#porcelainstorm

The incubus had taken more out of you than you would have liked to admit.

It’d been throwing hexes and curses at you and your fellow sorcerer, Stephen Strange, as quickly as it could conjure them. He was dragging out the battle in Hell’s Kitchen far longer than you’d predicted.

“What is this guy’s problem?” you grunted, ducking behind a shield Stephen had thrown over the two of you.

“He’s probably confused,” the sorcerer offered, and you sighed, conjuring another round of spells that barraged back and forth until you were able to edge in and try something new.

Your last spell had been the winner to take it down, but not before it threw a half-hearted hex in Stephen’s direction. It was pure instinct when you shoved Stephen aside.

Stepping in its path, you barely felt a tickle as the purple mass of energy dissipated on contact with your skin. Snorting, you joined Stephen while he rounded on the near unconscious demon and bound him.

“That was good luck in guessing its weakness,” he murmured, hefting the large monster onto its feet and stepping through the portal you’d summoned to Kamar-Taj.

“In my experience, there is no such thing as luck,” you replied lightly, signaling to a nearby trainees to open the gates to the holding cells; until the demon could transported to its proper realm.

“You know, if I could have you replaced, I would have done it months ago,” he sighed, shaking his head at the Star Wars quote and passing the demon off to one of the Masters to handle. “You’re just lucky you know a thing or two about the mystic arts.”

“You like having me around,” you teased, nudging his elbow through the portal to the New York Sanctum. “You’d get bored, admit it.”

“I admit nothing,” he shot back coolly, earning an exaggerated eye-roll from your direction.

This wasn’t anything new. The two of you went back and forth over and over, but there existed a mutual respect which sustained the partnership.

It was the reason you’d been assigned to New York and why, truly, Stephen hadn’t appealed to have you replaced. You two were the only people (aside from Wong) who could tolerate one another for long periods without killing each other.

“Did one of you bring back lunch?” Wong called from the library, setting aside a large leather tome and catching up with the two of you while Stephen headed for his study.

“Well, uh, no,” you replied with a frown, glancing to Stephen. “The demon was a little tougher than we thought and he might have destroyed that deli we like.”

“We misjudged the dimension it was from,” Stephen clarified. “Luckily, someone was able to take him down before he took out all of Hell’s Kitchen.”

“The devil didn’t come to help?” Wong questioned, crossing his arms.

“He figured it was more of our wheel house,” you offered a half-hearted shrug, stretching into a yawn. “But speaking of lunch, I need some nutrition or I might just pass out. Who’s up for takeout?

“I need to make sure that spell wasn’t anything serious,” Stephen’s expression shifted before you or Wong could decide on a restaurant. You groaned, unwilling to wait even longer for something to wake you up.

“It wasn’t anything,” you waved him off, returning your attention to Wong, who now shared Stephen’s concerned expression. “Wong, it literally disappeared when it hit my hand. I’m talking a tiny curse that wasn’t even powerful enough to do any immediate damage. I don’t think it’d be powerful enough to linger, and cause some kind of malicious thing down the line.”

“Good, then this shouldn’t take long,” Stephen decided, clapping his hands and transporting himself and you to the study. “We weren’t positive where his energy was coming from, I’d rather be safe.”

He stood at your side while you dropped down on a nearby stool, holding your arms up and yawning again. His hands began to glow, a wist of yellow energy wrapping itself around your torso, moving outward to your limbs and head. When it finished, it disappeared into a fine mist.

“I don’t want to be a total jerk and say ‘I told you so’, but sometimes I do know what I’m doing,” you chided with raised brows. “I am a Master of the Mystic Arts after all.”

He frowned, seemingly unsatisfied with the result of his test.

“You don’t sense it?” he questioned, summoning a book and flipping through the pages. You recognized it vaguely as a demon guide and repositioned to the more comfortable sofa. This was going to take a while if he was pulling out the books. “I feel like something is radiating from you.”

“It’s probably my dazzling personality,” you supplied, summoning your own book and scanning the pages. You found the entry on the specific demon and held it up for him to view. “Run of the mill, basic, destroyer of cities and hearts. It’s just an incubus that wandered through the wrong portal. Didn’t we deal with a whole number of them a few months ago in Detroit?”

“Different dimensions though… He didn’t touch you, did he?” he questioned, glancing over the edge of the book with quirked brows. You sat up, trying to recall the fight and letting out another yawn.

“I don’t remember being seduced by the inter-dimensional sex demon,” you grinned up at him, but your expression fell when you noticed he was still focused on the text.

When he didn’t reply after a few moments, you spoke again.

“Stephen, it’s probably nothing. You didn’t talk to the snakes again, did you? They’re alway making you overly paranoid.”

“I just…” his frowned to himself while he continued reading.

“-have a bad feeling about this?” you offered, earning an irritated grunt from the sorcerer.

With a wave of his hand, you felt yourself slam down in one of the kitchen chairs next to Wong.

“You’ve really got to stop with the pop-culture jokes,” Wong was thumbing through a pile of takeout menus, not bothering to look up. “He hates them.”

“I know,” you stood up and moved toward the cabinets, searching for a tea with caffeine. “But I don’t think he minds when I do it.”

“Why do you think that?” he asked, genuinely intrigued by your confidence.

“I usually get away with it,” you mused, digging through the stashes of teas and finding none to your suiting. “Do we have anything with caffeine in it? I’m about to fall over.”

“I think Strange took the last english breakfast this morning, I haven’t had time to run to the store,” he held up two menus. “Chinese or Thai?”

“What about that green Kree stuff?” you closed the cabinets, pausing to glance at the menus. “Which one has a better curry?”

“The Thai place,” Wong replied. “And we ran out a few days ago after we all stayed up trying to get the curse out of that necklace.”

“Oh yeah,” you frowned, rolling your head and trying to shake off the sleepiness that threatened to cloud your head. “Let’s do Thai. I’ll take something incredibly spicy and a green tea or something.”

“They have coffee,” he offered, pointing to the beverages on the menu. You perked up. Coffee was a rare delicacy in the Sanctum that prided itself on its eclectic tea options from around the universe.

“Yes, a huge cup, maybe two?” you thought back to Stephen. He didn’t seem tired, but you two did fight off the same demon… you caught yourself yawning again. Maybe he was fighting sleep too?

“Did he find anything?” Wong asked when you sat back down, propping your face up by your elbows and staring at the menu to decide.

“He’s being ridiculous,” you brushed the question off. “Something about sensing something radiating off of me? It’s silly. He probably needs a nap more than I do.”

Wong paused and shook his head. He fixated his focus on you for a few seconds before returning to the Thai menu.

“I don’t feel anything,” he confirmed and you threw a hand up.

“Exactly! I think something’s have been switching his teas around,” you sighed under your breath and stood up. “I’ll see what Dr. Overthinker wants- be right back.”

You hoped Wong hadn’t seen you struggle to catch your footing outside of the kitchen, but glancing back, his attention was still fixed between the two menus.

