your finger, “I got something to help you look the part. 

Winter eyes track your hands as the move, settling the gift on Cricket’s head, pulling back once it’s in place, pressing sweet into his side. 

And he can see Cricket now, as she stares up at him with a tiny, jet black witch’s hat on her head. 

Laughter comes deep from his chest, rumbling through the room. He tweaks the point of the hat with one hand, goes back to stroking Cricket’s face as he wraps his metal arm around you. Drawing you closer, feeling something too soft for him to name beneath his skin as he looks from you to the cat. 

“Do you like it?” 

“I love it,” he tells you, moving his fingers to take yours in his grip. Kissing your knuckles once, twice before continuing, “I think Cricket does, too.” She chirps at him, holding very still. “You’re so scary, sweetpea, my little demon witch.” 

“She’s cute, not scary.” 

“You do know that she’s a demon in a million trashy horror movies, right?” He taps the hat again, looks at Cricket as he continues, “She was a total demon when she was a kitten.” 

“Cricket is too cute to be a demon.” 

“You didn’t find her eating a brand new loaf of bread after she tore through the plastic with her tiny daggers for teeth.” 

“Guess I didn’t.” You scratch at Cricket’s belly, just to get her to stretch out across Bucky’s chest. “But I bet she had you whipped, anyway.” 

And he remembers, with a surge of something fierce and overwhelming, when he had first brought her home, between after everything and before you, when she was tiny and warm and so curious. How he had worried over her, but how grateful he was to have her. 

“She did,” he concedes. But he lets his smile turn teasing again. “Doesn’t mean she wasn’t a demon.” 

“Does this,” you gesture to the cat, nuzzling her face into Bucky’s belly and purring, “look like a demon to you?” 

“Yes,” he answers. “Look at her. I can’t believe I’m still alive. She’s drawing it out, the anticipation is killing me.” He curls his flesh arm around her little body, hauling her up so she can nestle her wet nose against the skin of his neck, grinning up at you, “Put me out of my misery already, Demon Cricket.” 

“She’s about as scary as you, Buck.” 

Breath hitches in his throat. He looks up at you, watching your face and that careful measure of fondness in your expression for a long moment, turning those words over in his head. Admiring the way the sun makes your skin glow gold. Slowly lifting fingers of cool metal, tracing the line of your cheek, staring as you grip them in your own, press a few lingering kisses to the knuckles, the palm of his hand. 

“I love you.” 

It is a quiet, tentative and breathless statement. A feeling that has been stirring in his mind since he first met you, since your warmth first touched his heart. A fierce kind of emotion he has felt for you for so long without naming, without breathing it into the air. 

Your eyes are wide, and there’s something he can’t name in your expression now. But it gives way to a smile too tender for words. A small, private thing meant for the two of you alone. 

“I love you, too, Buck.” 

And this is what he dreamed of - what he longed for in the years of cold, and even before then. 

His next exhale is shaky, but a grin comes with it anyway. Because he loves you, more than those words alone could ever explain, can feel it in his bones, and you love him, too. 

Shifting on the couch, he keeps a hand on Cricket to keep her in place, hearing her chirp as he makes room for you. Tugs on your hand, pulls you down next to him. 

“I guess decorating can wait for a little while,” you murmur, indulgent and so sweet as you curl into his side. Hook your arm over his belly, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. 

Eyes trace over your face for long, peaceful minutes, his lips making a path from your hairline to your cheek to your nose to your mouth, kissing you slowly, sighing into your mouth when your hands thread through his hair. Keeping him close, drawing him in. 

He pulls away to tuck you against his side, one last lingering press of his mouth to your hair before resting his nose in the strands. Breathing against you, letting every loose part of him settle. 

Cricket’s fur is soft beneath his fingers, and you are so warm against his side, and there’s so much sunshine spilling into the room. Such an easy, mundane morning, made beautiful by the simplest of things. 

“Baby?” 

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Can we get hats to match with Cricket for Halloween?” 

You chuckle into his neck, pull back to look at him. “Sure, honey.” Fingers trace the line of his jaw, and your lips follow soon after, affectionate kisses pressed into his skin, filling him with light and love. 

Notes: 

Title and inspiration for this one from girl in red’s gorgeous song, “we fell in love in october” because it made my gay little heart feel something. 

A special thanks to @panicfob for posting about the handwriting method and how helpful it is during a writing slump, it was how I got the first draft of this one done. You’re lovely, darling, and thank you for sharing your tips with us. 

Cricket the Demon Cat is mildly based on my own cat, Maddie, because she is very chirpy, lovey and cuddly, and she also once tore through the plastic on a brand new loaf of bread and ate half of it when she was a kitten. I love her. 

More love to all of you, and my amazing friends, for all the support. This year has been hard. Just trying to hope for better in these last few months, and the upcoming decade. I hope your days are filled with so much light, darlings. 

MAIN TAG LIST:

You throw your shoes haphazardly to the floor with a loud clunk before flicking the door closed with your foot. You turn on the TV, but almost instantly drown it out as you traipse into the bathroom as the 6 o’clock news replays in the wee hours of the morning.

The LAPD are reminding everyone to be a little bit more careful this Halloween evening, especially young women between the ages of 24 to 29. They are urging that you stay in large groups if at all possible, and try to have a buddy system when walking to your car or home. There has been a string of murders across Los Angeles county over the last six months and still no arrests or even a list of suspects. 

If you have friends or family nearby, police are asking that you make plans to not stay home alone until…

“Serial killer on the loose,” you chuckle as you unzip your cocktail dress and wiggle out of it, tossing it back into your bedroom with your bra and panties following. How 1990’s of him.

You start the shower, humming softly as you raise your hand into the stream of water, waiting for it to warm. Once satisfied, you step into the stream, letting the hot water engulf your body. You tilt your head toward the water, letting your arms go limp at your sides as the liquid caresses your face. 

Just as you turn to let the water massage your neck and back, the electricity cuts out. The TV snaps off, the lights suddenly go black. You groan loudly as you throw your head back and stare up at the ceiling. All you needed was five damn minutes. 

You throw the curtains back, grabbing for your towel, wrapping it tightly around your body. You grumble to yourself as you step through the threshold into your bedroom - and stop dead in your tracks. 

You stare at your dress, neatly laid out on your bed. Your lacy bra and underwear are arranged perfectly next to it, your cheetah print stilettos propped at the foot of the bed. 

Your heartbeat quickens. You swallow harshly as you drag in an audible breath. You turn your head slowly toward your bedroom door, your eyes widening as your blood runs cold. 

It’s wide open. 

You swallow nervously again as the hair on the back of your neck stands straight up. You eyes dart around the room as a cold sweat pops up on your brow. You slide toward your bedroom door slowly as shivers begin to rack your body. Your mind races a mile a minute, screaming at you as your flight defense engages. Your eyes blink involuntarily as you swallow again, taking another slow slide toward the door. You plaster your big eyes on your closed closet door, just knowing at any second it’s going to come flying open. 

You slide again, inching closer to the door. 

Your vision blurs with tears as you blink rapidly, your mind screaming. Stay calm! Stay alert! You let out another ragged, loud breath, sucking back in quickly before making a dash toward the open door. You hit the steps, tripping over your feet and over the steps themselves as you stumble down them. 

You regain your footing, staggering toward the front door, your hand outstretched toward the knob. You pull it open. You even get to place one foot on the concrete of your porch - when your head suddenly snaps back. 

You scream as pain rips through your scalp while your body is forced back inside. You crash back into a wall of a human, his arm wrapping around your waist, crushing you to him as he slams the front door shut again. He lets you fall to the floor with a thud before pulling on your hair again, your butt sliding across the hardwood floor as he moves deeper into the house.

You scream as loud as you can possibly muster, praying that someone - anyone - will hear you. You kick your legs and grab at random things - the railing of the stairs, the small table that sits along the kitchen wall. The table scratches across the floor before toppling over, sending the vase of roses from your father crashing to the floor. You reach up, grabbing the intruders hand with both of yours, trying to rip your hair out of his grasp until you notice how strange his fingers feel beneath yours. Smooth, cold - almost like…

Metal. 

You rip at his digits, unable to pry them free. He stands you up once you’re in the living room and pushes you away from him, sending your careening into your glass coffee table. You scream as the grass breaks around your body, slicing your hands, your fingers, your arms and your legs as you fall to the floor. He stares down at you as you try to scramble back to your feet, more howls escaping your lips as you step on jagged pieces of glass that push right through your flesh. 

He takes a step toward you.

You sob as you pull your body backward, trying to grip the carpet underneath you. 

He takes another step.

“Please don’t!” You shout, tears sliding down your face as you reach out with your hands.

You slaps your bloody hands away as he stands over you, your cries growing more and more desperate.

“Please! Please!” You beg, “You don’t have to do this! Please! Please!”

His arm glints in the moonlight as it spills in from behind the curtains. He plucks a sharp knife from his holster and flips it over and over again in his hand, his haunting blue eyes piercing into yours as you cry and shout. You blink through the tears as you stare up at him. His face is - sharp - Jaw, chin, nose, all drastic, model like. A light stubble covers the lower half of his face, long, dark, wavy hair falling to his shoulders. 

His jaw is tight, his eyes completely empty, never wavering, as he blinks slowly. He cocks his head slightly as he continues flipping and twirling the blade in his hand, like he’s thinking -  contemplating, maybe.

“Please,” you plead again, “I swear to God, I won’t say a word to anybody. You can just go and it’ll be like this never happened.” Your voice cracks as sobs wrack your body.

He cocks his head further.

He blinks.

You open your mouth to continue to bed but he snatches you up by your arm with his metal appendage, slamming you into the wall. The towel falls away from you, leaving you naked and cold as he tightens his metal hand around your throat, applying more and more pressure as the seconds tick by.

You gasp for air, kicking your legs again, scratching and clawing at his hand and face with your hands. He doesn’t even budge, even with all of the flailing and fighting you do. He bats your hands away with ease as you gulp and strain to breath, his eyes dipping from yours down your body. He pushes the sharp blade against your skin, just above your belly button, and drags it slowly the length of your stomach and chest - between your breasts and up to your neck. 

You whimper as he drags the point of the knife around each of your nipples, your chin quivering as your eyes leak. He drags his eyes back to yours, tilting his head again as they wander around your face. He gets that look on his face again, like he’s pondering something and then suddenly, you feel a sharp prick in your stomach. 

Your mouth falls open. Your eyes widen. Your breath starts to shallow. Your mind stills. You’re not even sure what really happened until your eyes fall to your stomach - just in time to see him stab you again. And again.

And again. 

He releases your neck from his grip and you crumple to the floor. You begin gasping for air as you try to crawl away from him. Blood fills your mouth and dribbles from your lips onto the floor beneath you. You gag, you gasp, as you slide your body across the floor, your strength weakening by the second. 

You finally collapse.

Your gasps are fewer and far between, becoming high pitched squeaks. Your vision blurs. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears as it pools underneath you. His feet come into view as the final signs of life drain from you. You blink. He kneels. He tilts his head again and pushes your hair out of your face softly. 

He only leaves once you’ve stopped breathing.

The police scanner bounced off your old Tower bedroom walls again.

You knew FRIDAY could simply stream the chatter, but there was something nostalgic about pushing buttons and twirling knobs.

You’ve listened to scans and phone calls, examined emails and files, plotted an idea of homegrown justice, and researched possible suspects. It was a haunting police case taking up your attention in between the missions. Maps and photos hugged your wall with notes crisscrossing over other various notes.

FRIDAY recorded the scans and police emails when you were away. Ever vigilant to highlight any details or new findings from the police mainframe about the intruder, who was preying on families with young children.

Which is where you read that the gags he placed between the children’s teeth- were all torn from what they determined to be one main source, a blanket. A dark line of all the better to hush them with came to your mind.

According to the notes, the gags' frayed ends matched each other when lined up. FRIDAY displayed the crime photos that showcased how the arrangement made an old, faded cartoon character emerge. Police thought the sexual intruder, dubbed the boogeyman, was ripping up his own childhood blanket to use in his assaults. One detective scribbled a possibility that the intruder's gags meant he was sentimental- and this was a way to intimately share himself and be closer to the victims.

You hoped the sentimental criminal slipped up on a small detail, perhaps overlooking the copyright year by the licensed character design. A small something to help narrow down his age, but unfortunately no. The print design was too timelessly popular and none of the victims left living could describe him.

And with no leads, the crimes continued. The boogeyman kept breaking into homes in the middle of the night to preform heinous acts. He threatened to kill the parents and siblings of the terrified children to keep them quiet and pliable.

Families were terrified for their children, scared their homes would be next. If victimizing the children out of their innocence wasn't monstrous enough, he'd hog tie them with duct tape and hide them away in their closets or stuff them into toy chests. Then he'd ransack the homes, randomly pocketing worthless items before leaving.

