#collateral damage

Fan-fucking-tastic. 

Apparently things have changed since the last time you were here. The Avengers must have put their differences aside and sang kumbaya after they brought everyone back. The common area buzzed with the type of ease you never thought you’d see again.

Sam and Uncle Rhodes were sitting by the library, locked in a friendly debate. Bruce sat alongside them pretending not to listen, but you could see the hint of a smile on his face as he stared into his book.

Clint had his back to you, draped across the oversized couch, talking endlessly to no one in particular and picking at a fruit salad that clearly wasn’t his. Your father stared at an episode of Storage Wars, doing his best to ignore him, but the tension in his expression made it clear he wasn’t succeeding.

You would have giggled if your freedom wasn’t one truth away from perishing.

In a way the scene before you felt reminiscent of your childhood at the tower. It reminded you that your life wasn’t as bad as you remembered it.

You remembered joking around with Thor as he struggled to understand your Midgardian humor and adolescent quirks. You remembered sketching with Steve after a rough day at school; bullies picking on you for not being the genius your new last name said you were supposed to be. You even remembered all the days after that, faking sick to stay home from school. 

You would lay in bed, complaining about a stomachache too severe to even sit up. Only orange juice and a day off of school could save you. You expected your father to march right into your room, give you a once over and send you right off to school. It’s what your mother would have done, nothing gets past her BS detector. 

Got.

Nothing got past her BS detector. 

Instead it was Pepper Potts, your dad’s sometimes girlfriend, that would sit by your bedside.

“You don’t look sick,” she said gently.

You shrugged, pulling the blanket higher up your chest. “Must be fibromyalgia or something.”

You averted your eyes from her observant gaze, feigning a cough to try and sell your act.

“Right,” Pepper murmured. “Well, I’ll let the school know you won’t be in today.”

You nodded into your blanket. A new wave of unease came over you as you watched her leave. This is a moment better suited for a parent, not the girlfriend.

“Pepper, where’s my dad?”

She paused, fingers turning white on your doorknob. 

“He’s in the lab,” she always said, “Been there since last night.”

“Oh.”

A lump quickly formed in your throat, the priorities of Tony Stark clear to you. He’d rather play with robots than check up on his sick daughter. You quickly turned on your side and pulled your covers over your head, not wanting to let Pepper see you cry.

“Thank you Pepper, I’ll let FRIDAY know if I need anything,” you dismissed, your voice ever watery.

You heard a sigh and Pepper whisper good wishes to you before your door carefully shut.

You openly sobbed into your pillow. You curled in on yourself, pulling the blanket tighter as a chill ran through you, sharper this time.

Fake or not, you felt sick to your stomach now.

A voice that could only be described as nails on a chalk board snapped you out of your head.

“If it isn’t the Pacifier and co. How was the city?” Your father asked as he turned from the couch, a small, satisfied smile tugging at his mouth. 

Sometimes you dreamt of a world where the snap took your father’s vocal cords instead of his right arm. You think it would boost common morale by 20%.

In any other circumstances, you would have bit back a snarky quip to try and shut him up. You would have rolled your eyes and stalked off to your room, not giving him the time of day.

But you fucked up. So your feet stayed cemented to the floor, preparing yourself for whatever confession was about to spill from Bucky’s lips. You bit your lip and held your breath as you waited for him to get it over with and expose you to the team as the good for nothing addict you were.

You were already mourning the sunlight. It would be years until you would be allowed freedom again. Hopefully you got schizophrenia from all the drugs you’ve taken. Then the voices could keep you company as you served your sentence.

Tony looked between the two of you, expectantly. Someone coughed in the background.

Seeing you weren’t going to say anything, Bucky huffed and dropped your bags on a side table.

“She got what she needed.”

That’s it? 

You stared at Bucky incredulously. Did he just cover for you?

You carefully let out the breath you were holding and made a move to grab your bags. You were painfully aware of just how sweaty your pits were and made a move to your bedroom right away. You can thank Bucky later, it wasn’t like you weren’t going to see him again. If your dad had his way he would have made him move into your bedroom too.

“Wait.”

Fuck. 

Your dads voice stops you in your tracks. 

“What,” you snapped, arms crossed, already exasperated with him. At that moment, you wanted nothing more than to lie down in your room. Emotions are exhausting. 

Tony raised an eyebrow at your attitude that you almost scoffed at. Was he expecting a warm reception?