A small victory, in that while you could handle Stephen’s teasing, Wong’s cool, witty remarks were absolutely terrifying. It was something about how he said things without the slightest expression-

Your vision gave a whirl, and you caught your weight with a palm against the wall. Blinking a few times, you tried to get your head straight, but the world just spun faster and you felt your legs drop from under you.

The last thing you saw was a blur of red fabric before your world faded to darkness.

“What did I say?” Stephen grumbled, pacing through his study while Wong settled your still form on a nearby table. “I said there was something off, and everyone decided to brush it off like it was nothing. I should have been more thorough…”

He stood over you, checking your vitals and letting out a low sigh of defeat. Everything was normal. No abnormal temperatures, markings, or physical signs of distress. It was as if you’d fallen into deep sleep and refused to wake up.

“She was fine, and then passed out in the hall…?” he recited back to Wong after hearing the explanation over and over. You hadn’t been out of Stephen’s sight for very long and even then, you’d been with Wong in the kitchen.

There wasn’t anything you could have gotten into in that time frame, and you’d collapsed just outside of his study, suggesting it’d been maybe a minute or two you’d been out of Wong’s sight.

His gut kept telling him it was something to do with the demon, but he didn’t have evidence to support it. In response, his head throbbed when his skin graced yours.

“How are you not feeling that?” Stephen looked toward Wong, taking a few steps away from you and heaving a long sigh. “It’s so… bothersome.”

“More so than a constant string of terrible movie quotes?” his friend joked, and Stephen made a face.

“Those aren’t even that bad,” he commented, his fingers going to his chin while he considered your condition. “Perhaps the curse was meant for me? That’s why it isn’t causing her harm, but I can still sense it?”

“That’s reasonable enough,” Wong agreed. “I’ve heard of this happening with certain spells that link the users. Blood pacts and the such.”

“But with a demon?” Stephen questioned softly, his gaze falling back to where you slept soundly, blissfully unaware of the tension that thickened over the room.

“It’s not my place to comment on your weird relationship, but strong emotions are as natural to the mystic arts as an exploding sun,” he stood up, muttering something about going to Kamar-Taj to speak with the demon and left the room.

Stephen stood in place, emotionally drained of all reason as he lifted one of your hands, clutching it between shaking fingers and running through anything he could have missed.

You were absolutely infuriating, but not in the ways you probably thought.

You were needlessly self sacrificing, this being a prime example, and often it landed you in dangerous situations. This was stressful for Stephen, as while he respected your abilities as a hero and a Master of the Mystic Arts, there was nothing more terrifying to him than the prospect of not seeing your smile at the end of the fight.

“You’re an idiot,” he muttered, giving your hand a frustrated squeeze. If you had allowed him to take the brunt of the spell, as intended, instead of jumping in the way...

He wondered if you would have reacted the same way. He mused over the thought, recalling the time he’d broken his leg during a fight with Mordo. Even after Wong had repaired the break, you refused to leave him alone for days.

By Vishnu were you stubborn…

Yet, he couldn’t imagine his life any other way. He couldn’t imagine the Sanctum without your presence. Already, it was unsettling to him. Stephen hadn’t realized how important the chime of your laugh was... until it was gone.

His stomach dropped when he tried another spell to awaken you, but to no avail.

Nothing. Not even a flinch.

How long could the curse last? Days? Months? Years?

He recalled a fairy tale he read where the princess remained frozen in time the entirety of the spells duration. Would he age and watch you remain unmoving in front of him? A reminder of his failure to protect someone he loved-?

The word caught him by surprise. His heart gave a leap but he swallowed the sensation down and released your hand, summoning the cloak and opening a portal to the Kamar-Taj library.

He needed to get out of his head, he needed to find answers.  

(—)

It’s been two weeks since Stephen found you outside of the study.

Two weeks of nothingness.

The demon provided no direction, even when Stephen threatened its life, the creature simply laughed at the sorcerers desperation.

They consulted other masters who knew nothing of curses that bond the victims to eternal slumber. They tried spells and amulets, potions and blood magic, with no results.

You remained as unchanged as the day you’d collapsed.

Stephen wasn’t sleeping. At least, not willingly. He would stay up for days at a time and then drop into a brief nap before continuing the cycle again.

He even purchased a coffee maker and placed it in the study to fuel his late night research.

A little part of him had hoped the smell would have been enough to rouse you. Normally you would sense a Americano a block away.

Wong travelled out of the Sanctum most days to consult with anyone who might have an idea of what was occurring, leaving Stephen to his thoughts and silence.

That was the worst part in all of this. The loss of your floating laughter, the creaks on the hardwood as you moved around the building.

He hadn’t realized the little things he missed. He would have given anything to argue whether Indiana Jones or Jurassic Park was better.

You let out a heavy breath, catching his attention. No movement. Nothing.

He threw fist down on a nearby desk, fumbling through a nearby notebook and shaking his head, at a total loss. He’d probably dug through the entire sanctum library by now. Everything was a mess.

You were definitely going to kill him when you woke up for messing up your hard work.

What would you have suggested? He needed to look at this problem in a different manner. Logic wasn’t working, but he was too sleep deprived to think of alternative actions.

“My ally is the force, and a powerful ally it is...” he muttered, dropping to the chair he’d set up next to your head and sinking his face into his palms. “You wouldn’t be scared, would you? Fear leads to the dark side and all of that. At least that’s probably what you would have told me…”

Though you’d deny it, he’d seen you afraid before. You always fought it down for the task at hand. He respected your tenacity in the face of adversity. There wasn’t anything you wouldn’t do for the ones you cared for, even if you were scared to the core.

How many times had you made the sacrifice play to ensure he could complete a mission?

You hadn’t even hesitated with the demon to step in front of him. No fear. No thought. just pure instinct to protect him. Was it because he was the Sorcerer Supreme?

No, he knew better. The playful grins over the rims of tea mugs and your excitement when he would figure out a complex ritual.

Gods, he missed the hell out of you.

He pulled his head up, watching each slow breath in the rise and fall of your chest.

Were you dreaming? There really was no telling. Your eyes never moved, so perhaps you hadn’t gone into REM, but with magic there wasn’t a way to be completely sure.

He stood dumbly at your side longer than he would have liked to admit. He’d almost forgotten the color of your eyes. Almost. The only reason he hadn’t was that they stared back at him every time he allowed himself a moment of sleep.

Stephen huffed under his breath, reminding himself to get back to work and read over a text Wong had brought back a few hours previously. In his haste, a stray hair fluttered over your features. He froze.

With a shaky hand, he gently tucked it behind your ear, his fingers tracing the edge of your jaw line. You were surprisingly warm to the touch, even if your cheeks were flushed from the curse.

A small jolt shot up his hands with the passive touches and he found himself moving closer, a magnetic pull moving him outside of his control.

It happened without a conscious thought.

One moment he was gazing down at your face.

The next? He brushed a soft kiss across your lips.

Stunned by the action, he took a step back. He was frozen in place, unable to explain the phenomenon that had overcome him. Stephen Strange was not the type act on impulse.

He was just tired.