It was a grim thought you always had when reviewing the crime photos, it was like the children were his play things and he was simply plucking them off the floor, clearing them away when he was done with them. This monster needed to be stopped before he broke more toys and threw them away completely.

But it was always the same- until it wasn't.

Michael Robertson's small body recovered from river.

Steve was well-aware how this case was taking over your attention. From the smaller missions you traded or tried to give away to other teammates- to the many nights you kept the middle of his and Clint's bed empty.

Both men clearly remembered the cold shoulder you served them when Steve sent you out on a two week mission, pulling rank and ordering you to comply. Clint sided with him believing a break away from the case would help. As begrudgingly as you felt at the time, it did help to be away from the white noise of the scanners. Until FRIDAY sent you an urgent message- another child victimized a few days into the mission, this one resulting in death. His body found a day before you got back.

Breaking News: CHILD TAKEN, BODY FOUND.

Michael Robertson, age 6, kidnapped from home while parents slept. Killer removed boy's pajamas and laid them out on child's bed for parents to find next morning.

You knew you were losing yourself more and more in this police case, but with the hysteria emerging on the streets now that the boogeyman claimed another victim, one resulting in death, you expected additional branches of law force to step in soon. And you didn't want to deal with another player on the field.

You wanted this guy. He gave you something to sharpen your attention on and the want grew in you to strike him down. It was a tumor-like revenge. The team noticed you pulled away from evening dinners and movie nights. They began murmuring their concerns among each other and then to Steve and Clint. 

While looking over more crime scene photos about the Robertson case, FRIDAY announced Wanda would be making cottage pie for dinner tonight. Glancing at your watch, 3pm, you mindlessly mumbled a 'no thank you' and then froze. Slapping the desk, you knocked an empty cup over onto mission reports you've been avoiding to fill out much to Steve's annoyance.

“FRIDAY, please bring up the old police notes about cottage- about home repairs or work crews. Wait, how far back did the police look?”

“The officers went back three years, Miss. No common links appeared.”

You scanned over the photos of children and their similar ages of 6 and 7. Would he have waited for more than three years to attack? He would have known the homes' layouts, he broke in so easily to each child's bedroom. If he did wait, for how long? Why wait so long?

Your gut was rarely wrong, and the home repair angle felt like something solid, “FRIDAY, please run all the family's credit cards and bank accounts to see if there were any repair companies or purchases done within the last five years.”

Looking at the youngest victims' age, Gabrielle Reyes with her toothy smile just turned 6, “If nothing, please try six.”

An electronic chorus poured in your room as computer alerts went off, reports fired across the screen.

A description and photo of self-employed contractor photo, Randall Williams, looked back at you.

FRIDAY ran off the newly found information. The victims' families hired his company in the past four to five years. Rachel Collins' home was his last before heading out of state. He was recently released five months ago from an out of state prison for a buffet of reasons, one being incident exposure.  

“Miss, I took the liberty to run his payment history. He's been paying for a storage unit over the last eight years under a different name and P.O. Box number.”

You scoffed with a mix of thankfulness for Williams' laziness of leaving a trail and a curse that the repair history was not run back further in the beginning.

“Send me the address for the storage unit and his current address please, FRIDAY. And don't forget you're beautiful!”

Snatching your leather jacket and utility bag, you ran past Steve and Clint, who were folded against one another on the couch.

“I'll be back tomorrow. Don't wait up, my loves!” You called out to them over the action movie.

Clint and Steve stared at your figure fading quickly out the door, both pairs of eyes zeroing in on your large utility bag. They turned back towards each other and exchanged a knowing look. Steve dragged his hand over his face with a heavy sigh.

Unfolding himself from Steve, Clint kissed his cheek and patted his thigh, “I'm on it.”

Picking up his keys and jacket, Clint paused and took in Steve's concerned expression. “Hey, don't worry.”

Steve only sighed again as a reply and let his head hit the back of the couch. The sound of the door locking behind Clint drowned out the explosions on screen.

—

A fresh tank of gas, a new box of protein bars and a couple bottles of water later, you pulled into the storage facility. Stretching your limbs from the two hour drive, you took in the old property. It was run down with no foot traffic or desk clerk. The only camera you could see around the buildings was pointed at the office door, lens broken.

After grabbing your leather gloves and pulling the crowbar from the trunk, you went to work on the unit's lock.

Randall Williams reminded you of New York's grandfather serial killer, Albert Fish. Breaking into the storage container and shifting through his boxes, the incriminating photos he had of known and unknown victims were simply too hard to look at.

This man, this thing, was something that needed to be put down. The police were right in calling him a boogeyman. But they didn't know the accuracy of the nickname especially since it was once bestowed to Albert Fish himself.

You hoped Williams wasn't a cannibal, yet.

The young faces looked out at you from the photographs, some with tears and others with defiance. There so many, so many unrecognizable faces. You could feel the acid burn starting to rise in your chest. For a second, you wanted to talk yourself into believing these newly discovered victims were fake snuff photos he collected along the way, but you knew better and you saw the gags. Some with the same design used on the recorded victims. This was the man you’ve been looking for, and this man was a monster. 

Eyes watered and the taste of bile rose in the back of your throat. With a shaky hand, you read a recipe of brown butter and sautéed onions with human flesh. A list of spices and measurements. Your memory flashed to the little Robertson boy with questionable wound and knife markings.

Flipping through the journal you read Williams’ comments next to the favored recipes and the preferred cooking techniques.

How long has this been going on? Your eyes darted to the stacks of photos with mystery faces.

There was a strange recipe of your own growing within you; ingredients of anger, sadness, disgust, revenge.

Laying the photos out on the cement floor, you surveyed the expanding collection of tragedy. You shuffled your feet across the ground and paused before each photo. 4x6, 5x7 and 8x10’s created a paper train of frozen mementos from each child’s nightmare. On the shelf, another box of negatives caught your eye. 

Monster.

Your body felt heavier with each photo; guilt and sorrow for not stopping these events from happening, even if you never knew some occurred until now. You sent out an apology and prayer in your mind for them all. 

“I’m fine. Be back in a few days. Love you, see you.” You quickly sent the text to Steve and Clint. Leaving you the grim photos on the ground, you pulled the storage door closed behind you. Pointing your car west, you drove off to deliver revenge and extract other things.

Randall Williams lived outside of a small town on a neighbor-less dirt road. Parking your car a safe distance away, you quietly made your way to his neglected looking home.

The house was quiet, dark and smelled sour. The sliding door was unlocked. Flipping the safety off your gun, you slowly slid it open. Suppose monsters don't have a lot to worry about.

Closing it behind you, you immediately covered your nose with back of your hand and tried to save your sense of smell from the pungent stench. The kitchen reeked of moldy food and ignored trash. You would have thought the home was abandoned, except the mail on the counter was stamped with this week's date.

Walking around, a calendar caught your attention. Next week's dates were circled and marked, Growing Dreams Day Care- install shelving. Biting your cheek, you tried to bury down the rage.

Creeping quietly in what you assumed to be the direction of the bedroom, you gingerly opened the door with your fingertips, gun ready in your other hand. Bathroom.

Squaring your shoulders, you made your way further down the hall. The second door held the right answer. There laying on his stomach, snoring in a pair of dirty briefs was the small statured, unaware boogeyman.

Three quick fast steps into the room, you came up to the bed and kicked the mattress. “Hey! Devil's Reject!”

Randall's eyes shot open and he flipped himself over to sit up.

CRACK!

You slammed the butt of your gun on his jaw. “Hurts, don't it?”

He let out an unearthly growl and groggily scrambled up, attempting to right himself to lunge at you. Bringing your boot up and kicking him back in his sternum, his head slammed against the wall and cracked the stained plaster.

“Nighty-night, fucker,” you smashed your gun against his face again.

Grabbing his legs, you pulled his unconscious, dirty body down the hallway. Dragging him through the kitchen, you were about to set him up at the kitchen table when you saw another door.

The door creaked open and basement steps greeted you, “Bingo.”

Bringing Randall's body around, you positioned him by the stairs and let him topple down the steps without a care.

Skipping down after him, you heaved Randall's body into position. After securing him to a chair, you took the time to exam the basement and survey his workspace until he woke.

You stared almost uninterested at the bound man before you. The toe of your boot lifted the lid of his unlocked tool box and knocked it open.

“So how’s the carpentry business?” an air of indifference in your question as you reached in and pulled out several hammers before spying a box of nails.

The man only muffled and grunted against the material wrapped around his mouth.

“Yeah, sorry about that gag I suppose,” you examined the different tools in your hands, flipping them from side to side testing their weight.

“Not the same blanket you tore off for your victims, but I did make sure to grab your dirtiest work rags. So please, wet it down real good and enjoy the taste.”

Standing up, you swung the hammer around, “Ah, this is the one.”

He eyed you with hatred as he rocked and rammed his body against the ropes in hopes to loosen them. Frantic sounds erupted deep from within his chest only to be stifled by the gag, when he realized the restraints wouldn’t give. 

You hummed in pleasure at the trapped animal before you.

“Girl Scouts,” you nodded toward the knots on his body, “Don’t let the cookie sales fool you, asshole. Us little Daisies grow up to be Venus flytraps later in life.” 

He rocked his body forward again as you bent down and picked up the box of nails.

“Not interested in what you want to say. Plead innocent, plead guilty. Shit, I don't even care if you regret every monstrously thing you've ever did. Actually, don’t give a fuck if you don’t regret it either. All that matters is that it ends here, that you end here. I know you checked out those homes you worked on, picking out the children and then coming back for them. Like some twisted human layaway plan. That was a hell of wait, but I bet you had nothing else to think about when you were locked away. ”

Reveling in his fear, you circled him. You could practically smell the panic ooze out his pores. “Ever hear about the serial killer, Albert Fish? Preyed on kids, ate them even. You both had common interests, similar ways- he your inspiration? My gut told me within time, you'd be like him.”  

Dancing your fingertips across the tops of his shoulders, you emphasized each word with a tap, “And. You're. Already. There.”

Williams knocked his head side to side, trying to shake off your touch. He glared in your direction but refused to make eye contact.

“But there's a thing you’re missing from being so very much like him. A subtle difference to some, but devil's in the detail- am I right?”

You shook the box of nails up to his ear as you leaned by his other.

“He stuck pins in his groan, 29 to be exact. They have x-rays of it. No, no, I shit you not. So we're going to improvise with these nails and recreate it on you,” you bopped him on the nose. “Artistic interpretation and all.”

Driving the nails into him with a hammer, you randomly picked spots along his inner thigh and pelvis. “Do you like astronomy? Should I make the Little Dipper?”

He howled against his restraints. Drool and hatred running down his chin. Randall passed out on nail number eight, when it was jammed into his testicle, but came back around for the thirteenth nail while you slapped him awake. He passed out again on the twenty-third nail and you carried on without your audience.

“Oh good! You're awake- again,” false happiness laced your voice. “Take a look at the new additions!”

Swiftly grabbing the back of his head, you forced him to crane his neck awkwardly downward as he tried resisting.

“Oh good god. Stop bawling already,” walking around to his front, you brought the hammer down and smashed it against his left kneecap.

More cries of anguish poured out of Randall.

Reaching back into his toolbox, you crouched down in front of him, “you only have yourself to blame- for all of this. But also because you kept passing out on me- and that… well that, gave me time to think.”

You delivered a Cheshire grin and held up a pair of pruners.

His body shook and he screamed at you through the gag as you painfully pulled down on his nailed testicles. You quickly shoved the pruners around one sweaty ball. His right nut rested between the tool's blades, the nail stuck out below. His body convulsed in pain as you smiled and began cutting into him.

Randall's shoulders involuntarily shook as he wailed incoherently. After a few minutes his shoulders fell down around him, making him smaller with the weight of defeat.

Pressing the toe of your boot into his broken kneecap, you slowly and gradually applied more pressure, “Pay attention, fuckface. There’s still more I can cut from you.”

Blood painted his cheek as you tapped his face with the pruner’s blades, You pulled down his gag and he reeled his head away.

You plucked his testicle off the floor, “Hm. Kind of looks like a weird party appetizer, meatball and blood gravy. Gore gravy? You think that sounds better? Here. Want to try?”

Twirling the hammered nail between your thumb and finger, his detached ball freckled his cheek and forehead with blood. Threads of veins and skin twirled on the air like streamers. 

“Blow on it, might be hot,” you cackled at your joke.

“Fuck you!” Randall cursed through shaky, chapped lips, gaping in pained disbelief at his removed appendage.

“Tsk-tsk,” you snapped the meatball appetizer back and forth on front of his eyes. “That bad, lousy fucking attitude and those actions is what got you here, motherfucker.” 

