#buckyxwanda

John turned then, frown cutting across his face. “You’re falling apart.”

“No shit,” she laughed bitterly. The red light from the bulb caught the sheen of sweat across her temple. She tried to phase steady, tried to breathe through it, but then the floor dropped out from under her.

Not literally—but in her head.

The sound came first. The piercing, high, endless blaring of sirens inside her skull. Add in the clipped orders in Russian, clinical English murmurs about energy output, words like specimen and containment breach.

Her body jerked and fractured, half in the room, half somewhere else. The safehouse warped into a sterile chamber: white walls, restraints, bright lights burning into her eyes until she couldn’t see. The smell of ozone and scorched skin flooded her senses, thick and choking. Her throat convulsed around air that wasn’t there.

She clawed at her chest, desperate to hold herself together as her atoms threatened to scatter. Not again, not again, don’t let them take me apart.

Her voice cracked raw. “Don’t let them…don’t…”

John swore and dropped to his knees. “Hey, hey, stay with me.” He grabbed her wrists, and the static burned up his arms as she thrashed, her body passing through his grip before snapping back solid again. Her scream split the air. John’s gut twisted. She wasn’t here, wasn’t seeing him at all. She was drowning in a place he couldn’t reach, and she was tearing herself apart on the way down.

So he slammed his forehead against hers, hard enough to jolt them both.

Her eyes widened for a second, pupils blown, and in that flicker of stillness he saw her—saw Ava, not the Ghost or the experiment.

“There you go,” he muttered, voice low, steady. “With me. Not them. Not a lab. Me.”

The sirens in her skull still wailed, but through them, she could hear his breath, slow and deliberate, dragging her back. He didn’t let her slip away, his grip was unyielding, his voice cutting through the static.

“Breathe. Copy me. In. Out. Again.”

She sobbed but followed his instruction. Each inhale tore at her lungs, each exhale shuddered like glass cracking, but she matched him. Her body steadied, the shimmer easing until she was solid again. She collapsed against him, forehead pressed to his shoulder, fingers knotted tight in his shirt.

“I hate this,” she whispered, every word soaked in exhaustion and shame.

“Yeah,” John rasped, his jaw tight. He didn’t loosen his grip, didn’t let her drift. “Me too.”

For a moment, there was only the buzz of the bulb, the hammering of rain above.

“They… pulled me apart. Piece by piece. Until I didn’t know if I’d ever come back together.” Her breath caught, chest shaking. “Sometimes I think I’m still on that table.”

John closed his eyes briefly, jaw working. He didn’t tell her she was wrong. Didn’t offer empty assurances. He just tightened his hold, anchoring her weight against him. “You’re here now. And as long as I’m breathing, you’re not going back there.”

Her grip on his shirt tightened, as if testing the promise. She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But she stayed, pressed against him, letting his steadiness be the thing that kept her from unraveling again.

That’s when she felt him: cold and relentless, a ghost wearing skin.

She turned, red mist swirling around her shoulders, as a shadow detached itself from the edge of the rooftop. The Winter Soldier moved like a phantom — black tactical gear, combat mask reflecting her crimson glow, metal arm gleaming. His rifle was raised, aimed at her heart.

“Maximoff,” he said flatly, voice muffled but unmistakable.

“They sent their favorite ghost for me.” The smile not reaching her eyes.

He didn’t respond. A single suppressed shot cracked the air. She flicked her wrist, the bullet freezing mid-flight, spinning lazily in front of her face before dropping to the ground with a clink.

The Soldier didn’t hesitate. He holstered his rifle and charged.

Scarlet light exploded between them as Wanda swept her arm, but he ducked under the wave of magic with assassin’s precision, landing hard and fast, striking at her ribs. She caught his metal arm with a burst of red energy, the collision sending sparks through the air.

“Still a puppet,” she taunted, breathless as she shoved him back with a blast.

“Still a witch,” he growled, moving again.

They clashed in a blur of steel and scarlet, raw chaos barely contained. He countered her every move with ruthless efficiency, while she bent reality itself to stop him. For every knife he threw, she melted it midair. For every bolt of magic she hurled, he was practically shadow slipping past it.

And for the first time in a long while, Wanda felt challenged, and she liked it.

A knife whistled past her ear, close enough to slice a strand of her hair. Wanda snarled, her magic snapping outward like a whip, sending him skidding back against the rooftop ledge. But the Soldier rolled with the impact, using the momentum to launch himself forward again, metal arm slamming into her shield of red light with a bone-rattling crack.

She staggered under the force, boots scraping against wet concrete. He was stronger than she expected. Faster, too. His mask betrayed nothing, but his eyes—icy blue and sharp as shattered glass—never left her face.