Turning to resume his research, only a few heartbeats passed before he heard a rustling over his shoulder. Assuming it was Wong returning from his travels, he paid no mind to it and continued to focus on the book in front of him.

“Stephen?” Your tone was meek and confused. He dropped his book and spun around, finding you sitting up on the table. Blankets he’d set over you, were gathered in your lap while you took in the scene. “What on Earth happened?”

The doctor had no words. He lifted your chin and pressed another kiss to you. Despite the dazed expression on your face, you reciprocated in turn, pulling him closer until you both pulled away breathing heavily.

Your eyes searched his face for explanation. It wasn’t like you hadn’t thought about the possibility of… this. You were just happy with a platonic relationship.

“I… I love you,” he finally spoke, his hands still cupped around your cheeks. Slowly a small smile spread across your face at the declaration. You couldn’t help yourself.

“I know.”

Instead of a sigh, he kissed you again, silencing your giggles with more pressing matters.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11 

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

Part 16

“Don’t care if he’s guilty.  Don’t are if he’s not.  He’s good and he’s bad and he’s all that I got."

Sometimes, you overwhelmingly missed your brother.  

Colin had been a source of logic and reason whenever you had a meltdown over a Torts final or an internship.  Growing up, he’d tease you about boys while also warning you to keep your heart secure.

He was wiser than his age, so you supposed it made sense that he’d die young.  

You just didn’t know who to turn to now.  You weren’t sure who you could trust anymore, now that Steve just up and disappeared one morning with only vague promises of returning.  

“We’ll get that date,” he had whispered before one last, desperate kiss.  “Coney Island.  I’ll win you a prize.”

You’d been half awake, leaning up in bed and mumbling that he was being ridiculous.  Yet in hind sight, you should have really seen it coming.  He’d give it all for the little guy.  He’s fight to his last breath with that damned stubbornness and guilt.  

That’s what it was- guilt.  He was guilty about getting to survive, and he had to fight back to ease his conscious.  Tony called him up and he rushed to the call, like he always had and always will.  

You would know- you felt the same way about Colin.

You traveled with Clint for a while, providing getaway rides and learning a few means of self-defense from the former SHIELD agent.  

It was fun, for a while, but with healing relations and the Avengers fighting around the world, you felt empty and abandoned.  It hurt way more than you would have given credit for.  

You simultaneously hated and still adored Steve, knowing that each of his actions were either a carefully calculated risk or a dumbass, on the spot, decision.

Everything kept coming back to hindsight.  You should have gone with him.  You should have told Tony no.  You should have lied about Tony’s offer.

But the Registration act was deemed unconstitutional and Bucky had finally recovered in Wakanda.  Those were Steve’s priorities, and you swallowed down the shame you felt for thinking otherwise.  Even if there was a little part of your heart that ached with hope that he was trying to hold his promise from two years ago.

Clint never mentioned anything about it.  He didn’t mention much any more.  You were pretty sure you heard something about a divorce when you ran in Natasha and Sam once, but you didn’t pry.  The two of you had become comfortable in your secrecy.  

You were the one who made the mistake of opening your heart to a hero.  The hero, if you were being honest with yourself.  There was no way that whatever the two of you had would end in anything except pain and heartbreak.  

It was a Tuesday when you got the phone call.  It hadn’t even been that long since you’d last seen Steve- roughly four months since he gave his hasty goodbye.

You and Clint had been sitting around Clint’s apartment, arguing over something on TV when your phone began to buzz.  Almost simultaneously, the TV program shifted to a national emergency warning.  

“Hello?” you looked to Clint with wide eyes.  He was already on his feet, tossing various pieces of equipment between the two of you while you waited for the person on the other end of the line to respond.  

“It’s me.”

You should have hung up.  You should have hung up and moved on.  You’d made your life over again, picked up the pieces and stitched your heart back together.  You helped Clint protect the little guy, the one thing you and Steve ultimately believed in.

Instead, your breath hitched and you felt a flutter of hope you hadn’t felt in some time.  

“We just fought something nasty,” Steve continued when you remained silent.  “I don’t know what’s about to happen.  I just-”

“Needed to ease your conscious?” your tone was harsher than you would have liked.  

You couldn’t help it.  You were somewhere between angry and hysterically happy to hear his voice again.  

There was silence between the two of you.  Clint eyed you curiously while adjusting his weapons and you stood up to go to your room for privacy.

That’s when you saw it.  

A hoop, or something alien, towering over Manhattan menacingly.  

You wanted to vomit.  You hadn’t felt that unease in your stomach since the Chitari.

“Steve,” your voice cracked, the tears in your eyes threatening to flow over as you waded through the unspoken intentions of the call.  “Please tell me you’re not about to do something stupid.”

“I promised I’d keep you safe,” he stated firmly through the line.  “I have no intention of backing down from that promise.”

You choked on your words.  He was going to do something stupid.  You knew it.  He knew it.

You had so much you needed to say.  So much you wanted to say.  

You wanted to tell him about the rude barista down the road and the drug dealer you’d taken in after you saw him selling to kids the week before.

“Coney Island,” you whispered into the line.  “You promise me right now.  And not like the promise you made to Peggy, ok?  Because you’re not going to crash a plane into whatever that thing is.  We’re all going to fight and we’re all going to win, and we’re going to go on our date.”

“I promise,” he replied softly.  “I’m going to do everything I can, but I can’t have you fighting this.”

“Steve, if you think I’m going to stand back-,” you began to protest, but he cut you off.

“I love you too much to lose you,” he stated sharply.  You heard the same crack in his voice.  You could have fallen over from a heart attack when he finally spit out those words.  “When we win, you also have to be around for that date.”

“Steve, you’re only human,” you argued back.  “Please.  Don’t do this to me.  I can’t… I can’t live in a world where you don’t exist.  Let me protect you again, where are you?”

You could hear him breathing on the other end.

You didn’t know what else to say, so between your tears, you spoke like it was the last time you’d ever hear him again.  

“I love you,” you whispered.  “And I’m not gonna listen to you.  Because, I love you too much to let you face this alone.  Even if we have to fight on opposite ends of the world.”

“I know,” he finally spoke, his tone was relenting.  He could tell this was a losing battle.  “Just… look out for the little guy, ok?”

“Just promise me you’ll come back,” you repeated, your hands clutched around the phone.

“I’m not leaving my girl behind that easily,” he laughed off the words dryly.  “I have to go now.  I love you, be careful.  Make sure you watch your 6, because you-”

“I always get sloppy with my 6,” you recited with a chuckle.  “Go save the world, wonder boy.  I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Summers and winters, through snowy Decembers.

Sat by the water, remembering the embers,

Missing out the lives they once had before.”  

-Jasmine Thompson (Willow)

“Is there anything new that you remember?” Wanda asked later that week, late in the afternoon when both of the women had eaten and settled into Mabel’s room.  They were both sprawled out on Mabel’s king-sized mattress, reading to themselves and occasionally chatting.

Soft jazz hummed through the large space and Wanda had been the first to break the peaceful silence the pair fell into a few hours previously.