You sneered at him coldly. “Don't make me get creative. Could always skin away pieces of you and wrap them around other parts,” you dramatically cut the air with the human hors d'oeuvre and pointed at his crotch with it, “like pigs in a blanket. Foreskin's optional, you know.”

He started paling between your words and the blood loss, silently staring wide-eyed when visualizing your threat.

“Now,” you stepped between his bounded legs, “Open up, fucker. Time to try, then die.”

Pinching his cheeks, you forced his mouth open and scrapped the nail against his teeth until his ball rested in the back of his mouth. Horror filled Randall's eyes as the taste of warm iron hit his tongue.

Quickly grabbing the sides of his head, you abruptly raised your knee and slammed it up against his jaw. “Enjoy.”

A mixed sound of wet squishing and teeth cracking sang throughout the basement as Randall sobbed. The deflated testicle and pieces of teeth fell from his mouth between his hysterical wails. You leaned against the wall until his banshee screams subsided, a mask of boredom across your face.

When his shoulders stopped shaking and he settled to broken whimpers, you punched him again and slid the gag back in place between blood-coated teeth.

“And now, for our final act,” you callously taunted as you eyed his maimed and bloody crotch. Locking eyes with Randall, you jerked your chin in to the direction of his tools, “Ready?”

—

Standing before Randall's crumpled body, you heard your name float down from the top of the stairs, “Sweetheart, it’s time to go now.”

Clint silently made his way over, stepping between you and Williams’ broken corpse.  

He pulled out a plastic bag from his utility vest and held it out to you with his own gloved hands.

“Meet you back at the car?” you inquired as you stuffed your bloody gloves into the bag he always provided.

“Always,” Clint kissed your forehead and tucked the soiled bag away. “Go on now, gonna do a once over here and I'll meet you. Love you.”

“Love you,” you backed away and made your way to the car.

Clint pulled out several photographs of Williams’ victims and scattered them around his corpse. Picking up the bloodied hammer, he cringed when seeing a few pubic hairs stuck to it. He promptly dropped the tool on top of the victim's photos.

When he followed you to the storage unit, he figured the photos would come in handy for what he knew you'd do next. As he resumed to tail you from the warehouse, he decided to make an anonymous tip to the police about the storage unit when you were done. He didn't want to risk any evidence showing who Randall Williams really was could be overlooked.  

Back at the car, you turned up the volume and resumed listening to your audiobook. You didn't have to wait long, soon Clint tapped on your passenger window asking you to unlock the door.

Dropping into the passenger seat and assessing your appearance, Clint raised your hand to his lips for a quick kiss, “You look more content already.”

“Only because it’s over and I get to go home to you and Steve,” you smiled and cupped his face. “Thank you.”

“Never have to thank us, sweetheart.”

He rolled his cheek into the warmth of your hand. Your fingers skimmed through the top of his hair. You liked to tease that his hair felt softer with the mohawk. 

Blessed is what you felt. You found a home with Clint and Steve. And they accepted your need to play judge, jury and executioner. 

Clint tapped your thigh and gave it a squeeze, “Let’s get home to him, sweetheart. He’s been worried.”

He reached behind your seat and pulled out the unopened box of protein bars, “See, you plan well but then forget details like this.”

Ripping the box open, he freed a bar from its wrapper, “Eat.”

You wanted to object for a moment and say you were fine, but Clint's tone was laced with a plead, not a command.

“When we get back he'll want to feed us, you know. No one was happy you skipped another dinner.”

You chuckled at Clint's reminder about Steve's concerns and opened a bottled water, “What about your car?”  

“Had FRIDAY drive itself home.”

Humming at his answer, you capped the water, “Ready?”

Clint nudged your arm and took the bottle for himself, “Yes. And tomorrow we'll have a long talk about you being more aware of your surroundings. You were so blindly driven, you didn't notice me following like you usually do.”

—

When FRIDAY announced your return home, Steve felt he could breath easy again. He knew what these kills meant to you and the sense of serenity they brought.

Determined to make your and Clint’s return as smooth as possible, he put on your favorite playlist and he spread out the 24hr takeout menus.

He heard you before seeing you, smiling at the sight of you and Clint rounding the corner. Your legs swung back and forth, head tipped back with laughter, humor staining your expressive lips as Clint gave you a piggy back ride. A smile of Clint’s own beamed across his face at Steve as he set you down. 

“Hey, doll.” Not hiding his admiration for you, Steve scooped you up into a tight embrace.

“Hey, handsome.” With a kiss on his jaw, you nuzzled in closer to him. 

Opening up your embrace, you both pulled Clint into the hug.

Steve pressed his forehead against Clint's temple, “Thank you for being careful and bring you both back safely.”

Clint leaned into Steve's words, “Never have to thank me.”

Steve kissed Clint soundly and turned his gaze on you, “Give me everything you need burned.”

You nodded at his request and pulled out the bloody bag.

“Weapons?”

You turned your head shyly towards Clint, and he slightly shivered as he replayed in his mind what you orchestrated in the basement. 

“She used his own. Left them there with some incriminating photos. Less things to carry back,” Clint explained to Steve.

Tilting your head at Clint's mention of photos, you truly realized then just how absorbed you were for not noticing him at the storage unit. Hearing Steve call your name, you gave Clint a soft smile before turning back around.   

“Alright, doll. You know the next part. Strip.”

Without a second thought to his request, you swiftly slipped out of your jacket and boots, followed by your top and pants.

“Always love this part, sweetheart, ” Clint murmured behind you.

“Me, too. She looks so pretty with that new sense of accomplishment. Don’t you, doll?”

You laughed at your boyfriends’ praises, “Gonna go shower now. We eating soon?”

“Pulled out some menus when you two got back. I was thinking that little Italian place.”

“Sounds delicious,” you left for the shower after gifting both men a slow, appreciative kiss. “Maybe come join me before the food arrives?”

Both men hummed in appreciation as they watch you walk down the hall.

“I’ll get hers. Gotta wash mine, too.” Clint offered, collecting your soiled items from Steve to bring to the laundry room and incinerator. 

Clint stepped into the elevator but froze suddenly when he saw Steve holding the Italian menu.

You never liked Halloween. Once because your parents never let you go out with any of your friends, and second you were a proper chicken. It was easy to scare you, and as much as you never believed in ghosts, zombies and other anomalies, you were still terrified.

You chuckled, however, seeing all the skeleton hanging about. As a scientist, skeletons never scared you. Fascinated? Yes. Scared? Never.

It always made you smile whenever you saw the decorations, and being a part of the Avengers tower team, you were mentally prepared for the place to look like a haunted house. After all Tony Stark owned the place. And if someone was about to make it a big wow, then it had to be Tony Stark.

"Spooky", you tensed hearing a chuckle behind you. The one and only Captain America seemed to live to spend his lunch in your lab. You never understood why, but you never minded. He always brought you coffee and something new he tried out cooking or when you made something you thought he would like, you texted him and brought it. It became a routine for both of you. Something you enjoyed. Mostly because you had an enormous crush on the Golden Boy of America. But who were you kidding? You were just one of many people that worked in the tower, and Captain America was just being nice and friendly.

"Yeah, I guess..." you chuckled, thanking him for the cup of coffee he had brought with him. "Am not a fan of Halloween, if I'm honest." He raised his brow and just now realised you only had some skeleton hanging around, nothing more. "I'm a chicken by nature and all those spooky stuff scares me", you pouted hearing him chuckle.

"But no skeletons?" He asked, sitting opposite you at your little table.

"I'm a scientist, Mr Rogers. I ain't afraid of no skeleton" you smiled, hearing his booming smile. You felt proud whenever you were able to make that sound come out. He looked so carefree and beautiful. His mesmerising eyes shined then, making your knot at stomach even tighter. "Ghosts and zombies are a different story though..." you added, making him laugh even more at your adorable face.

"A scientist that believes in ghosts and zombies?"

"From a biological point of view it is possible for zombies to exist... someday," you smirked and bit your lip. "You for example. An amazing example of one. You died and came back to life." He opened his mouth to say something, but only another fit of laughter came out.

"Does that mean you're afraid of me?" He asked in a joking matter, making you chuckle. "I'll dress up as a skeleton for the party. Just to make sure you won't ran away."

**

You promised Tony to bake some of your popular cookies and muffins for the afterparty. Not being able to say no, you were now solemnly tired but happy to see over 50 muffins and 100 cookies on the counter.

"I know that smell!" You turned and smiled at Sam and Bucky who walked into the kitchen.

"Holy cow, doll, you have outdone yourself!" Barnes whistled under his nose seeing all the different Halloween sweets sitting around the kitchen. "Stark should pay you for that", he joked giving you a friendly peck on the cheek, followed by Wilson.

"Please tell me you made some extra for us to try...?" The Falcon asked, smirking at you. Raising your brow you chuckled, unable to fight his puppy eyes. Who would have thought the ex-soldier would have such a sweet tooth. You handed him the cupcakes from the plate away from the others and blushed to hear his happy groans.

"Here." You turned to Barnes giving him a different looking cupcake. "I know you're not a fan of sweets, but a little bird told me once you used to love cheesecake. They probably are not as good as you ate back in those days. But maybe you'll enjoy it", you noticed a little blush on his cheeks and he thanked you with a small smile.

"You are an angel, I hope you know that" he murmured between the bites. You were proud of yourself noticing his smile and the speed he devoured his sweet. "Whoever will be lucky enough to court you, I'm already jealous." You laughed at him, slowly putting all the cupcakes away, leaving the plate for the avengers to eat before the party. "Strawberry cupcakes? I wonder who are they for", you tenses hearing a cheeky tone of the ex Winter Soldier.

"I... I heard he used to be allergic to those. Plus they were quite expensive in the 30s... and I noticed him snacking on them now so..." you are probably more red than tomato, hating the fact that the boys in front of her knew about her stupid crush on the Captain.

"That's adorable", Sam smiled at you in a weirdly encouraging way. "So is this the way you will use to tell him about your feelings?"

"No!" You squealed, making them chuckle at your reaction. "I... I couldn't... look at him and then me. I am not worthy to even think that someone as amazing as him would even consider me... you know..." Just as Wilson was about to say something, the doors to the kitchen opened and the source of the topic walked in.

"Oh!! I know that smell!!" You chucked at his huge grim and shining eyes. "You will make us fat, Y/N!" He joked walking towards the three of you.

"Here", you pushed the special cupcake to him, smiling sweetly. "I gotta go, got some paperwork to do. I will see you guys at the party." You waved at them and left the room.

**

"She's adorable", Rogers looked at Wilson, who was still gazing at the doors that you just used to leave. His brow furrowed. A weird, uneasy feeling appeared in his stomach, with his friends complement. "I think I'm gonna ask her out", Cap's eyes widened, and Bucky could not help but smirk. Their friend was the best guy there is, but he was tense and awful with women. He was almost sure that the big guy was worse than the skinny one in the 30s. "What do you think, Cap?"

"If... if you like her...", he answered, but his voice low and husky. If Sam did not know better, he'd think his friend would kill him now, from the way he looked at him. "I mean. She is a great dame... I mean girl. A woman. She's a great woman."

"So why the hell have you no asked her out yet?" Bucky finally asked, feeling sorry for his life long friend. Barnes was happy to see Steve smile whenever he was with you. You little lunch dates that none of you actually called dates, were adorable. Even Natasha found it cute, whenever Steve walked into the building with extra coffee and a muffin, two or seven. He liked you and it was not a secret that you liked him. But of course, none of you would say anything. You were both too stubborn to even realise how good you were for each other.

"She's a friend. That's all she sees in me..." the blonde answered ashamed to even talk about it.

"Oh Steve, you're an idiot!" Sam laughed out loud. "You have dates practically every damn lunch. You spend more time with her than with anyone of us. And she doesn't seem to mind that. Come on, man. She made you special strawberry cupcakes. Did you know she hates them? Even the smell makes her sick and yet she made them just for you."

Rogers was looking at Wilson with shock. Of course, he knew all that, but hearing it from his friends' lips had a different impact.

He smiled saying goodbye to his friends. After all, there was a party tonight and he needed to get ready and get into the ridiculous costume he bought especially for you.

**

You were never a party person. You much more preferred to stay in the corner with your drink and watch people.

But this night was different. You did not enjoy looking at that one person. He looked really great in his Jack Skellington costume. You felt your heartache for him for dressing as a skeleton. Some part of you thought he did it for you. But seeing all the women surrounding him, you were sure anymore. All of them were beautiful, skinny and willing to give themselves to him. Who were you to even think that he dress up like that for you?

"You seem miserable, my dear bakery queen", you rolled your eyes hearing Stark's voice.

"Are you drunk already, Tony?" You joked, smiling at him when he landed on the couch next to you.

"No. I'm leaving this for the after-party. Plus pepper would kill me." You couldn't help but chuckle at his fear of his wife. "You know... from what I gathered he is not enjoying any of that women's company." You looked at him and smiled sadly. Apparently everyone knew about the crush you had. How sad.

