They successfully made it back to the land of the living, maybe a little worse for ware. Leo and Donnie have to learn to share one form, and it wasn't easy with Leos body fighting them the whole time. His condition was only going to get worse from there. They set out to find Donnies body so they can transfer his soul, but they soon find out that that wasn't going to be so easy.
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Summary: The Avengers intercept with the evacuation plans and take you in. Not as a teammate, but as a question mark, an echo of someone they failed to see until it was far too late.
Word Count: 3.5k+
Main Masterlist | The One You Donât See Masterlist
The blast came without warning.
Not an explosion meant to kill, but one designed to disable. It was controlled, pinpointed, and unmistakably Stark tech. A pulse charge detonated just ahead of the lead vehicle, and in an instant, everything unraveled. The tires screamed against the dirt, the van fish-tailed with a shriek of momentum before grinding to a shuddering, crooked stop.
Inside the second van, your van, there was a beat of stunned silence. No panic. No screaming. Just the heavy realization of what had happened. Theyâd found you.
Before the driver could even slam the gear into reverse, a concussive blast rocked the rear tires. Outside, shadows moved with swift, practiced silence. Boots on gravel. Air cutting open with a grappling hook. The whirrrr of wings folding in above the dust.
A moment later, the door was ripped open.
The sunlight poured in like judgment.
âHands up!â Sam barked, silhouette cutting against the bright sky, gauntlet sparking slightly as his stance remained defensive but ready.
The others in the van reacted out of instinct. One went for a weapon and was instantly stunned by a tranquilizer dart. Another tried to bolt, only to meet the barrel of Natashaâs sidearm as she moved like water, cold, efficient, and already in position.
You didnât move. Your eyes remained forward. Blank and observing. You heard the familiar shift of Steveâs boots hitting the ground outside, the echo of authority in his stride. His voice followed: low, controlled, unshakable.
âStep out. Now.â
You obeyed and so did the rest. No one had to force you. You moved on your own, stepping out of the vehicle slowly, deliberately with your hands raised, fingers open. You didnât stumble. You didnât shrink. You didnât try to explain.
Which may have been why the silence you brought with you was louder than any fight.
Natashaâs expression cracked first. Her brows pulled in, confused and cautious. Samâs mouth opened slightly, like he wanted to say something but didnât have the words ready. Steve watched you the way a soldier might stare at a field that used to be home before it was turned to ash.
And Bucky?
He didnât speak, barely breathed. He just stared. Because the moment he saw you, really saw you, it hit like a punch to the ribs. The same you, and yet not. You were dressed in plain black tactical gear. No insignia. No visible rank. Your face was unreadable and your posture was calm. Too calm.
Not frightened. Not pleading. Just⌠present. Present in a way that was devastating. Because you werenât a hostage and you werenât broken. You were gone in a way none of them had anticipated. And worse⌠it looked like you had chosen to be.
A second later, the front cab was forced open. Maren was yanked out, her shoulder bleeding from a clean graze, but her mouth twisted into a half-smile that seemed to mock the whole situation. She was cuffed quickly, pushed to her knees as Natasha kept a watchful eye on the others being subdued around her.
âGuess the rescue party showed up after all,â She muttered, looking up with a smirk. âBit dramatic, donât you think?â
Steve didnât dignify it with a response.
The moment ended without fanfare. Orders were given. Guards cuffed. Others secured. The vehicles were abandoned. And you, once a quiet, unnoticed worker, were walked cuffed and silent into the Quinjet like a piece of evidence.
You walked without looking at the others. Without acknowledging the way they glanced at you from the corners of their eyes, searching for a trace of who you used to be. The girl who fetched their files. Who memorized their preferences. Who spoke only when needed and even then, softly.
They hadnât seen her before. But now they couldnât stop looking. You sat when they told you to. A designated seat in the rear of the jet, near the storage hull. Secure and monitored.
Sam sat across from you, adjusting a wrap on his arm. He stared for a while in silence.
Then, gently, âAre you okay?â
You didnât answer. Not out of defiance, but because what did that even mean? What version of okay could he possibly be asking about?
Okay that they left you?
Okay that they forgot?
Okay that they were too late to save someone who didnât need saving anymore?
You turned your head away and stared out the window instead.
Quinjet lifted with a quiet shudder which made you look up, just once.
And there you saw Bucky who sat near the front silently, staring back at you. He didnât look triumphant. He looked like someone staring at the answer to a question he wasnât sure he wanted to ask.
And still, you gave him nothing. Not a smile. Not a glare. Not even a flicker of emotion. You just turned your gaze away again.
Let them take you back. Let them try to fit you into a puzzle they never understood to begin with. Let them think this was over.