Mabel glanced over the edge of her paperback copy of Animal Farm, her brows pressed in bemusement after being pulled from her trance.

“What do you mean?” she asked, studying the familiar look Wanda had given her.  Her eyes were slightly narrowed, the exact way Tony and Sam’s were when they brought up Dr. Krauss.  Wanda was leading up to something, but Mabel had no idea what.

“We shared memories,” the brunette led with, sitting up on the bed and setting her own copy of The Catcher in the Rye aside.  “But, there were a few that were hazy, or unclear.  It reminded me of trauma or PTSD…”

Mabel straightened her spine at the small confession, her lips pulled back into an uneasy frown.  Certainly, there were some unaddressed lapses in memory.  That was the initial plan with the group; to try and figure out altered or missing memories from Hydra.  It was the standard therapy the Wakandans had done with Bucky and now her.

But from what Mabel could gather, the lapses weren’t extreme.  She knew who she was and where she came from, so logically, there couldn’t have been too many wipes.

Not like Bucky.

“What do you recall?” the female soldier asked softly, the music soothing the atmosphere significantly.  A soft bass line framed the undertone of Mabel’s heartrate.

“Bucky,” Wanda stressed the name, her face scrunching up in thought.  She closed her eyes and reached for Mabel’s hands, the former’s beginning to glow their crimson color.

The women had been doing this the entire week.  They’d inevitably find one another’s company and occasionally ask for context in a shared memory from their companion.  They were closer now that sisters, having experienced what the other had experienced, first hand.

Wanda mediated the process, using an much weaker means of connecting their minds than before.  All she needed was a small tug on an already present memory and the connection would be made.

When Mabel’s hands touched hers, the blonde’s world immediately shifted to an unclear scene around them.  It was as if she was watching a movie, but the camera lens had been smudged with rain drops or oil.

A dark cell surrounded what looked like a slightly younger, Mabel Foster.  She was gazing into a broken mirror, slowly running her hands over dull, blonde hair that ran past her shoulders onto a dirty, knee length, hospital gown.

A muffled voice in the distance made the younger version of Mabel turn her head toward the cell bars that separated her tiny cell from a darkened hall.

The memory flickered, much like a glitch in a computer game or video, and Mabel seemed to have jumped across the cell, her forehead pressed against the cool bar of the cell, listening to the unknown voice.  More than anything, present day Mabel wished she could decipher the mumbled voice’s words.

Memory Mabel, would close her eyes as the voice continued talking to her.  Sometimes there’d be another flash of darkness, or she would clutch at her head in pain, a throb that echoed through both Wanda and Mabel’s minds as they watched the story play out.

It was a simple memory, but Mabel had no recollection of the event whatsoever.  Where was this cell?

In an instant, Wanda cut the connection, bringing them back to the present, both seated on Mabel’s bed in silent contemplation.

“My hair was short when I was captured,” Mabel confirmed after a pause, her own hands going to finger her now shoulder length locks.  “When I escaped, it was a little longer than this and dyed.  The last time I’d grown it past my shoulders was the summer before my father was killed.”

Wanda didn’t speak, her eyes focusing on a space of fabric in front of her, listening intently to her friend’s words.

“Hydra tried to erase the memories of their experimentation on Pietro and I,” she finally spoke, her head tilting upward to meet Mabel’s eye line.  “All of it came back, eventually.  It started in small chunks, when I realized subtle changes between periods of blackouts.  My nails would be longer, or a once fresh cut had turned to a scar.”

Mabel kept her facial movements controlled, knowing exactly where Wanda was leading with this piece of information and trying not to panic at the unknown periods of her life.

“I wasn’t frozen as often as I thought,” she realized out loud, her confounded face mirrored in Wanda’s expression across from her.  Mabel held out a hand and examined the familiar skin with unease.  “How old am I?”

“Miss Foster,” FRIDAY’s voice broke the daze between her and Wanda, both women nearly jumping in their skins at the interruption.  “Sergeant Barnes is searching for you.  Shall I inform him of your location?”

“I can speak to Bruce and Stephen,” Wanda offered, shuffling off of the bed and tucking her book under her arm.  Mabel nodded curtly at the suggestion.  The two doctors would have to find out in order to better assess the situation.  The possibility that such memories had been buried despite her perceived awareness, unnerved Mabel to no end.  

Was there a chance Bucky still hadn’t recovered all of himself?

“FRIDAY, tell Bucky I’ll meet him in the library,” Mabel ordered the AI, sliding off her bed and flattening the wrinkles out of her cardigan.  She returned her attention to Wanda as the brunette psychic was leaving and called out, “Let me know as soon as they’re interested in speaking.”

Wanda smiled warmly.

“Of course,” she promised with a small, parting wave.  

Mabel waited until Wanda was out of eyesight before letting out a long, tense, sigh.  Her fingers shook as she plucked her book off of the edge of her bed and set it on a nearby stack of novels.  Should she share this revelation with Bucky?

The pair seldom kept secrets, and since he returned.  They often sat in the library and shared every possible memory they had.

“Sergeant Barnes requests that you bring, ‘the letters,’” FRIDAY chimed back into the room.  Mabel’s eyes immediately dropped on the box tucked under her bed containing all of her personal belongings.

“Thank you,” Mabel mumbled to the unseen AI, dropping to her knees and sliding the smooth oak container into the open room.  Fumbling past the aged red scarf, and journals Sam had given her, she located the bundle at the bottom of the chest.  

They were still in perfect condition, untouched and tightly bound by the twine Joseph Rogers had sealed them with, over a hundred years before.

Mabel closed the case, slid it back under her bed and clutched the letters to her chest like a precious child.  Perhaps, finally, she’d be able to give Steve a little peace in his turbulent life.

She kept the letters safe in both hands the entire journey to the library.  Part of her was curious as to what the letters would reveal to her late friend’s son.  Of course, she wouldn’t press the issue unless Steve chose to share with her, but a small part of her regretted losing this last connection to her dear friend.

“You’re looking beautiful this afternoon,” Bucky greeted, jumping up from his chair next to a book shelf and sliding an arm around the small of Mabel’s back, guiding her toward the corner where Steve sat, leaning forward tensely.

“Hello Bucky,” she greeted the brunette softly, before turning to Steve and offering a comforting smile.  “How are you, Steve?”

“Like I want to vomit,” the superhero admitted with a low chuckle.  “I’m guessing you know why?”  His blue fell on the bundle of letters, still clutched to Mabel’s chest protectively.  

“It’d be a shame to make the trip to Paris a waste,” she joked, a small grin flashing across her features at Bucky’s betrayed expression.  She held out the aged envelopes, her stomach dropping slightly when they were finally passed to their intended recipient after a century.

“Do you want some privacy, Stevie?” Bucky inquired, wrapping a comforting arm around Mabel’s chest and pulling her into him, as if reading her mind that she needed the physical comfort.

“Please,” he replied, his entire attention fixed on the still bound letters.