"Well, he does from here." You answered and got up slowly trying to keep your eyes away from the Captain. "Another whisky, Tony?" He shook his head. His smirked disappeared seeing your sadness. You gave him one of your most beautiful fake smiles and went to the pub. One more drink won't ruin you. But it may be easier to look at the hordes of women lining up to 'talk' to Captain America.

"I have never seen you drink more than one drink before, Sally." You raised humour brow looking at your witch costume. "If his Jack than you're Sally right?" Natasha smirked at you, putting a drink in front of you.

"Quite ironic, heh?" You chuckled, sitting on one of the stools. "Poor Sally wasn't able to show her affection either." You took a deep breath and a sip of the drink. "But we're not the same. In the end, she managed to do it, and Jack returned the love."

"And what makes you think Steve isn't your Jack?" You blew a raspberry at her question.

"Look at all those women there. They are all beautiful and probably better than me in every aspect. Steve would be an idiot to chose me." You laughed trying to hide the pain behind those words. You shook your head to silently tell Romanoff to leave the subject. "I'm gonna go rest a bit before the after-party..." you finished the drink in one gulp and went to your room. It's not that you even planned on coming later but this was a good excuse. At least that's what you hoped.

You exhaled deeply happy to be away from the room. There were too many people, too many questions you didn't know the answers to.

"Hey, where are you going?" You froze hearing the voice you didn't really want to hear right now. Yo stopped and put a fake smile on, before turning around. There he was. Looking so good and adorable in his Jack costume. "Did all the zombies scared you off?" He joked, walking closer to you.

"You never know which one of them are real", you answered in the same manner, making him chuckle.

"Don't worry!" He beamed straightening a bit more with a huge grin on his face. "Your skeleton is here to protect you." Your breath hitched and eyes widen. Your. You bit your lip and looked away feeling pain in your chest. When you realised that he will never be yours, and you will never be his. "Unless this scares you as well?" You looked up at him and smiled at him back seeing his soft one.

"I told you, I ain't afraid of no skeleton!" You answered making his smile grow.

"Are you ok, though? You left the party pretty early." You swallowed hard not knowing what to answer. "Nat said you went for a rest. You feeling alright, doll?" Your heart skipped a bit at the pet name. You noticed he wasn't talking like that to any of the other girls, but you still just assumed he was just comfortable with you.

"I'm not good with crowds." You answered softly, calling for the elevator. "I just wanted to rest before the after-party."

"Y/N" you turned around when you heard his serious tone. "You know you can talk to me if something bothers you, right?" You smiled at him with a sad look on your face. How you wish you could tell him about all that you want. But you just shook your head and smiled

"I'm ok, Steve. Go back to the party. Go find yourself your own Sally." And before he was able to respond you walked to the elevator and watched the doors closing.

"What If I already found one?" Rogers whispered when you were gone.

**

You hated and loved Natasha at same time. But her little sneaky idea was so stupid. You could not really rest. The moment you stepped into your room she followed you like a lost puppy.

"This is ridiculous", you murmured looking at your make up and the weird dress that Nat brought with you. "He is going to freak out! Nat... he doesn't feel the same way! He is just a good friend..."

"Well, every Jack needs his Sally," she said, ignoring everything that you just said. You exhaled loudly, tired to fight with her. "He's gonna love it! And seriously, have some more faith in yourself. You are a beautiful, smart, kind woman, he would be an idiot if he didn't want you." You blushed, internally thankful for a friend like Nat. "Ok, done! Looking amazing!" She cheered and you smiled. You had to admit, she made an amazing job.

"Ok, let's get that over with", you sighed letting her drag you to the whole other level of the building where the party was holding.

**

You weren't sure what you were thinking, but right now you just wanted to disappear. You sank into the couch and wondered why you even came here.

The party was on for more than an hour now. When you walked in looking like Sally, Steve looked positively surprised. He laughed a bit and you talked for a while. It was nice. Comfortable and made you think that maybe he does feel something to you.

But then he went to get you both a drink and never came back. He was sitting there with a beer in his hand talking and laughing with Sharon. You knew there was something between the two of them, but you hoped it was over. However, looking at the two of them, you realised that they looked really good together.

Your gaze landed on him. He looked more relaxed with her. His laugh reached his beautiful eyes and he looked like there was nothing on his shoulders. You wondered what she was telling him, that made him look so adorable and carefree.

You just now realised that it wasn't just a stupid crush anymore. You loved him and he didn't feel the same way.

"You'll burn a hole in his head if you keep on gazing at him like that", you looked to the right to see Sam sitting next to you. "What is it? Where is that beautiful smile that was there just minutes ago?" You bit your lip and took a deep sip of your drink.

"It's with him", you answered sadly. "He looks really happy, right?" He frowned and looked at his friend. There was an ache in his heart seeing you so sad.

"Come on", he stood up and took your hand pulling you towards the dance floor. It wasn't big and you felt all the eyes on you.

"I can't dance" you whispered, making him chuckle. One of his hand was on the back of your waist and the other tangled in your hand.

"Close your eyes and trust me. Just relax." So you did. You closed your eyes, leaned your head on his chest and smiled a little, actually enjoying the slow song. You felt so calm now. You didn't care about the Avengers looking at the two of you. You didn't care about Sharon and Steve flirting. There you were. Sally dancing with Dracula and you really enjoyed it. "Don't ever let a man dictate how you feel, no matter who that man is, you hear me baby girl?" You sniffed and nodded, your cheeks still pressed to his chest. "You are worth so much if you only believe in yourself."

**

You actually had fun throughout the party. After Sam thanked you for the dance, Tony took you for a next one, making you laugh with his inappropriate jokes and pick up lines, that made you wonder how he was able to catch someone like Pepper with that.

After some drinks Bucky took you for something which he described as 30s dance. You felt like burning all the calories you had today, but you laughed so much that your jaw hurt. Clint and Nat took you for a stupid a la 90s dance which was joined by Thor who than danced with you to slower dance, showing you some Asgsrdian moves. Before you knew you danced with everyone. You were even able to have a drink with Loki who seemt to be more and more open to the people of Earth.

You were so occupied with everyone that you forgot about Steve. You havent looked his way the entire time. Haven't noticed how he said goodbye to Sharon who walked away with a guy named Bill that was just late for a party and was ready to take his girl back home now that he was free. You haven't noticed the look on his face whenever there was a slower dance and you were pressed close to the other man. A man that wasn't him. You didn't notice the sad smile on his lips whenever you laughed. He found you so beautiful, but was sad at the same time that he wasnt the one to bring that mesmerising sound out of you. And you haven't immediately noticed how he left the party to go to the balcony to get some air.

You only noticed the last thing when you yourself needed some fresh air. All the dancing, laughing, talking and incredible amount of alcohol made you a bit more tipsy than you planned on becoming tonight.

"Jacky?" He turned around a small smirk appeared on his lips seeing you closing the balcony doors behind you. You walked closer, leaning forward you stopped next to him. "What's wrong, Jacky?"

"Does that make you Sally?" He asked playfully turning towards you. You chuckled and turned around to show your dress.

"Indeed I am. Nat thought it would be funny. I feel stupid though", he frowned not understanding. Feeling a bit braver thanks to the alcohol you turned to look st the city and smiled sadly. "Sharon would fit better as your Sally."

"My Sally?" He asked not taking his eyes off of you. Despite looking like a dead doll you still looked beautiful in his eyes. The way you had fun today pained him a bit. It meant you were able to enjoy yourself so much without him there.

"Well Nat has this absurd idea that you may feel something towards me..." he tensed a bit, but you never stopped. "I really don't know how someone like you would like me back, but well Natasha was always a bit weird... but yeah. So I saw you with Sharon. You really do look good together and..."

"Like you back?" He interjected making you widened your eyes and swallow hard. You were talking faster than thinking and now you were regretting the words that left your lips.

"I... I mean..." you widened your eyes seeing his smirk. "I should go." You were about to turn and leave the balcony, when he stopped you, holding you by the wrist.

"I don't dress up", he started. The smile present on his lips and eyes shining. You braved enough to look up and took a deep breath seeing the way he was looking at you. "Sharon and I have history. We understand each other, we're friends and this is it." He pulled you closer to him, but gently enough not to halt you. "I dressed up in this absurd costume because you told me skeletons are the only things you're not afraid of." There was a blush on his cheeks when he continued. "When I saw you changed to Sally my heart skipped a beat. I thought it was my chance, but... but you were ignoring me the whole night... I was so happy to see you relax and have fun but... I wanted to be the reason to see that smile on your lips."

"I thought you were back with Sharon and it broke my heart to see you both together..." you started, looking down at your shoes. "I always thought I was not good enough for you, so today when I saw you talk with her I decided to give up on my feelings..."

"Not good enough for me?" He chuckled shaking his head in disbelief. "You are the most amazing woman I know. Sweet, smart, kind hearted, and not to mention beautiful." He bit his lip and put two of his fingers under your jaw lifting it up. "God. I can't believe even for a second you thought were not good enough..." he shook his head and leaned down putting his forehead to yours.

You closed your eyes and smiled happily. The heat radiating from him killed whatever chill you felt from the cold temperature. His hands moved from your shoulders down to your waist, pulling you closer.

"Your heart is beating really fast, doll", you couldn't help but chuckle at his super hearing. "Are you afraid?" He asked only half-jokingly. His eyes were moving from your eyes to your lip. It melted your heart. This amazing man was waiting for your permission. You bit your lip and rounded your arm on his neck, getting him closer to you. And before you closed the distance between the two of you, you whispered cheekily.

Your eyebrows lift in surprise and you lean over to look around Bucky and lock eyes with Steve. He gives you an equally concerned look. You look back at Bucky and give him a serious look. “Are you a serial killer? How can you say the movies we watch aren’t scary?”

Bucky’s voice drops to a soft whisper, “I stopped getting scared a long time ago. I had to, because Hydra took advantage of fear. Punished me for it.”

Concern etches over your features, and you and Steve both move closer to Bucky, ready to comfort him. You feel guilt washing over you for bringing it up, and you reach out and grab his hand, voice remorseful as you whisper, “Bucky, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

You are cut off by Bucky’s abrupt laugh, and he gasps out between laughter, “I’m just messing with you, horror movies have never scared me.”

“Bucky!” You shove his shoulder lightly, jaw dropped in indignation. “I was worried that I actually upset you! Jerk.”

You slide away from him, and he reaches out for you. “No, no, no, come back, I was just messing with you!” 

You cross your arms, pouting, before allowing him to pull you in for a kiss. When he pulls away, you hear Steve protest behind Bucky, “Hey, I’m mad at you too! I would also like an apology kiss.”

You and Bucky both laugh as he turns to Steve, and pulls him in for a long kiss. When they pull apart, Bucky asks, “Am I forgiven now?”

You shake your head, “No, but I think I have an idea for how you can make it up to us.” You catch Steve’s eye, and he gives you a smirk and a nod of approval. 

Bucky’s voice drops as he asks, “Oh, yeah? And what would that be?”

You smile and quip, “Follow me to the bedroom, and I’ll tell ya.”

You take off running to your shared room with the boys, and Steve and Bucky follow quickly behind, ready to forget all about the scary movie.

-

 You settle into the pilot’s seat, and turn your head slightly to ask Steve and Bucky, “You boys ready?”

“Yes!”

“Fire it up!”

You turn and start up the Quinjet, lifting into the sky and pointing it in the direction of home, before putting it on autopilot and joining the boys in the back. As you draw closer to them, you survey the injuries littering their bodies. “Well, I’d say that went well.”

Steve steps closer to you and inspects a cut on your arm, “Couldn’t have been any better.”

“And here I was thinking that a visit to Bucharest couldn’t possibly be worse than the last one.” Bucky prods at a burn on his thigh, “But I should have known.”

You glance at Bucky and both of you are sporting grim expressions before you burst into laughter. “I mean, honestly!” You gasp out between giggles, “What a shit show.”

Steve shakes his head at you both, but cracks a smile. “Wonder if that intel was ever correct.”

“Abandoned since the Cold War, please.” Bucky snorts, “That was the best kept facility I’ve ever seen.”

You shake your head in disbelief, “We should have known.”

Steve levels a look at you, “Hey, I said something about it!”

Bucky puts his hands on his hips, mimicking Steve. “‘Guys, I don’t know about this.’ What kind of warning was that?” 

Bucky’s imitation sends you into another fit of giggles, but before Steve can say anything, an alarm goes off from the front of the Quinjet. 

“Shit.” You jog to the front and check over the systems, before yelling back to the pair. “Buckle up, I have to land it!” 

You scan over the radar and see an island nearby, and you navigate the Quinjet to the island safely, landing it with ease. When it touches down, the boys come running up behind you before you can even turn off the jet. 