“You don’t have to do this,” she hissed, hands glowing as she flung him back with a flick of her fingers.

He hit the ground, rolled, and came up firing. The bullets curved midair, screeching as they bent away from her in a spiral of crimson energy. Wanda let them fall like rain around her feet, her expression twisting.

“Of course,” she murmured to herself, realization dawning. “You’re theirs.”

He didn’t flinch. His expression didn’t change. The Winter Soldier was a shadow given form, a man carved hollow and filled with orders.

And she hated Hydra all over again for what they’d made him.

He lunged, closing the distance in a heartbeat. Metal fingers clamped around her throat—not tight enough to kill, just enough to pin her. Wanda’s hand shot up, scarlet light wrapping his arm in a vice.

For a split second, their faces were inches apart.

His breath was steady as her magic crackled, bright enough to paint his mask red.

“Do it,” he rasped, voice cold, daring her.

Wanda’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

With a scream of twisting metal, she ripped the rooftop apart beneath them. Concrete shattered, rebar snapped, and the Soldier stumbled as the ground gave way. Scarlet light surged around her like a storm, hurling him backward, slamming him into a billboard frame with enough force to bend steel.

She hovered a few feet off the ground now, hair whipping around her face, eyes glowing red. The Scarlet Witch—untethered and terrifying.

The Soldier groaned, dragging himself to his feet, already reaching for another blade. Wanda’s magic flickered, wrapping around his body like phantom chains, lifting him an inch off the ground. He thrashed but didn’t cry out, jaw clenched tight.

“Stop fighting,” she whispered, her voice echoing unnaturally. “You don’t want this.”

But she saw it in his mind—flashes of pain, commands, missions. His memories screamed behind his eyes. He wasn’t fighting her. He was fighting for control.

The sound of helicopters cut through the night. Wanda’s head snapped up—Hydra reinforcements, closing fast. She cursed under her breath, magic faltering. The Soldier dropped to his knees, and in that split second of weakness, he lunged, knife flashing toward her throat.

Her hand moved faster. Red light exploded, knocking him back and sending the knife clattering off the edge of the roof. Wanda’s breath came in sharp bursts as she raised both hands, crimson magic swirling around her in a vortex.

“Not tonight,” she whispered.

The rooftop vanished in a shockwave of chaos energy, a crimson bloom ripping through the night sky. By the time the smoke cleared and Hydra’s choppers circled the wreckage, Wanda was gone.

The Soldier staggered to his feet in the rubble, face unreadable. He retrieved his knife, slid it back into its sheath, and touched his comm.

“Target escaped,” he reported in a flat tone, though his hands trembled just slightly.

Far above, perched on another rooftop, Wanda watched him disappear into the shadows. Her lips curved into the faintest, bitter smile.

“Not for long,” she murmured.

Wanda crouched on the edge of a crumbling clocktower two blocks away, scarlet light flickering faintly at her fingertips as she caught her breath. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven rhythms; the magic still hummed in her veins, wild and restless, like it wanted to keep fighting even when she was too tired to move.

Rain dripped from her hair and lashes, streaking across her pale cheeks, cooling the burn of power thrumming just under her skin. Below her, the city lights blurred through the drizzle, a smear of neon and smoke. Somewhere in the distance, helicopters cut through the night sky like vultures circling a corpse.

She should leave. She knew that. Disappear into the tunnels or the woods, find some quiet corner where Hydra’s eyes couldn’t reach. That’s what she’d been doing for months—running, hiding, fighting when she had to.

But tonight felt different.

Wanda closed her eyes, and for a split second, she was back on that rooftop. She could still feel the Soldier’s hand around her throat—controlled, steady, but not cruel. She could see his eyes through the mask, icy and hollow yet… haunted.

He wasn’t just a weapon. She’d seen it, felt it in the way his mind screamed beneath layers of conditioning. He wasn’t empty. He was trapped.

And that haunted her more than she cared to admit.

She curled her fingers into her palms, magic flaring briefly before dimming again. “They broke you,” she whispered to no one, her Sokovian accent thickening as her voice trembled.

For a moment, her mind betrayed her with memories of her own. Cold rooms. Restraints. The quiet hum of machines. The way HYDRA scientists looked at her like she wasn’t human, just a project with a pulse. She’d clawed her way out of their cages, but some nights, she still woke up tasting the antiseptic air of their labs.

And now they had him.

Her stomach twisted as she thought of his precision, his silence. Every move he made was calculated, practiced. Hydra’s perfect creation. She’d fought killers before, but there was something different about him.

Something that reminded her of herself.