Bucky pulled Mabel away, secluding the duo in a section of the library on the other end of the level.  Mabel didn’t even have to say a word; the brunette had simply pulled her tighter to him and kissed the top of her head.  

“He’s been nervous all week,” he murmured, pulling away to make eye contact, but still touching her intimately on the shoulders.  “He never knew his father, and I think he was a little envious of the connection you had with him.  Maybe he’ll find a connection or word of wisdom made just for him.”

Mabel didn’t respond, instead humming her agreement and pressing back into Bucky’s chest, suddenly exhausted by the day’s turn of events.  Wordlessly, Bucky wrapped his arms around her, as if protecting the smaller woman from all of her unspoken worries and demons with just his body.

After a few minutes passed, Bucky guided her to a small loveseat in the corner of the room.  He made sure she was comfortable first, before sliding in next to her and picking up her hand.  

“You’re quieter than usual,” he noted, pulling her fingers into her flesh hand and playing with the digits aimlessly.  

She and Bucky were almost always touching, the intimacy becoming a sense of comfort and filling an unspoken void in both of the former prisoners of war.

“I had an interesting morning with Wanda,” she replied as she tilted her head onto his shoulder.  Almost instantly, she could feel her blood pressure drop and her nerves settle.  Why had she been so nervous about this?  His heartbeat remained steady in her ears.

“How so?” he asked, the interest flickering in his gaze as he looked down at her with a grin.

“We remembered something that I can’t place,” Mabel confessed, going into a deeper detail and stopping when Bucky’s expression fell serious.  His grip on her hand tightened slightly before he swallowed, seemingly unable to come up with the proper thing to say.  

“Steve told me yesterday about what happened when Strange set the two of your heads straight,” he began, now looking away from his companion.  Mabel knew that this was one of Bucky’s reveals when he was unsure about telling her something.  “There were memories from before your escape… after you’d be caught by Hydra.  Of us… together.”

Mabel nodded anxiously, unable to form a response before he continued.

“I meant to mention it when we had lunch but-,” he paused and silenced when Mabel took her free hand and wrapped it over the one clutching onto her, forming a small shell of warmth.

“And what about you?” she asked quietly, her hazel eyes questioningly meeting his.  She had a gut feeling of what he was about to say, but she needed to hear it out loud.  She needed to hear that she wasn’t alone.  “Is there more than your first day and my escape?”

“I had no recollection of what he told me,” Bucky flashed a grimace, shaking his head to himself.  “I suppose we’re more messed up than we thought.”

“At least you don’t have triggers anymore,” she mumbled, releasing the second pent up sigh of the day.  “Wanda went to talk to Banner and Strange.”  What was left unspoken between the pair was the promise of more therapy and mind bending.  More memories.  More pain.

“We were close, I guess,” he stated with a bitter laugh.

Mabel couldn’t help but allow the laugh that bubbled up inside of her erupt.  She shook her head to herself, sitting up once the irony of the situation hit her.

“What?” he asked, chuckling at Mabel’s sudden shift in demeanor.  

“Wanda has been teasing me all week that we are star-crossed lovers,” she explained with another giggle.  “Maybe instead of reincarnation, we’ve danced around history together and don’t even realize it.”

Bucky’s expression lightened up at the thought, a smirk playing on the edges of his face before he stood up and offered a hand to the now befuddled blonde.

“I like the sound of that more than being homicidal murder slaves,” he said, pulling her to her feet and giving her a quick twirl before pulling her into another embrace and resting his chin on the top of her head.  “My fierce, stubborn, Mae.”

“My strong, passionate, Bucky Barnes,” she mused, her face tilted upward with a smile.  She could still feel his heartbeat, steady and firm, pulsing into her like a constant tempo of peace.

It was in that moment, something Mabel Foster would later realize, that she would do anything to ensure that the tempo never ceased.  

She’d kill, and she’d die, for James Barnes.

Perhaps Bucky had come to the same epiphany.  He pulled away just enough to slip a hand under her chin and pull her face toward his, pressing a soft kiss on her lips, smiling as he broke away.  

Mabel’s mind buzzed louder than it did in Paris.  

“Hey,” Steve’s sheepish voice interrupted the spell.  Both assets snapped their heads toward the super soldier.  “We need to talk.”

Tony frowned at the intel Natasha had collected during the Maine mission.

Largely, it was more of the same.  Old notes about Hydra, experimentation, possible super soldier serums… but what caught his attention was a lab log from earlier in the month.

They were trying to build the ark, just as he’d guessed.

It was dumb luck that Rumlow and his group hadn’t gotten their hands on the essential intelligence that outlined the machine’s full mechanics.  Allegedly, the blueprints still existed somewhere in the world.

But the Avengers had a leg up on him.  By having Mabel pull the original designs from her memories, they knew the rare materials that needed to be watched.  It was just a manner of time before Rumlow made another move.

All in all, despite losing Rumlow, Maine had been a relative success.  It confirmed Tony’s theories and now the team could focus on other priorities instead of grasping aimlessly at random Hydra cells.

“Yes, it complicates things,” Bruce’s voice echoed toward the lab from a nearby hallway.  The scientist was in a heated debate with someone as they approached.  “I just think the risks outweigh the benefits.”

“Captain Rogers is right, everyone deserves a chance to find peace with their past,” Strange’s voice challenged.  “Would you erase your past, with the present as it is?”

There was a pause as the pair rounded the corner and took in the genius looking at them with a quirked brow.

“Don’t tell me, more mind wipes?” he teased, waving a hand and closing out the window of Hydra files.

“Wanda and Mabel stumbled across some old, previously erased, memories,” Bruce explained tersely.  “I think it might be too much to try and pull from both her and Barnes.  Not right now.”

Strange clicked his tongue disapprovingly.  

“And I think it’s essential to make sure both of the former assassins come to full terms with their pasts,” the sorcerer emphasized.  “I certainly wouldn’t want to be in the field if Foster has a war flashback.”

“Barnes and Foster are on the bench,” Tony clarified sharply.  “Nat said he was distracted during the mission, so until Sam or a therapist clears him, he’s out.  And Mabel hasn’t even been cleared for field work, since she still can be triggered…” he trailed off in thought.  “Or maybe she can’t?  I don’t even know anymore.  The last month has been a headache.”

He clutched the bridge of his nose as Bruce stepped forward.

“We can run more tests,” he suggested.  “See if Mabel is triggered, get Barnes to sit down with Sam.”

“He’s been meeting with Sam all week,” Strange clarified to his companion.  “Him, Wanda, and Mabel.  His notes thus far have been unremarkable.”

“So, everyone might have underlying PTSD?  What’s new?” Tony grunted with an eye roll, leaning back in his office chair.  “Who here doesn’t have a trigger?  Seriously, tell me, because I want to meet them.  We’re all screwed up, if you ask me.”

“And healing that is significantly more efficient when you have all the variables, would you not agree?” Strange gestured between Bruce and Tony.

“I didn’t say I disagree,” Bruce voiced.  “I’m just saying, with Rumlow and the terror attacks, it’s too volatile to take two history shaping brainwashed Hydra agents and rip their minds apart, right now.  Maybe later on?  But two snapped assets and Rumlow?  That’s begging for disaster.”