When you all finally made it to the compound, your arrival wasnât met with alarms.
No red lights. No blaring sirens. No dramatic hallway confrontations. Just silence and a small, reinforced holding room. It wasnât a cell, exactly, but not a guest suite either. It was simply neutral, clinical, sterile. Possessing a two-way mirror, observation camera, padded bench, and a single table with no sharp edges.
You didnât complain. You sat quietly, as you always had, hands folded in your lap, looking more like an intern waiting for a meeting than someone fresh out of enemy custody.
Except now, no one could agree on what you were. And the longer you remained quiet, the harder it became for them to pretend you were just another debrief waiting to happen.
Steve paced the briefing room like he was chasing ghosts.
âShe hasnât asked for a lawyer. Hasnât spoken to anyone,â He said, running a hand through his hair. âSheâs not requesting immunity, not requesting to leave. Itâs like sheâs⌠waiting.â
âFor what?â Sam asked. âPermission to go back?â
âShe didnât try to,â Natasha pointed out. She was seated at the table, arms crossed, fingers tapping a slow rhythm on her sleeve. âWe intercepted the evacuation. She was calm and complied, came with us.â
âShe came with us,â Bucky echoed quietly from the corner, âBut she didnât come back.â
The room stilled.
Bruce looked up from the file in front of him, his voice low. âShe worked with them for almost six months now. Designed their data systems. Improved their evasion tactics. That organization spread faster than we predicted because of her.â
âSheâs not a killer,â Bucky said suddenly, sharply.
âNo,â Natasha agreed, eyes unreadable. âBut sheâs not innocent either.â
Silence fell again.
Sam sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. âSo what now? We charge her? Let the UN poke at her until she shuts down and disappears into some prison for the rest of her life?â
âSheâs not some war criminal,â Bucky snapped. âSheâs someone we let slip through the cracks.â
âSheâs someone who chose to work for the people tearing the world apart,â Steve said. His voice wasnât angry, just tired. âShe made that decision.â
âBut why?â Bucky asked, gaze hard. âBecause they kidnapped her? Because they brainwashed her? Or because the people who were supposed to look after her treated her like a shadow for years?â
That landed with weight. Steve didnât argue it. No one did.
Later, the woman Bucky had been seeing slipped into the room with two cups of tea. She set one down beside Steve and held her own with both hands, steam curling softly between her fingers.
âShe hasnât said anything?â She asked lightly.
âNo,â Steve murmured, jaw tight.
âStrange,â She said with a soft frown. âI mean, maybe she just doesnât know what to say. Or who to say it to. Not everyoneâs built for pressure, you know.â
Bucky looked at her sharply, but she didnât notice. Or pretended not to.
âIâm sure youâll figure it out,â She added. âBut if you guys need help getting through to her⌠let me know.â
Then she smiled and left.
Sam watched her go, then looked at Bucky. âSheâs too curious about all this.â
âSheâs always been curious,â Bucky muttered, eyes narrowed. âBut now Iâm starting to think it wasnât just about me.â
And in your room, you waited.
Youâd been fed. Youâd been watched. But no one had come in to speak with you yet. They didnât know where to start.
Were you a threat? A victim? A former ally gone wrong? Or just a quiet girl who had finally stopped waiting to be seen?
You leaned back against the wall, expression unreadable. They didnât know what to do with you, but neither did you.
In the late evening, you heard him before you saw him.
Not his voice, his steps. You knew the way he walked. The weight in each step. The pause before the door hissed open like he wasnât sure if he should come in. Part of you wanted to sit straighter. Fix your posture. Pretend you hadnât been slumped against the wall like a wilted plant for the last hour.
But you didnât move. You didnât look up. Not until he spoke.
âDid you know it was me?â He asked, his voice softer than you expected. Hesitant.
You blinked, still facing the wall. Of course it was him. Youâd felt it the second he stepped onto that dirt road. That particular silence he carried, the kind that wrapped around a room instead of filling it.
âWhen we hit the base,â He added. âDid you know I was there?â
Your throat tightened. You simply shrugged.
The silence between you stretched, awkward but not unfamiliar. He didnât rush to fill it, didnât pace or fidget like Steve or Sam might. He just stood there, watching you like you were a stormcloud heâd once walked beneath and couldnât decide if it had ever really rained.
âYou looked different,â He said after a beat. âNot scared. Not⌠lost. Just⌠like youâd made a life there.â
That stung more than it shouldâve. You turned your head, just a little and met his eyes. And God help you, he still looked like him.
Bucky Barnes. The man you used to think was unreachable. Not because he was distant even though he was, but because even his kindness felt like it was meant for someone else. Someone bolder. Braver. Not the background girl who handed him intel reports with shaking fingers and too many unspoken words.