“What happened?” You glance back at Bucky and his questioning gaze, before turning back to the controls and powering down the Quinjet.

“Quinjet overheated.” You unbuckle your restraints and stand, just as Steve looks around in concern. 

“What? Overheated? How?”

You smile at him and his constant worry. “It’s no big deal, we just have to let it cool down for an hour or two.”

“Are you sure?”

You nod, and he sighs in relief. Bucky looks out the window and the landscape around you, before muttering, “Where are we?”

You check the coordinates and glance at him. “Ummm, Poveglia Island? Looks like it’s right off the coast of Italy.”

Bucky wiggles his eyebrows at you and Steve suggestively, “Oooo, Italian vacation? I like the sound of that.” You giggle, and he types in the code to lower the ramp of the Quinjet. “Might as well go explore, maybe find some dinner.”

“I’m good with that.” You turn and look at Steve, who’s stayed quiet. “Steve?”

He shakes his head as if he was lost in thought, before turning to you. “Uh, yeah. Dinner sounds good.”

“Great!” Bucky bounds off the jet with excitement and you look at Steve in confusion. 

“Are you okay? You seem...out of it.”

He gives you a half hearted smile. “Yeah, I’m just tired from the mission, that’s all.”

Unconvinced, you reply, “If you say so.”

Before he can retort, Bucky’s voice comes floating towards you both. “Are you two coming?”

Steve grabs your hand, “C’mon, better join him before he loses it.”

You let Steve pull you from the Quinjet, and you both step onto the dying grass of the island. You look around and realize there isn’t much to see. The area you landed on is home to a wall of trees and some dry grass, but not much else. In the distance, you can see the outline of a castle like building, tall and foreboding in the distance. Bucky jogs up to you and Steve, slightly out of breath, and you ask, “Did you find anything, Bucky?” 

“Yeah, it looks like the island is split into two by a little canal and there’s a bridge right around this row of trees.”

You nod, and Steve looks around and back at Bucky again. “Have you seen anybody yet?”

Bucky shakes his head, “No, but I’m sure there’ll be people on the other side. There’s nothing but trees over here.”

You all follow Bucky as he leads you to the bridge, and you eye it warily as it comes into view. “Wait, hold on, you want us to walk on that?”

Bucky shrugs, “I mean, I’m pretty sure it’s the only way to the other side of the island, so yeah.”

“Bucky. It’s literally falling apart.”

Bucky laughs, “It’s fine! Just a little weathered.”

You turn to Steve, “Back me up here, that thing looks like it’s one step away from disintegrating!”

“It’s not that bad.” He looks up at the blood red sky. “Besides, the sun is setting. We should probably find somewhere to eat and maybe somewhere to stay before it gets too dark.”

“Fine, but if this bridge breaks and I die, I’m coming back to haunt you both.”

Bucky laughs and rolls his eyes before he starts to cross the bridge. When he’s halfway across, Steve motions for you to follow, before he brings up the rear. When your feet touch the grass on the other side, you let out a quiet sigh of relief, and Steve bumps you with his shoulder. “See, that wasn’t that bad.”

“Right.” You, Steve, and Bucky all stand in silence as you look at the walls that surround the castle like building. The walls are crumbling, large chunks of stone missing and scattered on the ground like dust. Rusted scaffolding scales the walls of the building, wrapped in green vines. But the thing that stands out to you the most, is the silence. It’s deafening. “Guys…something isn’t right here. It’s dead quiet. No boat sounds, no people sounds, and even worse, no animal sounds.”

You look between them, and you’re unsurprised to find that Bucky is unbothered. Steve looks slightly worried, but you can’t tell how much of it is from the island and how much of it is his usual demeanor. “I think we should just wait at the Quinjet. It’ll be cool enough to fly soon.”

Bucky turns to you, looking amused. “What, are you scared?”

“Yes, I’m scared and I’m not afraid to admit it. This place is creepy as hell!”

Steve surprises you by stepping closer to Bucky, and deeper into the island. “Let’s just see if we can find somewhere to eat, and if we don’t find something in the next 20 minutes, or if something seems really wrong, we leave.”

You stare at him, not quite sure you are believing what you’re hearing. But after a moment of consideration, you agree. “Don’t think that I won’t hesitate to leave you behind. You can fight off whatever we’re walking into, and I’ll run to safety.”

Steve gives you a reassuring smile and Bucky lets out a snort of laughter before you all continue up the path and closer to the bell tower. It only takes a few minutes of wandering through the fallen buildings and deteriorating structures for Bucky to come to a conclusion. “I think it’s abandoned.”

You turn to him, “You think?” You pull your phone out of your pocket, ready to google anything you can find on this place. But as you unlock your phone and stare at your screen, a symbol in the corner catches your eye. 

No signal.

“Shit.” 

Steve and Bucky turn to you. “What, what is it?”

“I don’t have any signal out here! Check your phones.”

Steve pulls his from his pocket and turns it to show you the screen, which mirrors the same message as yours. You both turn to look at Bucky, who’s looking sheepish. “Mine got crushed at the facility in Bucharest.”

“I think we should go back now.”

Bucky groans, “Aw, c’mon, I wanna explore a little more! This place is cool.”

“Bucky, I know you have no sense of fear, but I do, and I’m scared.”

But before he can reply, a rock clatters against the stone floor behind him. You jump and step closer to Steve, and Bucky turns to search behind him. Your voice comes out as a whisper, “What was that?”

Bucky turns back to you with a smile, pointing at you playfully. “Very funny. You almost got me.”

You shake your head, “Bucky, that wasn’t me. I was standing right in front of you the entire time.”

Bucky opens his mouth to respond, when another rock hits the stone, this time behind Steve. You let out a scream this time, as your eyes scan the room. The light from the dusk outside makes it difficult to see anything, and dim shadows appear to move just outside of the window. “I just saw something move!”

“Where?” Steve follows your gaze and your pointed finger, searching the darkness outside. “I don’t see anything.”

You turn to Bucky, “Please, can we go?”

“Not until you admit that this is you trying to scare me.”

“Bucky, I swear, I don’t know what’s going on! This isn’t me. Please!”

You scream again when you hear the clang of metal on the stone floor, closer than the other sounds before it. Bucky jumps closer to you and grabs your hand, and when you look up at him, you swear you see fear on his face. Steve wraps his arms around you, as you all stand huddled together, eyes scanning the room. Bucky’s voice is a whisper when he asks, “Swear you’re not doing this.”

You whisper back, slightly exasperated, but 100% terrified. “I know you feel the sweat on my hand, which is from the pure fear I am feeling right now. I swear I’m not doing this. I just want to leave!”

Steve’s voice is low and calm when he says, “Bucky, this can’t be her.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Steve takes charge once again, “The noises are coming from the way we came in, so I think we should find another way out. There’s a hallway connected to the backside of this room that might work.”

You let out a raspy whisper, “Okay.”

Steve leads the way, with you in the middle, and Bucky in the rear. Your hands are all connected with iron grips, and your head is on a swivel as you look back and forth for any movement. You all quietly creep down the hall, silent as possible, as you look for a way out. You hear Bucky let out a sigh of relief when you round a corner and see a doorway to the outside. As you all start to pick up the pace and jog closer to it, a dark figure passes by the frame, freezing you dead in your tracks. Bucky’s grip on your hand tightens as he whispers, “What the hell was that?”

You feel tears prick your eyes as you answer, “I don’t know. Steve, what was that? What do we do?”

Steve takes a deep breath and mutters, “You two stay right here, and I’ll go check it out.”

You grab his hand and pull him closer, “Steve, no, wait! That could be a person or a demon or an animal, or, I don’t know, anything! It’s not safe.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead and leans over to press one on Bucky’s cheek. “I’ll be okay. But we have to get out of here, and I don’t think the way we came from is safe either.”

He steps away and creeps down the hall as you and Bucky watch on, clutching each other in fear. When he reaches the doorway, he peeks out, before stepping out and looking left and right. “It’s clear, c’mon!” 

You and Bucky take off running towards him, and you run through the doorway, stopping as you reach Steve to look around for the dark figure. Before you even check the other side, a scream erupts from inside the building, not far from where you’re currently standing. Without thinking, you take off on the path that leads to the Quinjet, leaving Bucky and Steve behind. They catch up easily and run alongside you, turning to check behind you every few seconds. You reach the rickety bridge and tear across it without fear, stopping as you reach the other side to make sure Steve and Bucky cross. Bucky crosses first, with Steve hot on his heels, before you hear the sound of wood splitting and Steve crying out.

You take off running to Steve and Bucky turns and joins you, and you look down and see that Steve’s leg has fallen through a hole in the bridge. The wood has scraped his leg as he fell through, causing him to bleed. You and Bucky start to pull him up slowly, careful to avoid the wounds. When Steve is halfway free, another scream tears from the wooded path that you were all just on moments before. You all turn towards it, looking for the source of the sound, when another scream rings out, even closer. You and Bucky look at each other and then turn to Steve, and Bucky mutters, “sorry” before pulling Steve out and scraping over the cuts again. Steve grunts as he wraps an arm around Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky turns to you, eyes wide. “Go, get the Quinjet started!”

You nod and take off running again, before stopping at the jet to lower the ramp and run inside. You plop into the seat and start flipping switches and turning on the controls, nearly crying with relief when the jet powers up with no problems. You hear motion behind you and turn quickly, relieved to see Bucky and Steve coming up the ramp. As Bucky gets Steve situated, you lift the ramp, before jogging up to the front and starting to strap in. As you fumble with your restraints, something hits the Quinjet outside, causing it to lift off the ground. You scream and Bucky yells out, “WHAT WAS THAT?!”

A second thump lifts the Quinjet again, and Bucky starts yelling, “Go, go, go! Get us out of here!”

You lift the Quinjet off the ground, and speed away from the island, heart still pounding with fear.

-

Steve stands from the desk and turns off the lamp, before turning to look at the bed, smiling. You and Bucky are impossibly close, tangled up together in a mess of limbs, sleeping surprisingly sound. Unable to sleep after the days events, he limps to the kitchen in search of something to eat. When he steps inside, he is surprised to find Tony leaning against the counter, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Tony smiles when he sees him, “Want one?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.” Steve settles into one of the chairs at the table, as Tony walks over and sets a cup in front of him, before sitting down next to him. “Thanks.”

Tony nods as Steve takes a sip, and he glances down at his bandaged leg. “How ya feeling?”

Steve sets the cup down. “Good. I’m already healing, so it shouldn’t be a problem for too much longer. That bridge did a number on me though.”

“Yeah, I heard about your ghost adventures. Sounds like it was something else.”

Steve lets out a quiet chuckle, “Yeah, it was. Despite all of Bucky’s big talk, he was actually pretty scared.”

It scared you. That tightening in your chest, the one that ached with a panic that never seemed to dull. Shaking hands and frightened eyes that flickered about the area as you held tightly onto your keys. Your fingers aching from the pressure of the cool metal between them. The chill of the dark night, it sent shivers down your spine. Your heartbeat was steady. However, the adrenaline pumping through your veins was seeing to altering that all on its own. 

So there you were, standing outside the rotting building that seemed to drip with cobwebs and ooze blood. Your eyes scanned over it again and again, becoming more creeped out by it realistic nature by the minute. Shaking your head you took a step back, your friends sighing at your decision.

“Okay. Well, just wait out here okay? We shouldn’t be long.” They vanished from sight as they stepped through the entryway, their screams and laughter sounding from within. Well, sounds like you’ll have to find new roommates for the apartment.

A chill passed down your spine as your eyes scanned the place for something to keep your mind occupied. A hay ride, corn maze, and several food stalls that you had already eaten at. Nothing about the ride or maze seemed fun, especially alone in the dark of night. You sat shifting your weight for a while, unsure if you made the right call until you got another look at the house. A groan escapes your lips before you turn on your heel and head toward the maze. 

The air grows absolutely frigid, your skin prickling under your clothes at the mere caress of the breeze. Gravel crunches under your boots as you make your way down the path, eyes nervously glancing around at any small sound. This was a terrible idea. As you hugged your sweater closer, acutely aware of the goosebumps prickling across your arms and the back of your neck. You mentally flip a coin before turning left down a path that seemed heavily tread. 

The flickering lights of the candles in the jack-o-lanterns that were scattered along the pathways grew ever more distant, the path darkening under the cloudy night sky. You can’t help but feel dread rising in your chest, fearing that you had made a wrong turn down a false path. When you could hardly see the path, the flickering lights too distant and dim, that dread had become certainty. As you sift through your bag for your phone you silently curse the lazy punks who decided to carve their own way through the maze. The moment your hands and mind simultaneously realized it, there was a tightening around you heart. You had forgotten it at home. Too late had you remembered, halfway to the festival. Shit. You chastised yourself for forgetting and did your best to retrace your steps.