Tony fell uncharacteristically quiet, pondering the two options to himself.  

“Has anyone asked what they want to do?” he questioned the pair.  “Because that might be a bit important.”

The two doctors exchanged frowns, falling quiet at the billionaire’s point.

“Yeah,” Tony smirked, pushing himself to his feet.  “Maybe get on that and we can have our little debate later.  I have actual work to do, you know, tracking the international terror threat.”

“Did you know my mother was nearly killed in a mugging before my dad went to Europe?” Steve sat down across from Mabel and Bucky.  The unopened letters were stacked neatly next to him as he spoke, taunting Mabel with unseen secrets.

Bucky shifted, nodding slowly at the admission as he'd already heard the story.  

Did Mabel know that?  She kept her expression neutral as Steve continued to speak.

“Some woman saved her life and scared the mugger away,” he gave a tense chuckle.  “She gave my mom this… red scarf I guess.  My mom told me it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen or owned.  She knew it had cost a fortune, but this woman had just given it to her without a second thought.”

Mabel stilled, frozen at her friend’s words.

“My father said that fortune always favored my mother,” he shrugged toward the pile of letters.  “They’d called the scarf their ‘lucky’ scarf, and she’d given it to him when he went to war for safety.  She promised him that she’d be safe without it.  She had good luck.”

“Frankly, I don’t give a damn about your mother,” he replied before grabbing a nearby scarf and wrapping it around Mabel’s neck.  “I need you safe.  If I can’t make you happy, safe is the next best thing.”

Mabel clutched at the red scarf and bit her bottom lip, trying to fight back the tears that had threatened to pour over.  She quickly lost that battle; a small tear tracing an outline of her cheek, only to be wiped away by Pierre’s thumb.

“Anyway, my dad had brought it to Europe with him,” he continued to explain.  “I guess it was lost or something.  He talked about it in his first letter.  He wanted me to have it, for luck.”

“I’d say you’re already pretty damn lucky,” Bucky laughed lightly, nudging Mabel with his elbow.  The blonde gave him a smile in response, lost in her thoughts.  She felt like her heart was about to explode.

There was no way…

“He was fond of you, Mae,” Steve changed the subject, smirking.  “Said you once punched one of the lieutenants when he’d harassed a local girl, and sent the guy sprawling.  He wanted my mom to take care of you after the war, make sure you found a worthy husband.”

There was that guilt.  Joseph Rogers had given so much for her, and still wanted to help her with the little he had.  She should have fled the battles and returned to New York to shower Sarah and her baby with all levels of luxury the moment Joseph had died.

Steve wouldn’t have had to suffer his illnesses… Mabel could have ensured Sarah had the money for the hospitals.  He wouldn’t have joined the army… or had Bucky protect him…

Where would that have left them today?

“Steve, your father was a spectacular man,” Mabel finally found her voice and reached for his hands, grasping them tightly.  “He was brave, and strong, and loved you unconditionally until his last moment.  If he’d any choice, he never would have left Brooklyn.  Your mother was everything to him.  He wouldn’t shut up about the gorgeous Irish bride he left behind, and the future he had planned for her and his children.”

She saw his Adam’s apple bob at the confession, as he swallowed, a mix of emotions flashing across his features.  

“Thank you,” he finally voiced, his voice cracking ever so slightly.  “Thank you for protecting him when my mother couldn’t.”

Mabel blinked back a few tears that had gathered in her eyelids.  Distantly, she felt Bucky’s hand slip onto her lap, pressing into the thigh comfortingly.

“Thank you,” the woman breathed in relief.  She readjusted to her full height and pulled the woman into an embrace.  “It was the first time I’d been paid in weeks, and my husband needed the money for our apartment…”  She pulled away and held Mabel’s hands, trembling slightly.  

“Here,” Mabel whispered and wrapped her scarf around the woman’s neck, bundling it under the thin jacket the woman wore.  “I’m Mabel.”

“Sarah,” the woman replied.  “I cannae thank you enough, truly.”

Brooklyn, New York City- April 1911

“Happy birthday, my princess,” Samuel beamed, pressing the neatly wrapped parcel into Mabel’s gloved hands.  The heiress raised an amused brow, pulling at the ribbon that twisted around the ornately decorated paper.

“Sam... I just wanted to have a picnic with you,” she protested, laughing despite the teasing glare she shot her beloved.  “You need to save your… Samuel…”

She was at a loss for words as she took in the small gift he’d given her.

It was a crimson scarf that she’d pointed out during a stroll in Manhattan the previous year.  He’d earnestly promised her that he’d get it for her, to which she joked that her father could simply purchase the whole store.

The material was rare, and the price tag was much more than the poor Irish boy would ever be able to afford.  Not without having worked for weeks.  

“I told you,” he grinned at her.  Mabel set the box down and grabbed him, pulling him into a kiss.

“You sweet, ridiculous, boy,” she murmured, her lips hovering above his.  She met his light blue gaze, her arms still secured around the back of his neck.

“I’m a sentimental fool,” he confessed.  “And I know it’s a little early, but once winter arrives, you have to wear it every day.”

“I’ll cherish it until the day I die,” she promised softly, pressing her lips against his once more.  “And then I’ll be buried in it.”

“Somewhere the timing will all come together.

The mishaps will turn into sunny Decembers.

The lovers will be able to find their willow.”

“Quand je marche dans la rue, la rue vers le Sacré-Cœur.  Je me souviens des promesses au nom de l'amour.  Je vais t'attendre là. Viendras-tu pour moi?”

“(When I walk in the street, the street to Sacred Heart.  I remember the promises in the name of love.  I'll wait for you there.  Will you wait for me?)”

-The Civil Wars (Sacred Heart)

French Countryside- Location Classified- Summer 1917

Mabel's unit was due to receive their first batch of American soldiers.  Once the States had entered the war, it had caused quite the ruckus throughout the ranks of Mabel's senior officers.  

They had the advantage now, they argued; it was the German’s folly for tempting the Beast and now the Central powers would pay for their actions.  

“Garnier!” The leader of Mabel's unit snapped at the young officer and she jumped to attention at her name.  As the years had passed, she'd almost forgotten her birth name.  She naturally responded to Pierre Garnier on so many occasions she felt that it'd become a part of her on a biological level.  

“The 107th just arrived,” her Captain explained with a long sigh when she jogged up.  She knew that meant more coordinating and late nights for the older man who barely slept as it was.  “I need you to grab a handful of them and report to the mess for assignment.”  He passed off a list of names that Mabel scanned for any semblance of recognition.  

Jonah was just entering the age where he could potentially be drafted.  It ached Mabel's heart to think that he could be shipped out and murdered just a few feet away from his sister.  

The 107th was New York's reserve after all.

With the list in hand, she hurried off toward the front of the camp to report to the American’s senior officer.  When he introduced himself as Captain Sanders, Mabel had to fight the blush that threatened to spill over her cheeks.  