âThat wasnât a life,â You murmured.
It was the first thing youâd said in a while. Your voice came out rough, unfamiliar even to you.
He froze.
You watched him. Steady and tired.
âThey made space for me,â You said quietly. âGave me work, a purpose. They asked me questions and noticed me.â
He took a step forward, then another.
âYou mattered here,â He said gently.
You almost laughed. You really, really almost did.
âTo who?â You asked, too softly to be bitter. Just curious now. Exhausted.
Because even after everything, even after all the silence and distance, you still remembered what it felt like to watch him laugh with someone else. To stand near him and never be seen. And to know heâd never love you. Not like that, not the way you had quietly hoped.
Your voice was steady but sharp with the effort it took to keep it that way. âI wasnât like the rest of you. I didnât save cities. I didnât have charm, training, or powers. I didnât matter until I left.â
His eyes searched yours. âThatâs not true.â
You gave him a look, more tired than angry.
âThen why didnât anyone notice I was gone?â
Bucky looked away first. His silence didnât sting the way it used to. It just confirmed what youâd already known. Theyâd missed you the moment they saw what youâd become, not when you were still there.
His mouth pressed into a thin line. You watched the guilt rise in him like steam, curling under his skin.
âI wasnât angry when I left,â you said. â I didnât even plan to. I was just⌠forgotten. And then someone remembered me. They kept me, treated me like I was useful, even if it was for the wrong reasons. And I kept telling myself Iâd leave eventually. ButâŚâ
You looked away.
But you didnât come looking.
Not Bucky. Not Steve. Not anyone. And God, you hated that some small, aching part of you still cared what Bucky thought now. That same part of you that used to wonder if the way he lingered in doorways or offered quiet thank youâs meant anything. That used to hope maybe one day heâd notice you beyond the reports and the routine.
And now here he was. Sitting across from you like you were someone who mattered again. And yet, it was too Too late.
âI never forgot you,â He said suddenly, voice low.
You met his eyes again, and for a moment, something cracked in you. The part that still held onto old feelings. The part that used to whisper: Maybe if you were enough, heâd see you.
He leaned forward slightly, forearms on his knees, and brow drawn with a guilt he wore too well.
âSteve doesnât know what to do. Neither does Natasha. Sam is worried the UNâs gonna step in and turn this into a case file.â
You didnât speak.
âThey donât know if you were taken⌠or if you chose it.â
You swallowed.
âWhat about you?â You asked quietly. âWhat do you think?â
He looked at you fully then. Like he wasnât sure whether to reach for you or let you go, like someone scared to break something already fractured.
âI think you didnât have a reason to stay,â He said. âAnd thatâs on us.â
You blinked fast. Donât cry. Not in front of him. Not now.
He added, even softer, âI shouldâve checked in. Shouldâve talked to you more. Noticed more. You were always⌠there. I just got used to it. I never asked what that cost you.â
You stared at him. Because all those things were true. And none of them fixed anything. And still, some hollow part of you ached to believe him. To believe he meant it. Even now. Even after everything.
He stood slowly. âI donât know what happens next, but know Iâm here for you. Just call.â
You didnât answer and he left without expecting one. The door hissed closed behind him.
You didnât move for a long time. Just sat there on the padded bench, wrists still sore from the cuffs. The room smelled like recycled air and too-clean walls.
You could still feel where heâd looked at you.
Not physically, but in that way you knew too well. The way people stared when they noticed you. When they suddenly realized theyâd been blind for too long, and it was too late to undo it.
You curled your knees up and rested your chin on them.
He used to smile at the woman who brought him coffee. Not you. She was light, easy with conversation. Sheâd wear sun-warmed sweaters and brush Buckyâs arm without hesitation. She looked like she belonged.
You were the one who memorized his black coffee order and left it near his door when he was too tired to ask. You were the one who adjusted the lighting in the mission briefings because you noticed he flinched in the brighter rooms. The one who once thoughtâ
Stop.
You squeezed your eyes shut hard, trying to burn the thoughts away. But they came anyway.
You had fallen for a version of him that was never yours to begin with. Youâd wanted something gentle, something quiet, something kind. But youâd mistaken his silence for softness. Mistaken his nods for something closer. Mistaken your own loneliness for love.
And now, after all that?
You were back in their hands. Not trusted. Not freed. Just⌠tolerated. An inconvenient problem with too much history to erase and too little value to keep.
You wiped at your eyes angrily before the tears could fall. You werenât going to cry. Not for them. Not for him.
Let Bucky feel guilty. Let them all feel it. Because none of them came when it mattered. Not when you started slipping. Not when you stopped showing up in common areas. Not when you left.