According to your watch, as far as you can tell, you have been in the maze for forty minutes. It’s only supposed to take approximately 20. Your mind was becoming frantic, thinking up all kinds of things that go bump in the night. The pounding of your heart echoing in your ears as you stumble through the maze, gradually losing the ability to take a proper breath. Your anxiety was heightened by the creepy scarecrow lurking above the corn. You don’t remember seeing that there before, and boy was it freaking you out. Tears threatened to spill over and down your cheeks, terror setting in. 

It had now been an hour. You debated shoving through the corn and making your own way out, however, the sound of husks crunching under a pair of feet snatched your attention. Wiping away a few stray tears, you cleared your throat and began shouting at the stranger.

“Hello?! Is someone there? Do you have a map? I think I took a wrong turn somewhere.” Panic was evident in your shaky voice as your head whipped every which way in search of the stranger. The night was far too dark for your eyes to make out anything in the maze but the corn. 

A sudden hand on your shoulder has you screaming until your eyes land on the culprit. You roll your eyes as he shakes his head and chuckles softly, his teasing gaze pumping anger in your veins.

“Not funny Buck. Not funny at all.” Your arms wrapped once more around your torso, the temperature continuing to drop. “How did you find me?”

“The maze is closed. You’re the only one left in here doll, like a needle in a haystack. But your shouting did help.” He shrugs off his leather jacket, pulling his hoodie over his head and into your hands. You stare at him incredulously, brow furrowed.

“You’ll freeze in that shirt and jacket.” He just shook his head and began walking, leaving you only slightly behind as you pulled his hoodie over your head. “Thank you.”

“What were you doing in here anyway? You were supposed to wait outside.” He had this concerned look in his eyes and disappointment in the furrow of his brow. 

“I just wanted to entertain myself while you guys were in the house. That place gave me the creeps. I didn’t mean to get lost in here.” You kicked a rock off to the side and weren’t startled by the thud but what followed. The rock rolled back. “What the hell?”

“What?” You didn’t respond, instead grabbing his hand and squeezing it tightly in fear. “Y/N, what is it?”

All you could do was point at the pair of glowing yellow eyes hiding within the stalks, peering from within the darkness. It took all your self control not to scream as you wrapped your arms around Bucky’s torso, social anxiety be damned. There was no way you were staying in this maze a minute longer.

“Get me out of here.” You had never heard the terror in your own voice so shaky and quiet, eyes pleading with your friend. Any panic in his eyes was concealed by a newfound sense of protectiveness, his arm on the small of your back as he leads you onward. His eyes continue to flicker between the path ahead and what was left behind, cautious of whatever you had discovered in the maze.

A rustling behind the two of you caught your attention as you finally reached the outer ring of jack-o-lanterns, stopping dead in your tracks. Bucky’s hand moved to grab yours as he locked eyes on whatever was behind you.

“Don’t look. Keep your eyes ahead, and when I tell you to run. Promise me.” He doesn’t look at you, keeping his gaze on the thing behind you. “Promise me, please.”

“I-I promise. What’s going on Buck? What is it?” You nearly turn your head but Bucky is quick, shouting for you to move. “Not without you, damn it!” 

You grip his hand tight and begin to bolt through the maze unsure if you would be able to resist glancing behind you. What the hell were you running from? Preoccupied by your thoughts you failed to notice the pumpkin before you, tripping over and into stalks of corn. Unfortunately, Bucky was no match for your entire body weight yanking him to the side and into the corn stalks. Both of you land with a muffled groan and flat on your stomach, small scratches across what little skin was exposed. 

The wind had been knocked out of you, your lungs burning and aching for air. Your hands grasp at the dried husks that littered the dirt path as you desperately tried to fill your lungs with air. Tears poured down your cheeks as you gasped, vision a bit hazy. 

“Shhh. Relax, just relax. Give yourself a minute.” Bucky knelt by your side, rubbing your back gently as he scanned the area around you. Once you get your bearings, you pull yourself up from the ground. There’s still a burning in your lungs but its duller.

“Woah, what’re you doing?”  Bucky is turning you about, scanning your hands and legs, your scratched up knee and face. 

“Looking for any serious injuries.” You stand at attention, and he gives a small smile. “Very funny.”

“What d’ya reckon serge? Am I good to go?” He shakes his head at your silly character voice, and that’s when you notice the scratch under his right eye. You decide to give him a quick once over which he of course protests.

“I’m fine. We need to go before-”

“Did you hear something?” Your eyes flicker about the small area, a dead end in the maze likely created by some punks.

“Just your god awful attempt at a Boston accent. I mean ser-” You narrow your eyes at him and place a hand over his mouth.

“Sh. I’m serious Buck.” He removes your hand, eyes scanning and ears listening for the rustling of the corn stalks. But it's dead silent. And your not sure that’s any better. “We need to go now or I’m officially never leaving the apartment again.” 

There’s a gnawing feeling in your gut, that ghastly chill on the nape of your neck, and a tightening in your chest. All signs pointing to danger, and you feared a pair of eyes were on you. The feeling has you wanting to pick up your pace.

“Whatever it is that you won’t let me see, it’s back.” Bucky’s brow furrows as he glances around.

“I don’t see it, how do you know?” You almost answer, but footprints in the mud before you make your heart drop into your stomach.

“Oh, god.” Your eyes travel up and are met with that of an indescribable creature, one you knew you could never forget. You wouldn’t know where to begin. It’s eyes were all you could focus on, with their haunting golden glow and their dead gaze. There seemed to be no life behind them and yet its chest heaved. It released a low growl that emanated from somewhere within. You were frozen in place, hand tightly gripping on to Bucky’s in sheer terror.

“Don’t move.” Out of your peripheral vision you noticed a faint blue glow coming from the side of his pocket. You wanted to warn against such a reckless move, but you honestly couldn’t muster the words. “Help is on the way. We have to run.”

“I-I can’t.” You hadn’t mentioned it, thinking that you had made it free, but there had been an exponentially increasing amount of blood flowing down your leg. “Guess that scratch was worse than we thought sarge.” Your whisper was shaky and the beast before your growled once more, a shiver trickling down your spine.

“I’m not leaving you.” You really wanted to give him a ‘no shit Sherlock’ look but the creature was watching closely. 

“I would hope not soldier. That would look mighty bad on your record.” 

“Seriously Y/N. I’m gonna have to carry you.” You nearly shook your head, the creatures eyes flickering between you. 

“No way. Not enough time for you to pick me up bridal style. This thing seems to enjoy a hunt, but I’m willing to bet not that much.”

“Who said anything about bridal style?” 

“Oh no you do-” 

It was too late, he had slung you over his shoulder. You help your hair out of your face, unfortunately gaining the job of monster watch. Fuck.

“How we lookin’ doll?”

“Well, I would say the view is lovely. However, the moment I look up there’s a rampant creature barreling toward us!” Bucky lets out a breathless chuckle as he cuts a corner. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Your brows furrow, baffled at what he was talking about.

“The moment we’re free then you can take your speed as a compliment. Not a minute sooner Barnes.”

“What about the so called view?” Your eyes widen and you can barely feel the heat rising in your cheeks as they flushed crimson.

“I was not talking about your ass sergeant.” Mutters something along the lines of ‘yeah sure’ as he adjust you on his shoulder. “Keep dreaming, but the thing that is currently gaining speed on us is sort of occupying my attention.”

“So you say. Entrance up ahead, at least 15ft.” You almost allowed yourself to cheer but the gnawing feeling in your gut told you not to celebrate just yet. 

“Fuck. there’s another one.”

“What?! Bigger? Smaller? Please say smaller.”

“Okay, but Abe Lincoln wouldn’t approve.” You can hear the strain in his breathing and the low growls of the creatures as the gain. “I know I said they were gaining already. But they’re seriously gaining Buck, you might want to tap into that tank of adrenaline.”

“What the hell do you think I’ve been doing?”

“A new and fun cardio exercise that I will never be a part of again?”

“You and me both doll. Almost there.” But they were quicker than almost, pulling his leg from under him and knocking the wind out of you for the second time tonight. Bucky cradles you beneath him and uses his body like a shield. He screams in agony but refuses to move despite your pounding on his chest.

“Damn you! Move! I won’t let you do this! I won’t go without you! In this maze and in life, I’m with you-”

“Till the end of the line.” He cries out as he’s clawed across the back, blood pooling down his sides and staining his blue v-neck crimson.

“No!” Suddenly everything goes black and you're filled with a sense of confusion as the pain in your body evaporates.

“Y/N! Wake up!” Those steel blue eyes peering over you in the dim light of the hall sent tears down your cheeks. 

The panic and rush of emotions had you pulling him in close, not caring at the moment about the repercussions. His lips are soft and gentle, the salt of your tears mixing in with the kiss as he held you with one arm. You don’t allow him to gaze too long in your eyes as your wrap your arms around him tightly.

“Was it a nightmare?” He’s shaken the shock of the kiss off a bit, still dazed and confused. “What happened in it?”

“It was so real Buck. So, so real.” You were practically shaking in his arms. “Remember how I told you about getting lost in a corn maze at night when I was 9?”

He nods, eyes watching you intently as you try to make sense of your nightmare. His hand still rested on the small of your back, making you unfocused.

“Uh, well… That’s where it was set.” You tell him everything, tears threatening to spill over as you reach the bitter end. “I couldn’t save you. Worse, I got you killed. And it all seemed so real.”

“Hey, it's okay. I’m alive. It was just a figment of your wild imagination Y/N. Look at me,” Your eyes find his and he smiles softly. “I’m okay. Nothing got me, we’re safe.”

He continues muttering comforting words until your breathing steadies and you calm down. 

~

There’s moaning in the streets, howling cries of a mother or a sister or a wife. It’s horrific, if you dig into the pit of yourself, but it’s the fourth pair of bodies that have been found dead in recent weeks. It almost isn’t shocking anymore. 

Wanda presses closer to your side, your dearest friend, her body warm and soft. Flushed with color and light, the cold nipping at her cheeks, her nose. The wind lifts her auburn hair from her cheeks, her lashes fluttering in the breeze. She catches your hand with one of her own, tangling your fingers together. Her palm fits yours easily and swiftly, as if it’s where she belongs, as if it’s where you belong, too. 

“At least he’ll stop breathing down your neck about an engagement.” Wanda says quietly, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. She is warm and lulling in the cold autumn air that seems to be pushing through your wool dress, your scarf. Trying to worm it’s way beneath and make a home of your body. 

Perhaps you will never be warm again, if the cold decides to settle deep into your bones.  

“What?” You ask, blinking away from the bodies, from your murky thoughts. 

“Mr. Fowler.” Wanda murmurs, nodding to one of the bodies, “He always upset you, he always pressured you for an engagement.” 

You glance towards the bodies once more, find the shape of them, the faces so crudely misshapen now, but you finally catch the lines of his features. The dark hair, short and balding. As if you finally see the full picture. 

Oh. It’s Mr. Fowler, then. And Mr. Adams rotting beside him. 

“Yes,” You say quietly, weary of the spark in Wanda’s eyes, the glimmer that ensnares you, “I suppose so.” 

Wanda is all you have in recent years, another orphaned girl your village does not wish to worry or feed. So you worry and feed each other. You both claim to be trying to find husbands, trying to marry off into another household. Truthfully, though, neither of you have ever searched. You’re content to live together, secluded, removed from all of the prying eyes of your small, imposing world. You wish to go home with her now, in fact, want to curl up beside a fire and lean into her side until your eyes grow heavy and soft. You want her nimble fingers carding through your hair, her touch upon your neck-- 

A broad hand comes down upon your shoulder then and you jump, almost let out a yelp in surprise. You whirl around to face them, tilting your face up to find Steve Rogers looking down upon you. The sculpted lines of his face, the shocking blue eyes, the flush to his pale cheeks. He has always looked like a tragic hero to you; a Hercules, Perseus, noble and damned and fighting against all odds. 

Beside him, Bucky stands broad and pale faced. He won’t look at the bodies. There are deep, darkened blossoms beneath his eyes. It makes his already depthless and haunted eyes look worse, blackened out, charcoal blue. He crosses his arms across his great, wide chest; one of them the off-beat shine of metal, iron and leather creaking with the movement. Like a piece of armor, the leather strap reaching up to his shoulder, so that if he moves it, it may move the forearm of his appendage. The fingers lay motionless, cold and gleaming. Such an odd, strange invention to the rest of the town; they fear him because of it. But he has only ever helped you and Wanda, the way Steve has kept a watchful eye on the pair of you. 

If Steve looks like a Greek hero to you, you think Bucky looks like a Shakespearean one; damned because of his own choices, falling from grace; A Hamlet, Macbeth. 