Sanders had been pursuing Mabel for many years as a potential suitor.  He came from old-money and his father was a retired General from the Civil War who'd worked closely with Mabel's family.

Fortunately, the worn leader did not recognize the Manhattan heiress in her current disguise.  

“I need Rogers, Marsh, Williams, McDonald, Asher, and Meyer,” she detailed the list and looked up for the small squad of soldiers.  Sanders repeated the names into the crowd of soldiers and a few bright faced young men moved forward.  

“Here's your boys, I recommend you get to it before someone changes their mind,” Sanders gestured to the group and passed them off to the French soldier.  

“We have orders to report to the mess hall for a special assignment,” she announced.  Her low voice that she tried to use when she spoke English broke slightly and a few of the men, McDonald and Meyer, murmured under their breath about French pansies.  

Mabel elected to ignore the comment and marched forward a few feet ahead of the group.  

“They're a bunch of assholes,” a voice commented from Mabel's side.  “I know the crap you've all seen out here and you are much bigger men than these fools.”

“I appreciate that,” she gave him a curt nod and offered her hand.  “Pierre Garnier.”

“Joseph Rogers,” the blonde gave her a firm handshake and smiled.  “When my wife and I left Ireland, didn't think I'd have a chance to see Europe again.”  

He had a slight Irish accent that Mabel had only noticed after he mentioned his origins.  It was subtle; he’d managed to grasp the New Yorker accent well- not that Mabel was going to admit it.

“Are you in the States now?” She inquired, knowing full well he was from New York based off of the little information she knew of him.  But, Pierrewouldn't have necessarily known that.  

“Brooklyn,” he replied with a shrug.  “Got my wife and our soon to be baby settled before shipping out.”

“Congratulations,” Mabel murmured, a pang of sadness hitting her when she realized he'd probably miss the child's birth during his service.

“Thank you,” he gave a grin. “Sarah is wagering it's a boy but I'm positive it's going to be a little girl.  I was the first and only boy in my family.  Us Rogers’ make girls.”  

“I guess we shall wait and see,” she commented with a reassuring smile.  Joseph seemed so kind compared to the cruel and violent world she'd become accustomed to.  

“What about you?  Family around here?” he questioned the soldier.  Mabel knew he was trying to be friendly, but she was so out of touch with normal social practices that the question came out of nowhere.

“I have a fiancé in the States,” she replied quickly.  It wasn’t entirely a lie, considering Pierre was her betrothed, but neither party had an interest in following through with the arrangement.  “And a sister back in Paris.” Well, Pierre, had a sister in Paris.

“I’ll make sure we wrap this war up quickly then,” Joseph chortled.  He clapped a hand on Mabel’s shoulder.  “Can’t keep you and your lady away for too much longer.  It’s just inhumane.”

“Feels like this war is never going to end,” Mabel grumbled lightly before saluting the waiting soldier outside of the mess.

“That’s going to be up to you, Garnier,” her superior officer had heard the comment and smirked in her direction.  “You men are some of the best shots in Europe and the powers that be have decided to put their faith in you.”

“When did it really hit you?” Steve asked Bucky while they watched the frail woman sleeping in the medical bay.  They’d been instructed to wait outside the room while doctors and nurses fretted about.

“When did what hit me?” the brunette asked, not bothering to look up at his companion.  Instead, he kept a tight blue gaze locked on the woman as her chest slow rose and sank on the sterile bed.

“The reality of what had happened,” Steve clarified.  “Time travel, Hydra, and the general confusion.”

“Not sure if I’ve fully accepted it, to be honest,” Bucky replied.  He gave a long sigh and narrowed his eyes at a machine showing the woman’s vitals.  For 120-something years old, she was doing pretty well.  Perhaps it was a testament to Hydra’s scientific ability.

“I get that,” Steve shifted his weight.  “I keep thinking I’ll wake up and be tiny again.”

“Hey, you never know,” Bucky glanced at his friend and allowed a grin.  “We’re all just test subjects right?"

“I don’t know, if whatever is in us kept her going for 100 years, maybe I’ll never see it happen,” he joked.  Steve gave Bucky a punch and the latter muttered under his breath.

“Punk,” he shook his head and continued to stare through the glass.  “Her face- it seems familiar.  But I can’t place it.”

Admittedly, when Bucky first saw the mysterious woman, he felt that tugging at his memory he hadn’t felt since initially leaving Hydra’s control.  He couldn’t place it.  She never worked with him on missions and she was too young to have been out of freeze for very long to interact significantly with him.

“Anything bad?” Steve’s voice revealed an air of worry to Bucky’s comment.  “Maybe a sleeper agent?”

“No,” he frowned.  “Nothing like that.  I would have known.”

He’d been instructed to work with a number of agents from around the world.  Bucky would have definitely remembered her.

“I’m sure we’ll find out then,” Steve nodded toward the med bay where the woman was beginning to stir.  Non-essential staff was ushered out by the lead doctor and Steve was gestured to go inside.  “Wish me luck.”

“Don’t die,” Barnes teased in return, helping his friend by opening the glass door for him.

Steve made his way to a chair by the woman’s beside and waited patiently for her eyes to flutter open.

After she falsely recognized Steve in the Hydra base, it was decided that perhaps he be the one to introduce her to the new world she now resided in.  He definitely had the experience, both personal and professionally helping Bucky.

Bucky leaned into the glass, wishing more than anything he could hear the conversation that was occurring in front of him.  Steve spoke first, and Bucky could tell the super soldier was talking in hushed and calming tones.  The woman simply sat up in her bed and stared.

Her eyes trailed around the room, studying the various pieces of equipment and the doctor who stood quietly to the side, before settling on the blonde once again.  Bucky was suddenly thankful for the one-way glass that surrounded the room.

If she was frightened, she didn’t reveal it physically.  Clearly this was a person who had mastered masking their emotions long before this encounter.  Next to Bucky, a psychologist was listening through a headset to what was being said and scribbling down notes.  The former assassin tried his best not to be nosy but caught a few glimpses of what had been written down.

Hesitant, observant, nervous

Nervous? Bucky did not agree with that assessment one bit.  He knew that look and it wasn’t a nervous one.  If anything, she was prepping an escape or mentally taking in her potential threats before making a decision.  Steve stood up and offered a hand to the woman and she gave it a gentle shake, her eyes still watching him with suspicion and judgement.

Psychologists were a load of crap anyway- at least in Bucky’s opinion.  They didn’t do anything and honestly caused more trouble than they resolved.  Sure, Steve would probably disagree, but Bucky refused to back down from his stance.

She still hadn’t opened her mouth- choosing instead to listen to the information given to her.  The doctor now stood forward and ran through some clinical information.  Steve was off to the side, occasionally sending the woman a reassuring smile or nod after the doctor said something.  After that, the doctor left the room to just Steve and the woman.

Now it was Bucky’s turn.

When the doctor went into the hallway, she gestured for Bucky to go inside.  Clearly they were happy with the young woman’s progress if he was allowed inside.  Steve was supposed to cover the basics- Hi, you’re in the future.  I’m from the past too.  Everything is ok, you’re not with Hydra anymore.  Bucky was mainly there for moral support.