The rain picked up, pattering against the stone as she pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She didn’t know why she hadn’t killed him. It would’ve been easier. Quicker.

Instead, she’d let him live.

Instead… she couldn’t stop thinking about those eyes.

Wanda let out a shaky breath, pushing herself to her feet. The Scarlet Witch didn’t linger. She didn’t dwell on enemies. And yet, as she melted back into the storm, her mind stayed on the Winter Soldier.

“You’re not even looking,” she teased, her accent lacing the words with warmth. She stood before a portrait of a woman in a flowing gown, her head tilted as she studied the brushstrokes.

“I am,” Bucky said, leaning casually against the wall. “I just prefer the masterpiece holds my heart.”

Wanda’s lips curved into a soft smile as she gave him a playful nudge with her shoulder. “Smooth talker,” she murmured, but her cheeks flushed pink.

They had decided to keep their anniversary simple this year. Just the two of them, walking through her favorite museum. Bucky hadn’t been much for art back in Brooklyn, but he’d learned to love it through her eyes. The way she’d stand perfectly still, gaze soft, as if she could feel the emotion of the painter through time, he found himself drawn to that more than the canvases themselves.

“Do you like it?” she asked, glancing back at him, her eyes flickering to the portrait again.

“Not as much as I like you,” he said honestly, stepping up behind her. His hands slid gently around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. She melted into him easily, her head resting just under his jaw as he pressed a soft kiss into her hair.

The world fell quiet in that moment — just the faint hum of the lights above, the distant footsteps of strangers, and the rhythm of Wanda’s breath.

“You’re sentimental today,” she whispered.

“It’s our anniversary,” he reminded her softly, his voice rough with affection. “You deserve to be reminded every second how much I love you.”

Her fingers traced his metal hand where it rested on her hip, the cool vibranium warmed by his touch. “I already know,” she said with a soft laugh.

“Then let me say it anyway,” he murmured against her ear. “Because I’ve lived long enough to know… what I’ve got with you? It doesn’t compare to anything else.”

Wanda turned in his arms, her eyes glistening with that quiet, endless love he’d never believed he’d find again. She cupped his jaw with both hands, thumbs brushing over his stubble as she leaned in, pressing her lips to his.

The kiss was slow, tender. When they finally pulled apart, Bucky rested his forehead against hers, his breath mingling with hers.

“Thank you,” she whispered with a smile, eyes still closed.

“For what?” he asked softly.

“For loving me like this,” she said, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “For making even an art museum feel like home.”

Bucky chuckled and kissed her again, quick and sweet this time. “Anywhere with you is home, doll.”

The metallic tang of blood mixed with the faint ozone hum of Wanda’s magic, the scarlet glow flickering weakly from her trembling hands.

She knelt in the wreckage-strewn alley, knees pressed into broken glass, Bucky’s head cradled in her lap. His vibranium arm twitched involuntarily with every shallow gasp, specks of gold glinting faintly under the grime and blood.

“Stay with me, please,” she whispered. “Don’t close your eyes. Don’t—” Her accent thickened as panic clawed up her throat. “I can fix this. I can—”

But her powers only crackled, surging and faltering like a dying ember. Her hands hovered above his chest, torn between pressing on the wound and letting her chaos magic try to knit him back together. Each attempt sent jolts of red light sparking uselessly over his body, the smell of scorched fabric rising from his uniform.

“Wanda…” His voice was hoarse, barely audible, but still gentle. He flinched as pain wracked through him, and she froze, tears streaking her face.

“Please don’t cry,” he murmured, eyelids fluttering. “Doll, you’re—” He coughed, blood painting his lips. “You’re breaking my heart.” His lips tilted slightly as he tried to smirk, but he winced instead.

Her breath hitched.

He’s dying. He’s dying because of me.

It was supposed to be a simple extraction. She’d lost control for a fraction of a second and the building collapsed on top of him. She could still hear the sickening crunch of brick and steel.

She tried again, magic flaring violently, wrapping around his ribs and lungs like phantom fingers. “No, no, no, I won’t lose you,” she whispered, forehead pressing to his temple. The glow from her powers reflected in the alley’s shattered puddles, crimson against the dark.

His metal hand twitched toward hers, the weight of it grounding her hysteria for a moment. “You… gotta breathe, Malishka,” he slurred, his voice breaking with a wheeze. “You’re shaking like a leaf.”

She sobbed, clutching his flesh hand with both of hers. “I’m not losing you. I won’t.”

Sirens wailed faintly in the distance. Backup was coming, but she wasn’t sure they’d make it in time. She pressed her glowing hands harder to his wound, whispering in Sokovian, prayers and pleas tangled together, tears dripping down onto his face.