“You shouldn’t watch this,” Steve murmurs to you two, already turning you from the gore and bloodshed with his warm hand, wishing the flesh of him would sink into you and flush you with heat, “Come on,” He then urges you gently, “Buck and I will help you with some morning chores.” 

He’s always been so giving, overly helpful, a twinge protective over the pair of you. Loyal, terribly so, as he stands beside Bucky, the pariah of town. 

And you let him guide you away, your fingers still woven tightly with Wanda’s, who still peaks over her shoulder at the seeping crimson of flesh and blood and body, as if they were petals of flowers to admire than corpses to rot. Her eyes glitter strangely when she turns back to you. 

Bucky follows like a shadow, head hung low. 

***

The crack, snap of wood being split into two is felt in your chest, the steady motion and sound falling into tune with every other beat of your heart. Bucky lifts the axe high with one arm, before bringing it down sharply upon the wood. It splits easily, a crack of lightning, of metal as it falls apart then. 

You feed the few hens that you and Wanda share, spreading feed onto the ground as they cluck and scurry around you. 

Steve helps Wanda fix the barn door, their figures blurry and grey in the fog and bleakness. 

You gaze at Bucky, the shadows that seem to cling to him. 

“You look tired, Mr. Barnes.” You speak up, tossing the rest of the feed to the chickens who scurry after it. You leave their pen, the gate creaking as you step nearer to him. The axe falls with strength and brutality, bursts the wood in half. 

“I haven’t been sleeping well.” He grunts, tossing the wood aside. He sets another piece upon the block, lifts his axe high. You can see the movement of muscle, the strength and cutting edge of them.

“No?” You ask, curling your fingers into your sleeves; you’re so cold still, stiff and frigid and snow hasn’t even touched the ground yet. You shiver, you think it will be an awful and long winter. “Why not?”

The axe smashes down upon the wood. 

He lets out a breath, shakes his head, the dark locks of his hair brushing his cheeks which are deeply flushed from the cold, from the exertion. He looks handsome, you think, with the peak of his chest beneath his long shirt. 

“I’ve been having strange dreams recently.” He then admits with the soft gruffness of his voice, eyes flickering to you.

You stand idly, know that idleness is a sin; you should be working. Working, busy hands can never sin. But you step towards him and your eyes watch the movement of his chest and torso, wonder what he looks like bare--

“What kind of dreams?” You ask, voice gone soft as you peer at him.

He straightens up a moment to his full height, now turning his eyes on you, “Curious little thing, aren’t you?” He half scolds you, and you feel small but suddenly bold. There’s a catch in his eyes, a gleaming not dissimilar to Wanda’s. It’s haunting, exhilarating, it makes you take another few steps closer as if drawn to him by an unnatural force. And then he answers, “They’re nightmares. Horrible dreams.”

“Of what?” 

His lips twist into a ghost of a smile and he shakes his head, “They’re not for a girl’s ears.” 

“I’m not a girl,” You counter, “I haven’t been for many moons.” 

His eyes flash to you, at the rather crude reference of the blood that spills from you monthly. He is not appalled, he is not shocked or scandalized, instead he peers deeper into you. As if he can see the twisting of your innards, all of the blood that might spill from you the way it had from Mr. Fowler. Would you paint November in the bright flare of red, too? Bring color to this washed out world. 

“I dream I slip from my body.” He says and his eyes grow glassy, far-off. You near him as he continues, “Or that I no longer control myself.” His breath stutters and you are fully ensnared in him now, “And I do monstrous deeds.” 

“Of what?” You breathe, looking up into his face, so haunted and hollow and frightened.

His lip trembles, and he exhales;

“I knew they would be dead this morning.” 

“Mr. Barnes,” You gasp and his eyes suddenly snap to you, wholly black and wide, and you are so startled that you try to lurch back. 

But he grabs you with speed and strength, and cold metal wraps around your wrist, around the fluttering, lively pulse beneath your thin skin. A moth’s wings pinned, a rabbit in a snare. When he speaks, it is strange and spellbinding, “I know you hated Mr. Fowler.” He says through a wall of his white, white teeth. 

You look down at the metal hand that seems to have come to life, yelp at the way the unnatural fingers tighten upon you, squeezing, as if they are his very limb. As if it is flesh and bone, a steel skeleton come to life. 

“I have peered into your soul, temptress, and I know you thought his blood was pretty.” He snarls low and guttural, his eyes digging into you like a curved, arching dagger. 

Wildly, your eyes fly over his face, now twisted into such misery and rage. You try to pull your wrist from his metal grasp, your face flushing with color from exertion. Your eyes glitter with sudden tears, the cold air pricking at them. “Mr. Barnes--” You gasp, voice catching, breath curling into the air between you two. 

All he does is pull you forward, jerking you into the strong expanse of his chest as he lifts your wrist. “I know your thoughts are rotting.” He rumbles, and the sound vibrates through him and down into the marrow of your bones “You want more than this. Your heart longs for what it shouldn’t.” 

“Bucky, you’re hurting me.” You whimper, trying to twist and squirm but it's useless against the strength of him.

“Am I?” He hisses, voice like insects swarming, “I know what you want, little one.” He then croons so lowly that it slithers down into you like a serpent, coils into the darkest, most wretched parts of you. Sinks down into your core to unfurl in a sudden burst of heat--

And with the way he looks at you; as if you are to be devoured, as if you are to be torn apart by him or worshiped on an unholy altar. Your heart beats an unsteady, thunderous rhythm in the cavity of your chest. 

It echoes inside of you, demanding of you something you don’t know how to feed. 

His body is warm against yours, unnaturally so, save for the frigid hand constricting around the delicate skin of your wrist. You think he’ll bruise you, you think he’ll mark you for all to see and you’ll carry his brand. His eyes are as dark as a starless sky, blown out black as coal, as black as the he goat in the barn, as the smoke of hellfire.

“Bucky!” Steve shouts suddenly, and the two of you lurch away as if something has forced you apart. You cradle your wrist, try to rub the ache away, your heart still ricocheting around inside of you, as if it very well might escape entirely. 

Bucky blinks in horror, his eyes returning to the gentle midnight blue that you know so dearly. He stumbles back, his metal arm returning inanimate by his side. If it weren’t for the frightened, wild look in his face, you’d think it would’ve never happened at all.

“I need your help for a moment!” Steve yells, voice echoing. 

A flock of black birds burst into the shapeless, endless, grey sky at the loud noise. You jump at their sudden explosion of flight. They squawk and screech, wings flapping like your heart beating. 

Whatever had filled Bucky has fled now and his eyes are clear and shining, his cheeks flushed again, no unnatural darkness tracing the edges of his features. You watch him warily, your mind suddenly feverish with what he’d said to you, with the searing touch that now seems to scorch your skin. 

I knew they would be dead this morning. 

You should tell someone; Steve, Wanda, a minister. You should flee. 

But all you say is, “Go,” And you nod your head towards Steve and Wanda, “I will light a fire to warm you after.” 

He looks at you warily, as if he might apologize or thank you or question you; there’s such confusion in his eyes. He is lost, swimming in that black sea. What did I do? He asks silently, pleads with you, what have I done? 

You look away, unwilling to answer. He moves on cautiously, towards Steve and Wanda in the distance. You begin to make a fire as if all is normal, and all you can think about is how you are no longer shivering with cold. 

As if an ember has sparked, been cradled to a small flame in the cavernous depths of your soul. 

***

Some days later, Wanda wakes you at an odd hour of the night, moonlight spilling in through the small window of your shared bedroom. It fills the room with reaching shadows and cutting, silver light. You’d been sleeping soundly, curled onto your side when you are roused by small, seeking hands. 

You turn, eyes fluttering, a blurry shape in front of you. You make out Wanda’s impish features, the shadow of her slender figure. And her eyes--

Oh, her eyes. 

They’re glowing strangely, fever bright and glittering like rubies in the night. She sinks upon you, her body sliding so she straddles your hips, laying herself along you. You can feel the soft lines of her; her chest to yours, the heat of her nose and lips upon your neck and shoulder. 

“Wanda,” You exhale, twisting, a little confused. Her fingertips are hot, like little embers, dancing along bare skin. 

“Hush, my heart.” She shushes, “My little shrike.” She cooes, “My moon and stars.” Her nose and lips brush your cheek, her searching hands dipping underneath the thin, cotton nightgown that wraps around your body. 

“Wanda,” You gasp as her lips settle into a kiss upon the flamed skin of your cheek. “What are you doing?” 

She pulls back so that you may see her in all her nightshade glory, her hair sliding along her bare shoulders, her nightgown down, spilling around her arms so the tops of her breasts are revealed. She looks almost wild-eyed, strange and beautiful and seductive in the night. Her eyes swim before you, blood red and glittering and enchanting. There’s something heady and intoxicating about her, something you want to taste, that you want to sink into and drown in. 

“Giving you what you want,” She says on a simple sigh, just as her fingers find the curve of your breast, little dancing flames that have you shutter and arch. She tilts her head with wide, bright eyes; there’s a sweet, coy smile playing at her lips, her lashes fluttering like moth’s wings, as she asks too innocently, her voice gone high and soft and beguiling;

“Isn’t this what you want, little one?” 

Her clever fingers find the peak, make you squirm, make heat flood through you. She draws back the covers with her other hand to find your bare leg, your bare thigh, sliding up to your bare--

“Wanda!” You jolt, suddenly shy, trying to sit up but she forces you down. 

She grins wickedly, “Don’t hide from me.” And her nimble fingers stroke between your legs where you’ve become slippery and warm and silky. You feel flushed and heady, hypnotized by her. She sighs against you, settles deeper into your body like a corpse sinking into a grave, pushing her finger inside to make you gasp aloud. To claim you, to touch you in a way that no hand has ever touched before. 

“This isn’t new to you, though, is it?” She breathes, almost hisses, “I know because I hear you some nights.” Her fingers twist and a moan tumbles out of your lips, and she laughs, bright and warm, “Just like that, dearest.” 

You squirm, and slowly lose your inhibitions with every push and pull of her fingers, every glide of her. Had you not dreamed of this? Had you not wondered with a sinful mind what it might be like to feel her like this, to taste and be tasted by her? Had you not wondered what heaven or hell might have felt like? She’s damnation, sweet salvation; something so visceral and entangled within the pits of you, something profound and holy. 

The world falls away so that it is only you two and the moon, the pleasure she gives and torments you with. The town slips away, the rules, the Bible, your Holy God all dissipates like fog until you are only born of this warmth and vicious sweetness. She keeps you teetering on an edge, cruel mistress of night that she is. She trembles with you on a new beginning, baptized between your thighs, between hers. She lets you touch and explore the softness of her body with curious and hungry hands, no longer idle. 

She brands you with lips and teeth and tongue, makes you wild and insatiable. Her fingers wrap around your tender throat as she guides you towards another sharp and jagged edge. 

Her cheeks glow against yours, a face of fire and heat, her breaths tumultuous and warm against your shoulder. “You’re mine,” She seems to half-sob, her little hand tightening upon your throat as if to claim you, “Mine. I live in you, and you have possessed me so thoroughly I think I could die.” 

A broken moan from you, a gasp. 

“Say it,” She then hisses through her teeth, “Say you’re mine.” 

You whimper, push your hips into her hands as if she has bewitched you, taken hold of your very soul. The words fall from your kiss stung and abused lips, eager and knowing it to be true, “I’m yours, Wanda, I’m yours--” 

And then she claims you with lips, with body and soul, forces you into oblivion. She laughs with delight against your mouth, drinks up your cries and buries herself into the crooks and corners of your body. Of your very being. 

She lays with you beneath the moonlight, a new strange power surges through her, a brightness that cannot be dimmed. You think she might be a devil, a witch, a creature of the night with her lullaby voice and twilight kiss. You think she is damned and maybe you are, too.

You think she has claimed you and, as you tighten yourself around her body, your nails digging into her soft flesh, you think that you have claimed her, too. 

***

Wanda has never looked brighter, more flushed with life and vitality. She is radiant, even in all the grayness of devouring and lonesome autumn, when winter is on it’s tails. The town is thoroughly terrified and sick with horror as another two bodies arise. They’re just as the others, a bright mess of crimson and maroon and sludge. 

Steve and Bucky stay near you and Wanda, watch over you both closely. Bucky is changed, too, something in him has been bent and broken and fractured. You think he’s bleeding internally, you think there is something in him that needs to be taken out. 

Or maybe it doesn’t. His smiles are more hooked, shadowed, strange and tempting. You wonder what his teeth would feel like against your neck-- if he would taste like Wanda, if he’d touch you like her, too. 

You’ve never touched a man before. You’ve never been touched by one, either. 

Wanda and Bucky are strange together, you think. And you grow jealous when you see her fluttering her lashes at him and cooing. You don’t know who you’re more jealous of, which one of them you want to claw and tear apart with viciousness, with love and heat and something demented.  