He opened the door and slid inside as quietly as he could.  He didn’t want to rattle her; knowing full well how every sense was tuned to the smallest stimuli after freezing.

“This is James Barnes,” Steve introduced, pushing him a little closer to the woman.  “He was a soldier too, in a different war with me.”

“Hello,” he greeted, suddenly feeling very awkward and clumsy under the woman’s hazel gaze.  It seemed like the color of her eyes had hardened now that she was a little more conscious.

“I remember you,” she simply stated, her expression unchanging and sending a chill down Bucky’s core.  She recognized him as well.  He wasn't crazy.  He tensed, waiting for more information, readying himself to fight.  

“He was in the lab with us when you initially woke up,” Steve tried to interject but she shook her head.

“No, before this,” she noted, her expression slipping to confusion a brief moment before the mask covered her again.  “You’re still young.”

James was at a loss for words.  He hadn’t encountered a single soul from Hydra who didn’t mean him malicious intent, perhaps he'd forgotten a bitter past?  Maybe she was a sleeper agent he'd encountered briefly during his training? He stood there, his expression souring before Steve intervened with a quick question.

“What do you remember?” he prompted the woman, his hand going to Bucky’s arm to calm the man.  It was probably for the best.  Bucky felt like he was about to make an incredibly stupid decision if left to his own devices.  He kept his mouth shut and let Steve do the talking.  Even if he thought Steve was an idiot for underestimating this woman's past, perhaps violence wasn't the best approach.

“I met you twice,” she continued, her voice growing in strength while she spoke, her body language suggested no anger or resentment, but perhaps she masked it as well as her other thoughts.  “Before and after…” she gestured toward his left arm and frowned.  Was that guilt he detected?  Perplexed, Bucky felt his chest loosen and he grabbed an extra chair from the side of the room, sliding it next to Steve's.  The blonde soldier` took note and sat down next to him, his eyes glancing in Bucky's direction, ready to jump in if needed.  

“They did a- er- something on us-,” she paused trying to find the correct word.  “Transfusion sanguine.”

A blood transfusion, he mentally translated.  From time to time he recalled flashes of his fall from the train; the agony of losing his left arm and the subsequent surgery that followed.

“Your arm was not saved, despite their efforts,” she explained, the hardening in her eyes shifting to pity at the man in front of her.  “The transfusion saved your life.  They said something about a serum.  It was in Russian so I didn’t understand it all.”

“What happened after that?” Steve tried to pull more information from the woman, but her eyes became distant and she shook her head.  

“I don’t think that’s a story for today, my apologies,” she practically whispered the words, her voice hollow and shaking.  That was fear, Bucky realized.  And he was pretty sure he knew why.

“Your name’s Mabel, right?” Bucky finally spoke up and the auburn haired woman looked startled at his sudden question.  She looked as tense as he felt, perhaps she had been reading him while they spoke.  He repeated the name in a softer tone.  “Mabel Foster?”

“No one has said that name in a very long time,” she replied with a weak smile, visibly relaxing.  “But yes, that is the name I was given at birth.”

The trio fell silent before Steve stood and announced that Mabel needed to get some more sleep before they tried to talk again.  Bucky murmured his agreement before Mabel interrupted their leaving with a small question.

“You said I’ve been asleep a while,” she looked uncertain a moment, as if she wasn’t interested in the answer to the question but knew she had to ask.  “And you’re still here…” she trailed off when she looked at Bucky.  Her expression lost and distant a moment, they waited for her to continue.  When she jumped back to reality, she finally was able to phrase the question.  “What year is it?”

Steve stumbled over words before Bucky stepped forward and knelt down next to the woman’s bed so he was eye level with her.  He wasn't going to pull the punch.  The sooner she find out, the better.  

“It’s been a hundred years, Mabel,” he stated firmly.  The woman didn’t look surprised, he noted while he waited.  She rustled some of her blankets and repositioned herself on the small hospital mattress.

“I see,” she merely commented.  “Thank you Mr. Barnes, and Mr. Rogers.”

The men could tell that was her way of dismissing them and they quickly parted the room.  When they entered the hallway, the medical staff had all but disappeared.   Tony and Natasha had made their way to the level and were muttering amongst themselves.  

The lights in the room dimmed when Mabel fell back into her bed.  Before Bucky could catch another look, Tony blacked the glass out, conserving the woman’s privacy for the evening.

“She knew you,” Natasha stated when the soldiers approached their duo.  “Are we sure she isn’t an agent?”

“I don’t think so,” Bucky insisted.  He ran an anxious hand through his mess of brown hair and shook his head.  “She gave me a blood transfusion.  I think she was a science project for them.”

To his core, Bucky felt sick at the idea of the woman waiting around to be harvested after he returned from missions.  Perhaps it’d been a one-time thing and she’d been the most stable with his serum? 

“We’re still working on the files we gathered from the base,” Tony’s voice brought Bucky out of his daze and he saw that Steve and Natasha were listening intently.  “It was built by a Dr. Krauss toward the middle of World War 1.  Funded by a wealthy beneficiary in the German empire with Hydra ties but that’s all we know right now.  Hopefully when our friend is feeling up to it, she can provide a little insight."

“If we can trust her,” Natasha reminded him coolly.  Of course the red haired spy was careful to believe anything an outsider brought to the table.  She needed all the facts, and if the facts showed anything at this point, this woman was no better than Bucky was at his height of power in Hydra.

“I’ve got nothing but time,” Tony laughed, folding his tablet shut and turning on his heel toward his apartment.

Germany- French held Trenches- Midnight-  August 1917

“She lost the baby,” Joseph whispered to his companion over the hum of explosions and stray gunshots.  “In June, I guess.”

“Joseph, I’m so sorry,” Mabel gave her friend a genuine look of misery for his suffering.  The blonde-haired man leaned up against the muddy trench and frowned.

“I’m supposed to ship back for a week in October,” he continued solemnly.  “Maybe we can give it another try.”

“Perhaps,” Mabel agreed quietly, unsure of what else to supply to him.  When her cousin lost her first child, the woman was inconsolable.  What Mabel would do for Joseph to be by his wife’s side during this devastating time...

“Our neighbors are watching her,” he added.  “The Barnes’.  They just had a boy of their own a bit ago.  Sarah said he’s a sweet kid, a quiet baby.  Hopefully that’ll help.  Gee, I don’t know.”

He gave a bitterly sad laugh.  The pain was echoed through the trench a moment.

“I was technically right,” he added after a few heartbeats of silence.  “It’d been a girl.  Her name was Maria after Sarah’s mother.  They found her a little plot outside of the cemetery.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah,” he agreed softly.  “I’m gonna visit her when I go back.”

“Send my regards,” Mabel replied, she blinked back a few tears that threatened to spill over.

“Her Uncle Pierre will always be welcomed,” Joseph snickered.  “I’ll make sure Sarah sends some goodies back with me.  We gotta fatten you up.”