When his breathing hitched again, a guttural sound tearing from his chest, she thought she might rip reality apart itself if it meant saving him. Scarlet magic flared bright enough to cast dancing shadows against the alley walls, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Please don’t cry,” Bucky rasped again, barely coherent. “I’m not worth your tears.”

Bucky leaned back against the corner, jaw clenched tight, trying to hide how unsteady his legs felt. His metal hand pressed flat against the wall as if testing its strength, the other tucked against his ribs in what looked casual. He watched her as she paced in the small box, using her as movement as a way to keep him present.

But she stopped pacing. She turned towards him, narrowing her eyes at him. “You could at least say something. It’s not like silence is helping.”

He exhaled through his nose, the barest shake of his head. “Talking’s not gonna get us out faster.”

Wanda scoffed and resumed pacing, her irritation sharper than the flickering lights above them. She didn’t notice how carefully he shifted his weight, how much effort it took for him to stay upright.

Wanda’s boots struck the floor in a steady rhythm, the sound grating against Bucky’s nerves. Each flicker of the light overhead seemed to crawl inside his skull, pulling ghosts of metal restraints and Russian voices with it. He blinked hard, focusing on her movement the way a drowning man clings to driftwood.

But then her steps slowed. She was watching him again, head tilted slightly, gaze narrowing as if she could peel away the mask he wore.

“You’re breathing funny,” she said flatly. Again, her eyes sharpened, taking in his expression.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”

Her eyes narrowed further, the red glow around her fingers growing brighter. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Newsflash,” he muttered, shifting against the wall, “something’s always wrong with me.”

Her arms folded tight across her chest. “You don’t trust me enough to tell me the truth. Is that it?”

Bucky pushed off the wall just enough to glare back, hoping to hide that the effort nearly buckled his knees. “Trust isn’t exactly my specialty.”

The silence that followed pressed harder than the steel walls. Wanda’s eyes flicked to the hand braced against his side, her irritation sharpening into something else entirely.

The elevator groaned again, a low metallic shiver that rattled the bolts in the walls. The light above them flared once, then dimmed to a sickly glow. Bucky shifted, meaning to straighten, but the motion dragged a hiss from his lips. His metal hand slipped on the wall, and for a moment he sagged against it, jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped in his cheek.

That’s when Wanda saw it. The dark smear glistening across his ribs where his hand pressed. Blood.

“You’re hurt.” Her gaze softened, as she took a step towards him.

He forced a humorless smirk, shaking his head. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” Her voice cracked, louder than she meant. In two strides she was in front of him, her hands catching his arm before he could turn away. The warmth of his blood seeped against her palm, and scarlet flickered wild and uncontrolled at her fingertips.

“Sit down before you fall down,” she snapped.

Bucky muttered something under his breath, too low for her to catch, but his knees gave anyway. He slid down the wall, head tipped back, breath ragged.

Wanda pressed her glowing hands hard over the wound, light spilling through her fingers as if it could stitch him back together by sheer will.

Her hands shook against him, the scarlet glow slipping uncontrolled around her palms. She pressed harder, panic scraping her throat raw. “You idiot,” she muttered, her accent growing thicker. “You should’ve said something.”

Bucky gave a rough laugh that dissolved into a wince. “Didn’t seem worth the argument.”

She leaned closer, her words tumbling out fast, desperate, almost like a prayer. “Tell me that you’re okay, and I’m fine.”

For a second, he just stared at her, eyes glazed with pain, but they sharpened by her plea. The sarcasm faded, and he let his head fall back against the wall with a shaky breath. “That’s a pretty low bar for fine,” he rasped, lips twitching, the effort to smile was exhausting.

Her magic crackled wild again, her fear bleeding into it. “Please.”

He forced himself to meet her eyes, fighting the dark edges crowding his vision. “I’m okay,” he said hoarsely, and then, softer, like he meant it for her more than himself: “You’re fine.”

The fight bled out of her the second he said it. Wanda’s shoulders slumped, her breath coming in uneven pulls as she tried to believe him. Her hands steadied, the glow softening from a frantic crackle into a slow, pulsing light that stemmed the bleeding.

Bucky let out a long, shaky sigh, eyes slipping closed. For once, he didn’t argue when she guided him to sit fully on the floor, her shoulder braced under his arm.

“Don’t fall asleep,” she warned.

“Not planning to,” he murmured, though the heaviness in his tone betrayed his words.

They sat in silence, pressed side by side, their shared exhaustion filling the narrow space. The light above them flickered again, then steadied with a groan of machinery. The elevator shuddered back to life, jerking downward.