Steve notices this new change, too, and he tries to console you when you pout. You think he would make a good husband if a husband was something you were interested in. So valiant and golden, too polished for your unclean hands. 

But husbands are so base, so simple. Wanda has opened your mind to something higher, something more enchanting and powerful. 

And in the middle of the nights, when it is only you and her, she promises to give you more. She promises to guide you further into such wonder that she has discovered. Then she devours you and makes you tremble and shake with her might and love. 

She grows stronger with each day; odd happenings following her. She grows angry and a glass may shatter. A neighbor who glares at you suddenly loses two of his cows. Someone calls Bucky an abomination and suddenly they are struck ill. 

When she returns to you, while you still pout with Steve, still mad over her attention to Bucky, she smiles brightly. She wraps her arms around your shoulders and kisses your cheek, “Tonight is the night, my stars.” And then she nuzzles at your jaw, amorous and warm, “Tonight is the night that I give you all the power I have been harboring.” 

She takes your hands in hers, kisses the inside of your wrist, “Tonight you become like me, in eternal darkness.” 

Her teeth nick your wrist playfully and she looks at you with burning, hooded eyes. You think if she could, she’d lay you out on the dirt and take you right there. Hitch up your skirts and grind her hips against yours until you were both desperate and wild for release. 

But Steve is there, and Bucky, too. 

You wish she would, still. 

She laughs and saunters away as if she knows your thoughts. The wind howls and bays, as if it knows, too. 

***

She dresses you that night in a thin, white gown. You whine that you’ll freeze to death, but she shushes you with burning lips. She promises not, promises that you will never feel cold again after tonight. 

She leads you barefoot and shivering out to the forest by the dim, flickering light of a candle. It burns in her hand, wax dripping and sliding the way honey does in the summer. You long for summer suddenly, for the warmth and sea of green. The candle casts little, dancing shadows that seem to lurk and follow you both.

She leads you by hand, guides you into the thick of the forest where the wolves howl and the foxes yip and the coyotes yowl. The owl cooes, eyes peering at you in the darkness. You are lead to a clearing, and the small, fluttering candle that you’ve used to navigate illuminates the shape of a man.

Large and muscled, broad shouldered and lonesome in the woods. 

“Don’t be scared,” Wanda coos, “Go to him.” 

Warily, you ease past her, past the flickering, gold light of the candle. And even in the darkness, you recognize his face, the unnatural metal arm--

Bucky stands bare from the waist up and you flush at his nudity, at the shape of a man. Hadn’t you wondered about his chest beneath his clothes? About his abdomen? Your eyes flicker lower and you blink, quickly avert your eyes as your blush grows deeper. His body is far different than Wanda’s. 

“Mr. Barnes,” You breathe, and Wanda comes to your side, lifting the candle up to illuminate his handsome and shadowed face. 

His eyes are purely black, inky, the way they’d been that day not so long ago, when he’d seized you so tightly. He looks different, cutting and jagged. 

“Somewhat.” Wanda answers you with a smile. “He is changed, though.” 

“Possessed,” You gasp, the thought striking you deeply and suddenly. Like a blow to your chest, you realize you gaze upon a demon. 

His eyes snap to you,“Hello, temptress.” He says in a voice that is his and not his all at once. 

“Are you afraid?” Wanda purrs and you shudder at her voice, at the cold that pricks your skin, at the hungry, hollow look in Bucky’s face. The forest seems alive and breathing, shuddering with you, terrified and expectant of what it is to transpire. 

The moon is full, hanging and heavy and open mouthed in a horrified scream against the sea of blackness. 

“Should I be?” You ask quietly, a whisper of the wind, and Wanda’s eyes glitter excitedly. Her eyes flash red, warming and shimmering like embers. 

Wanda sets the candle aside, comes to your back. She slides her fingers beneath your nightgown, begins to ease it down past your shoulders. You should protest, you should force her to stop, shield yourself from the gaze of the man in front of you. From the demon in front of you. But you let it happen, let it happen because some dark, most trapped part of you wants to. A piece of you that you have chained like an animal, a mongrel bitch, and tried to let die. It paces inside you now, hungry and waiting and ready. 

It runs its teeth along the tender, pink inner flesh of you. It’s creature-song sings to you now, a siren to surrender to.

So you stand in the darkness, the guttering flame of the candle upon you, bare and shivering in front of evil.

And evil lies you on the cold, unforgiving ground. Wanda is there beside you, stroking your face and your hair with warm, gentle fingers. More gentle than she has ever been with you, as if she can hear the fearful, pounding of your heart caught between your shuddering ribs. You’re suddenly new to touch, virginal and trembling, a new flower to be opened.

The weight of Bucky settles upon you, his body unnaturally warm and burning, his broad shoulders wide upon you. His lips and nose nuzzle your jaw, your neck, also with surprising care. You shift your legs, open them tentatively to fit his waist in the cradle of your hips and—

You can feel him there, the hard line of him and you flush, suddenly squeak. 

“Don’t be afraid, little one.” He rumbles, and his voice sounds clearer, as if the demon doesn’t speak for him any longer, but only the midnight timber of Bucky’s sweet voice. He lifts his head and only the slate, blue eyes of him gaze down at you. “I’ll be gentle,” He promises, rubbing his bearded cheek to yours; so rough compared to Wanda’s smooth one. 

“I know this is what you wanted.” Wanda says softly, her lips at your ear, tucking your hair from your face. “I know how you gaze at him.” 

The first touch of Bucky’s hands are rough and make you jolt; one calloused and scarred and another cold and metal. They slide along the dips and curves of you, firm and gentle. You squirm slightly, base and animal upon the ground. 

“I’ll make you mine,” He murmurs, nosing at your neck, his teeth skimming lightly there. “My bride of darkness, queen of beasts.” His voice dips now into that lowly, snaking one of a demon, “I’ve been waiting for you for so long, my love.” 

His hips roll, a push against yours that have you clinging to his large frame. He is so much bigger than what you know, so overpowering. Wanda ravishes you but she is slight and nimble. You make a noise of surprise, a whimper, a squeak. 

“Relax,” He coos darkly, his flesh hand sliding up your bare legs. “You’re hurting here, aren’t you? Aching in the pit of you.” And his warm, rough fingers slide against you; revealing that, despite your fear, you’ve become molten and slick. You can feel his hooked grin, “Oh, little queen, and how you’ve longed for me, too.” 

He strokes until you are pliant beneath him, urging you on, Wanda pressing kisses to your cheeks and neck, collar bones and shoulders. You shudder beneath him, let something inside of you curl and coil, like a serpent, like the tightening of a rope, pulled to its full length, creaking and swaying as everything grows that much tighter. 

“You were born for me,” Bucky’s rumbling voice is in your ears, against your throat laid bare for him, his voice seems to echo in the darkest pieces of your mind and heart. “Born for this.” He sighs, leaning heavier into you before he suddenly pushes down the length of your body.

He settles between your legs, spreading them wide with his shoulders. Pearl moonlight, silver and opal fall across his features like pale silk that you have only ever dreamed about. In this light, he could’ve been an angel, a creature made of softness and delicacies, his black eyes turning up to find you and stuttering back into lovely blue. 

He bows his head like you could be holy, like you are to be prayed to. His hair tickles the bare skin of your thighs, his fingers prodding gently and then his mouth presses to where you’re most sensitive. 

You arch like a bow off the ground at the first touch and Wanda is there to comfort you. She eases you up slightly, let’s your back lay against the soft warmth of her chest and strokes your face and neck, down to your breasts. 

She grasps your hands when you pull and twist at him so that you lay helpless in her arms, helpless to the too-hot glide of his mouth against you. The forest is silent save for your cries, you are the wolf that howls, the crying fox, the whining coyote. You let go, let them consume you until you don’t recognize yourself. Until your nails feel sharp and your heart feels so full it could burst from all the aching. 

“Please,” You whimper, your hips pushing towards his lips in desperation, “Please, I can’t take this any longer!”

He laughs darkly against the slick pink flesh of you, “Didn’t their God teach you patience, darkling?” 

And he waits until you’re nothing but an animal for him, until your head is spinning and there are tears streaming down your heated cheeks. Not until you dig nails into Wanda’s hands so deeply that you have broken skin and she hisses through her teeth. He gives you no release, cruel as he is, and eventually slides up along your body once more. 

He grasps Wanda by the back of the neck and pulls her sharply to his shining lips. She moans, the sound going straight down into the depths of you. 

“My loyal servant,” He tells her, his eyes once more black as a raven, shining under the flash of silver moonshine. “You brought her to me.” He murmurs reverently and she looks up at him adoringly, her wide eyes that flare deeply red and maroon are glittering like gemstones in a cave.

“Make her ours.” Wanda then breathes, and he smiles all sharp and gutting. 

He grasps your hips with metal and flesh, draws them closer and slides you towards him. Your head falls to Wanda’s abdomen, her lap. Her fingers brush your wet cheeks and you mewl, twist into her touch. He kneels before you, worshiping, and opens his trousers. 

You don’t have time to think because you can feel him between your legs now. He brushes the hard length of him along where you’re most sensitive and desperate. You feel empty suddenly, knowing that he will fill you, and suddenly tentative. 

He is large and burning and the crown of him dips inside of where no man has been. He exhales harshly, eyes seeped in black, so depthless and dark that it swallows the moon light. The first slow, heavy push of him makes you cry out.

“I-I can’t—“ You half beg, feel the stretch and breach of him deep inside of you, the pressure and heat that terrifies you. 

“Oh, you will,” He almost growls, as if you’re undoing him. His eyes are fixed to where he eases in deeper, slides slowly and he groans, broken and in the back of his throat. “You will, even if you’re so small.” 

Another slow push and then he sinks into you entirely, sinks down so that he covers you in all his strength. His breaths are ragged; he is unwoven by you, falling apart as he stretches you open.

You give another cry, hold incredibly still beneath him as the pressure mounts. You feel as if you’re splintering, broken open like ripe fruit, bursting forth with a new heat. Your hand squabbles over the muscles of his back before sinking into his skin with nails. 

You become overwhelmed, drag your nails deep into his skin to mark him, to urge him on or force him out, you can’t tell. You bare your teeth, let out a broken moan, a half-growl against the vein of his neck. You realize your own vulnerability, belly-up and soft to him, open and waiting. 

Wanda soothes you when he begins to move in you, traces her fingertips over your swollen lips, sinks inside the sweetness of your mouth and lets you suckle and kiss and bite. There’s a fever inside you, tormenting your insides. You whimper, the sound pulling at Bucky, and when he looks back down at you, his eyes burst back into blue. The demon seems to slink away, or Bucky has regained control, again. 

You almost expect him to jolt away again, to flush with fear but—

“Oh,” He gasps instead, unraveled man, fallen from grace. He gathers you in his arms, pulls you closer and tucks you into him, as if he could pull you beneath his skin and bury you behind the strong bones of his ribs. He holds fast to you, suddenly lifts you into his lap, into his arms. “Oh, pretty girl.” He murmurs as he moves you slowly over him, foggy and heady with you. 

Your world begins to blur. You don’t know where the demon ends and Bucky begins. You don’t think you care, when all of that pain and burning gives way to a hedonistic pleasure. You move over him on your own, can feel the slickness of you, you can feel the deep seated ache you need to ease. 

The teetering edge, the right and creeping rope, ready to snap. The leash on the beast inside of you begins to splinter. 

Wanda’s at your back then, lips at your neck, brushing your ear. “Repeat after me,” She murmurs, voice a lulling warmth that sinks into your marrow. 

“Et dabo tibi animam meam,” She murmurs, her voice gaining a haunting, otherworldly inflection, as if other voices buzz alongside hers. 

So you repeat with a thick, honeyed tongue the Latin words that seems to simmer and etch themselves into you. You feel the power surge in her, in him, in you; a tether woven tightly between you three. His thrusts become rougher, his eyes flooding with crude black once more. 

“Nunc, et in perpetuum magis.” Wanda finishes in your ear, a possessive hand curled around the bones of your waist, along the curve of your breast. 

The words fall from your mouth as easily as if you’ve known them your entire, unforgiving life. And then there is a pull, snap of your heartstrings. The howling mongrel in you bursts loose, the heat and life and viciousness unfurls from within. You feel as if you’re being torn apart, as if another creature is clawing its way out of your core, your soft stomach and aching chest. 

The demon groans, spills inside of you; his seed so hot that you feel it may burn you. As if it burns its way through you, into your womb and heart and being. 

“You’re mine now,” The demon and Bucky say, rough hand cradling your cheek. “Semper magis.” He hushes against your lips and seals it with a claiming, damned kiss.

Then he sinks talons into your soul, teeth into your bottom lip and your heart, locks his essence tight to yours and throws away the ancient, heavy key.

***