They only came when they needed to clean up their own mess.
You werenât their teammate. You were their oversight.
And now? Now they didnât know whether to lock you up or pretend they cared.
It was a while later until they brought you into a smaller room this time.
No restraints. Just two guards who didnât meet your eyes, and a seat bolted to the floor in front of a metal table that had been polished too clean. Across from it were two empty chairs. One for Steve. One for Natasha.
Of course it would be them.
The two who always had to hold the line. Captain America and the spy who never missed anything. Fair. Tactical. Clinical.
Your steps were quieter than theirs. You didnât need to be announced.
So, you sat.
The room wasnât cold, but you felt cold anyway. That kind of chill that sinks in from being looked through too many times for too many years. That kind of ache that crept up behind your ribs and made your chest feel hollow.
The door opened softly as Steve entered first, jaw tense, and posture perfect. Natasha followed. Her eyes didnât flicker toward you immediately, but you knew better. She was already studying everything: your posture, your breathing, and the faint tremor in your fingers.
They sat down with no smiles or greetings.
Steve reached for the file in front of him, but didnât open it.
âYouâve been quiet since we brought you in,â He said gently, like he didnât want to push. âWeâre hoping youâll talk now.â
You tilted your head. Not sarcastic. Not cold. Just⌠blank.
âWhat exactly do you want me to say?â
It was Natasha who answered. âThe truth.â
That made you laugh, quiet and breathless. Not because it was funny. But because it was too late for that.
Your eyes focused on the table instead of them. âDo you want the part where I was kidnapped? Or the part where I didnât come back because no one noticed I left?â
Natasha didnât flinch, but Steve did. The truth hit harder than any accusation.
âWe noticed,â He said, too quickly. âEventually.â
You let the pause stretch, slow and cruel.
âYeah,â You whispered. âEventually.â
They didnât speak. You could hear the hum of the security camera above.
And you hated how your voice still shook when you finally asked, âDo you think Iâm the enemy now?â
Steveâs eyes softened. That was almost worse.
âNo,â He said, and there was truth in it, but also uncertainty. âWe think you were used. Maybe manipulated. Maybe⌠maybe you didnât see a way out.â
âBut I did,â You replied. âPlenty of times. I just stopped looking for one.â
That landed like stone in water. A long silence passed where both of them looked at each other, probably considering what to say next. What could they even say.
You looked up then, straight at Natasha. âWhy didnât you ever talk to me?â
She blinked, slow. But she didnât dodge the question.
âYou didnât need anyone,â She said. âYou were self-sufficient, quiet, and focused. You did your job better than most of the team. We thought you liked it that way.â
You swallowed.
âI thought if I was good enough, someone mightââ You cut yourself off, jaw tightening. âForget it.â
âNo,â Steve said quietly, leaning forward now. âSay it.â
Your gaze flicked between them. And maybe some stubborn, lonely part of you wanted to say it. Just so theyâd hear it out loud. Just so someone could hold the weight of it with you.
âI thought if I was good enough, someone might finally see me.â
The silence that followed cracked something open.
Not in them. In you. You felt it rising all at once. Grief, shame, anger, tight in your throat.
âI gave everything I had to a team that didnât notice I was drowning,â You whispered. âAnd then someone threw me a rope. Even if it was a trap, it still looked like kindness.â
Natashaâs voice was quieter now. âAnd now?â
You looked at her, at both of them.
âI donât know who I am without them. But I sure as hell donât want to be who I was before.â
Steve sat back, the words heavy between you. This wasnât the kind of debrief they could file away. This wasnât about secrets or plans or threats.
This was about a girl who used to long to belong and the result of what became of her when no one made space for her to stay.
Youâre not the villain here. But youâre not their teammate anymore either. And thatâs starting to sink in deeper than ever before.
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Arthur ran his fingers softly along the nasty scar on Merlinâs left shoulder, and tried to swallow the guilt and shame. He had done that. One of the very first days he knew Merlin, heâd attacked him with a morningstar for the terrible crime of standing up to him. It seemed like it had to be so much more than a year and a half to go, couldnât have been so recent, and yet.Â
Arthur had never been good with words, but he knew the kisses he was currently dropping along the edges of the scar could never be amends enough. He took a deep breath, then asked, âhelp me draft a new policy for the knights? About appropriate treatment of the non-noble citizenry of Camelot?â
Merlin turned to face him, eyes full of question and surprise.
âNot now, I mean,â he added, âafter some sleep.â
Merlin nodded, and lunged in, and kissed him, as if â help me draft a new policy for the knightsâ was the most gallant and romantic thing heâd ever heard.