“Nothing. Just noticed you decided to pick up the paint brush again. Good for you. Honestly, nothing says emotional growth like splattering your angst on a canvas. Adrian Hill would be so proud. Or was it Naumburg? I can never remember, psychology’s more up your alley.” He tilted his head, waiting for a reaction that never came. “It’s good, though. Channeling your frustration into creativity. Therapeutic, even. Dr. Newman will be proud when you tell her. You know, science says—well, me, mostly—that expressing yourself like this can stave off… existential dread and impulsive decision-making.”

God, does he ever stop talking?

You squinted at him. “Wow. You need to get off TikTok. And I'd be a lot better if I had some space to breathe around here, do you know who I can talk to for that?”

Tony blinks, studying your face for a second before completely ignoring everything you just said, “We missed you, you know. And you may not see it now, but I'm doing this all for your benefit. You’ll thank me later.” He takes a breath before continuing, averting his gaze as he does so, “I know the last few years have been pretty rocky, but we’re here to help you. I know you’re angry, but it takes two to make a thing go right. Let me help you help yourself. I only want the best for my first born.”

You held back your scoff for his sake. The sincerity of his words killed the formation of any snarky comeback you had in your mind. 

“Thanks, but you’re a few years too late. I have everything under control, you just caught me at a bad time. I’m doing fine. Always have been, always will be.” 

You stared at him for a beat more before moving to leave again, “The best way you can help is to back off. I want to go back to school. I want my life back. That’s what would help me right now. Maybe I’ll send you a postcard.”

With that, you turned your back to the seven pairs of eyes on you, ready for the day to be over with. Who knew the Avengers were the biggest snoops? We need another extraterrestrial threat to deal with, they have too much time on their hands.

“Your sister asked about you today,” Tony rushed out, the words spilling out of his mouth so fast they sounded like one.

You stiffened and stopped in your tracks. 

“She misses her big sister. Wanted to know when you’d be around.”

You snorted and kept walking. You wouldn’t dare give him the satisfaction of seeing your reaction, “Yeah? Tell her I’m busy.”

You finally stormed down the hall to your room, slamming your door in anger and frustration.

What a way to ruin the moment. You dumped the memories of everything your father said 5 seconds ago into your mental recycling bin. Waste of schematic space.

You dropped your bags and face planted on your bed, growling into a pillow.

Morgan Stark.

To an outsider, being jealous of an 8-year-old kid is absurd. Being jealous of your kid sister who looks up at you with nothing but admiration in her eyes is worse.

Growing up, you always begged your mom for a sibling. A little brother or sister who you could play with. Being an only child was lonely. 

So when you finally got the chance to be the big sister you always wanted to be, it should have felt special, like kismet.  

But when you look down at Morgan, in all of her glory and the love she’s so clearly surrounded by, all you feel is bitter resentment. 

Morgan wasn’t your sister. She was your replacement. A second-chance for your father to do fatherhood on his own terms.

You were 16 when you were blipped. You remembered that day all too well. 

Despite your favoritism to the social sciences and arts, Your father had enrolled you in the infamous Midtown School of Science and Technology in hopes of continuing the Stark legacy. That, and being classmates with his lackey Peter Parker, made it easier for him to keep tabs on you. 

Peter was an annoying pest you couldn’t seem to get rid of. Despite being in opposite social circles, he was always around, popping in at the worst times and ruining your fun. It took you breaking down from stress and crying to him drunk after going too hard at one of Liz’s parties before you two sat down and created some boundaries. Peter was a pretty good listener and surprisingly reasonable. No snitching or you would snitch back 10x harder, as well as breathing room when you needed it, and a promise to text him immediately if anything was wrong. After that, he was tolerable to be around. You would never admit it, but you considered him to be one of your truest friends. He was the only person you felt you could be honest with and was one of the few people who didn’t treat you differently because of your last name.

Keeping his promise, he didn’t tattle when you skipped out on the infamous class field trip to MoMA. You elected there were better things to do with your time, like getting high in a parking lot with a cute girl from the arts school 3 blocks down. You had put your phone on silent, deciding to deal with the consequences of your actions after getting some action. You were too consumed in the smell of her coconut shampoo to see that Pepper had been spamming your phone, calling you at least a dozen times before you realized what was happening.

By the time whatsherface opened instagram and filled the two of you in on what was going on, it was too late.

The smell of coconut was the last thing you remembered before it all went dark.

It’s hard, being dead one second and then brought back to life 5 years later the next.

A lot can change in 5 years.

Everything was different. Everyone tried to move on– some did so easier than others.

Years later, you still couldn’t explain the feelings you felt reuniting with your family. 

You were flown out to Georgia where your dad and Pepper finally sealed the deal and settled down to no one's surprise. No, that wasn’t the sucker punch. The real blow landed when you found out how easily your dad filled the space you left behind.

Meeting Morgan for the first time was a cruel kind of tenderness. 

It hurt more than you let on. She was his perfect baby. The apple of his eye, the final piece in his puzzle. 

Your heart tore and broke into pieces you didn’t think was possible. Your dad finally got the perfect daughter he always wanted. His ultimate redo.

You spent that trip crying in the lifeless room they saved for you, heart fragmenting every time you heard the squeal of Morgan’s giggles and the loud bass of your dad’s laughter.

Why couldn’t he be that father to you?

Sadness turned to anger as you thought harder. You were a kid when he took you in. Why couldn’t he play with you like that? Love you like that? If anything, you needed it more than her. You watched your mom die in front of you. From a situation that he caused. The least he could have done was be there. 

You ignored all the knocks and the attempts to talk. There was no more room in your life for him anymore. You were given a second chance at life. The world sat in your hands, a newfound fire growing in your chest. 

When you have nothing left, you still have a choice.

You didn’t say goodbye when you left. 

By the time you were back in New York, your decision had already been made. 

Graduating early wasn’t hard. You’d always been smart—you just never cared enough to prove it. Turns out, spite was a pretty effective motivator.

NYU was an easy choice. Far enough to get away. Close enough to your heart that no one could accuse you of running.

You were exactly where you wanted to be.

Being alone allows you to think more introspectively. 

All your life you dreamt of death. 

You dreamt of reuniting with your mother and living the life you should have had. 

Real life is nothing like your dreams. 

In real life death is nothing. It’s a void of eternal darkness that haunts your memories and wakes you up at night.

You once tried looking up the girl you were with that day, to see if she was blipped too. Your quick google search told you she survived initially, but died 2 years before from bumping a laced line.

Being left alone with your thoughts is scary. So you spent your second chance doing whatever you could to avoid it.

You spent your days partying and messing around. You avoided your fathers phone calls and attempts to check in. You avoided your sister and anything that reminded you of her, of the life you could have had.

You didn’t realize you were crying until you moved to cover yourself on your bed, wiping your tears with your blanket.

Maybe this could be your third chance at life. You just needed to know where to start.

You fell asleep dreaming of nothing that night.

Your brain felt like mush and your fingers cramped, begging for rest.

Half a dozen pages of your sketchbook and two drying canvases later, you called it a day. Bitterly, you thought of your fathers words and how he was right, splattering your angst on canvas did make you feel slightly better. Not that you would ever tell him that.

You haven’t left your room since your little escapade to the city. You were starving and bored out of your mind, but you were too head strong to come out and face the music. 

You knew no one would even care when they saw you. You and your father fought enough in your youth for your spat last night to be as insignificant as a snowflake in a winter storm.

It wasn’t the team you didn’t want to face, it was Bucky. Despite being an everpresent thorn in your father’s ass for years, you knew nothing about him. They only reconciled after the blip, to which you were long gone by then. Normally, you could read people like a book, but not this guy. He kept his cards to his chest and didn’t spill. It frustrated you to not have control, to not know what to expect or what he was thinking.

You knew your time was up soon anyways, your phone dinged with a reminder, letting you know your first session back with Dr. Newman was scheduled for tomorrow morning. Damn you Tony Stark.

You told your stomach to shut up when it let out a particularly loud and nasty growl. What a drama queen, I guess those Stark genes don’t stop at the brain. Begrudgingly, you stood up from where you sat on the floor, your vision blurring and your head light as a feather. You stumbled and took a deep breath, regaining your balance.

Okay, maybe I should listen to my stomach.

With gritted teeth, you pushed open your door and made a bee-line to the kitchen. You grabbed a tote bag that hung from your wall, planning to fill it up with snacks. 

Your mouth watered as you slugged closer to the kitchen, the rich smells of Italian food putting you in a trance. 

You expected the team to be in the middle of dinner but instead found yourself pleasantly surprised to find Bucky alone in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, manning the stove. He didn’t look up right away, but you knew he clocked you the second you walked in.

Appreciative of his silence, you kept your head down and rummaged through the cabinets, stuffing granola bars and anything remotely edible into your tote. You tried—really tried—to ignore him and whatever Michelin-star nonsense he had going on behind you, but your stomach, ever the traitor, let out a long, pathetic whine the second the smell hit again. 

Mortified, you moved to leave only to have your eyes met with two plates of what appeared to be the creamiest chicken pasta sitting on the island in front of you. 

You looked up only to find Bucky already staring at you. You stared back, wide-eyed and confused. Your stomach growled again.

You might be bordering on delirium because you think you saw a hint of a smile on his face as he slid a plate in your direction, “Eat.”

You blinked.

“…I was just gonna take my stuff to my room.”

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “I figured.”

Your grip tightened around the tote bag. “God forbid I eat in peace.”

No reaction, because of course.

You grabbed the plate closest to you and turned, ready to leave.

“If you’re going to eat my food you’re eating here, not in your room.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh, “you’re joking, right?”

He leaned back against the counter, arms crossing, gaze steady but not sharp.

Woah.

Something low in your stomach fluttered at the sight. 

Without a second thought, you chose a chair at the table and sat down. You reminded yourself that it costs zero dollars to not be a bitch for 5 minutes. 

You stared at the plate before you. You were so hungry it was beginning to look unappetizing. You pushed the food around with your fork, not quite bringing yourself to take a bite.

Dejected, you bit the inside of your cheek and looked up at him. “Thanks for not snitching.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he pushed himself off the counter and moved around the island, grabbing his own plate before taking the seat across from you.

“Not my job to,” he said simply.

The words hit wrong.

You frowned. “Wow. That almost sounded like you care.”

“I didn’t ‘snitch’,” he continued, ignoring you completely, “because Stark doesn’t need another reason to lock you in here.”

Your jaw tightened.

“Right,” you muttered, dropping your gaze back to your plate. “Glad we’re on the same page.

Silence stretched between you.

You stabbed a piece of pasta and brought it to your mouth, hesitating just a second before forcing yourself to take the bite. An involuntary moan left your mouth at the taste but you were too lost in the sauce to care.

Goddamn that was good.

You chewed slowly, savouring the rich flavours. It suddenly hit you that you haven’t had a good home cooked meal in years, a typical dinner to you was whatever had the fastest delivery time on uber eats and a rip of the bowl.

“Why’d you run?” he asked suddenly.

You froze.

Here we go.

“‘Cause I wanted to get high,” you shot back through a mouthful of pasta, not looking up.

“You know I’m the most prolific spy in history, right.”

Your fork clinked a little too hard against the plate. “I didn’t ask for a side of history with my meal, thanks.”

An empty laugh escaped his lips, “You Starks are all the same. You gonna keep deflecting, or actually answer me?”

That made you look up.

His expression hadn’t changed. Calm. Steady. Unreadable in the worst way possible.

Your gaze dropped again, shoulders tightening as you pushed your food around your plate.

“I just wanted five minutes,” you muttered, quieter now. “Without someone breathing down my neck.”

Another beat of silence.

“Bullshit.”

You swallowed. You weren’t lying, but you weren’t telling the full truth. You squirmed in your seat, feeling naked in Bucky’s gaze. You hated it.

“You want to know what I think?”

Not really, but let me guess– you’re going to tell me anyways, right?

You stared at him expectantly, wishing you had just starved in your room.

“I think you make bad decisions like you’re trying to get caught. You don’t even realize you’re doing it.”

Your brows pulled together and your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“You’re a smart girl. You graduated high school at 16 and are working on your second college degree at 20. So when you make choices like this?” He spoke slowly, like he wanted you to comprehend everything he said, “that’s evidence of someone playing dumb.”

Your throat tightened.

You stared at your plate, vision blurring just slightly at the edges.

“That’s not—” you started, then stopped. “You don’t know me.”

“I know patterns.”

You scoffed, but there was no bite left in it. “Oh, so I’m a case study now?”

“No,” he said. “You’re predictable.”

That stung more than anything else he’d said.

Your fork clinked against the plate as you dropped it.

“Wow,” you muttered. “That’s… really comforting. Thanks.”

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be.” He exhales quietly. “I’m trying to keep you from killing yourself. This act? It’s not gonna hold up.” There was a beat as he took a breath, “and for someone who wants nothing to do with Stark, you’re walking a pretty similar line.” His gaze stays on you. “You’ve got help in front of you. Use it.”

The room went very, very quiet.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening like something had just locked around it.

“That’s dramatic,” you said, but your voice came out weaker than you intended.

“Is it?”

You didn’t answer. You knew he didn’t expect you to anyways.

You finished a few more bites before standing abruptly, grabbing your tote and tossing it over your shoulder in one motion.

“I’m done.”

He nodded once. No commentary. No smug look. Nothing.

You hesitated for half a second, fingers tightening around the canvas strap of your bag.

“…Thanks for the food,” you muttered, barely audible.

You didn’t wait for a response.

You turned and walked out before he could say anything, before you could take it back.

Back in your room, the quiet felt different. Your chest felt tight in a way you couldn’t explain. 

You laid in your bed, letting the tears from your eyes fall freely down your temples. 

They weren’t sad tears, no. They were… different.

You hated that you couldn’t immediately label it.

You felt different. You felt seen. 

Bucky had looked and dissected you in a way no one else had before. 

For the first time in a long time, someone had the courage to tell you the truth to your face. Had the courage to truly look at you, the whole you. 

That was new.

You didn’t know how you felt about the feeling it blossomed in your chest.

All he wanted was a coffee at his favorite café and a slice of the pie the owner bakes every Friday.

If he’s honest, Bucky would admit that he comes to the little bakery every Friday afternoon to see the woman he spotted some months ago.

She’s there every Friday after work to order tea, chamomile, and a cupcake. Sometimes she’s adventurous and takes a cinnamon roll.

Bucky chuckled when he heard her talk to the barista, telling her she wanted to be wild that day. He couldn’t help but smile at her innocent guilty pleasure. She was so unlike the people in his life. Sweet and kind.

Today, he wanted to talk to her. Today, he planned on introducing himself to the sweet woman stealing his heart bit by bit over the last few months.

Fate had different plans...

One hour earlier.

Bucky is in a good mood. No, he’s having one of the best days of his life. Business is good. He’s on top of the food chain, and he will finally talk to the woman he’s going to make his queen one day. – One step after another.

He opens the door to the little café he found when he was aimlessly roaming the streets of New York. Bucky only wanted to blow off some steam and sort his thoughts but ended up at the little café with coffee and pie. Finding so much more.

Bucky smiles as the little bell above the door rings. It feels like coming home every time he enters this place.

The owner greets him whenever Bucky is around, and the barista knows his favorite order. A risk, Bucky’s best friend Steve would say. Escapism from his life, Bucky would say.

She’s already there, engrossed in yet another book. This time, it’s a dark romance novel about a mafia boss and a shy librarian. Bucky knows because he googled the name to find out as much as possible about the books she loves to read.

“Hello,” the owner waves at Bucky, smiling as she passes him by. “Frankie will get you the usual.”

“Thank you,” Bucky nods before looking for a table closer to her. It’s the first time he’ll sit close to her, not at his favorite table, to watch her from afar.

“All for our favorite regular,” she says, walking away to check on the pies in the back of the café.

Bucky smiles. A soft smile, a genuine one. This place holds magic he can’t explain. It’s the calm in his life. Haven. An escape.

“Coffee and cherry pie coming your way,” the waitress says, balancing a tray in one hand.

Bucky frowns. He’s not a fan of changes. The new face walking toward his table, chirping and smiling as she struggles to not drop the tray, brings tension back into these fleeting, peaceful moments he spent at the café.

His instinct kicks in seconds before the waitress drops the tray to point her gun at him. Bucky takes her out with one precise shot, a bullet to her forehead.

People start to scream, and chaos breaks out. Most of the customers ran out of the café, along with the owner.

“I won’t miss,” the barista he chatted with so many times says. They jump over the counter, gun aimed at Bucky. “Your time has come.”

Bucky huffs. He’s about to shoot his attacker when a book hits the barista’s head. It’s almost hilarious. If not for the gun pointing in his direction, Bucky would laugh.

“Bitch,” the barista turns their attention toward you, their attacker. You gasp and drop to the ground, crawling under the table as they shoot in your direction.

Bucky reacts in a split second. He tackles the barista to the ground, taking them out with one hard punch to the chin. “Bastard, I’ll get to you later.”

He gets back up to look for her, his savior, and the sweet woman who enchanted him. Bucky gasps, watching you hunch over, blood soaking your pretty sundress.

“Doll, no,” he crouches beside you to cradle you in his arms. Bucky presses his hand to the wound on your arm, sighing because it’s not a deadly wound. “I’m so sorry. This shouldn’t have happened.”

“I,” you carefully touch his hand. “That wasn’t how I expected to finally get to know your name …”