#post snap

Wakanda always wears sunlight differently in your dreams. It drips gold over everything, rich and warm, catching on the tall grass and the edges of stone, painting the world in something too gentle to be real. The breeze carries the scent of earth, flowers, and something sweet you can't quite name, and for one fragile, treacherous moment, your chest loosens.

You are happy here.

Your gaze drifts toward the open stretch of grass ahead, and that is when you see her.

She can't be more than four. Small and bright as a sunbeam, all quick little feet and wild laughter, darting through the grass in a dress patterned with Wakandan embroidery. Her hair is gathered up in little braided puffs, beads clicking softly when she runs, and even from this distance, there is something so achingly familiar about her that it roots you where you stand.

You know her. Your heart knows her before your mind can catch up.

A few yards away, Bucky sits in the grass, one knee raised, the other stretched out, looking more at peace than you think you have ever seen him. The hard lines of him are gone here. No tension in his shoulders. No shadow in his eyes. Just sunlight, soft laughter, and the kind of ease he wears like he was always meant for it.

He looks up just in time to see her charging at him.

"Papa!"

The word rings through the air like a bell inside your ribs.

She launches herself at his back without warning, and Bucky lets out a surprised grunt before laughing, rich and unguarded, as he catches her with effortless practice. He rises to his feet with her clinging to him, then reaches back and hooks an arm under her legs.

"You trying to tackle me, little doll?" he asks, glancing over his shoulder.

Her giggle is the cutest thing you have ever heard. Bright, breathless, endless.

"You're too slow," she declares.

"Too slow?" Bucky repeats, mock offended. "That so?"

Then he spins her.

The sound that leaves her is pure delight, shrieking laughter spilling into the breeze as he turns her around and around until both of them are dizzy with it. He finally stops only long enough to toss her higher against his back, her little arms tightening around his neck as she dissolves into another fit of giggles.

You stand there, watching them, feeling your entire heart ache with something too big to name. You don't even notice Shuri approach until her shoulder bumps lightly against yours.

"You are staring," she says, all smug amusement.

You laugh under your breath, unable to tear your eyes away. "Can you blame me?"

"No," she says, following your gaze. "I am glad you decided to stay in Wakanda to raise her."

That pulls your attention to her.

Shuri stands beside you with her hands folded behind her back, looking unbearably pleased with herself, like she has personally orchestrated the sun, the breeze, the laughter, all of it.

Your smile softens. "I'm glad Wakanda welcomed us." You glance back toward Bucky and the little girl. "I couldn't imagine a better place to raise our daughter."

The words settle deep in you, warm and easy, like they have always belonged there.

Shuri hums, satisfied. "Who would have thought? The White Wolf with a family."

You snort softly. "All thanks to your meddling."

She places a hand over her chest in false offense. "Meddling?" she repeats. "No. Scientific intervention."

That makes you laugh, a real laugh, light enough to float. "In the name of science?" you ask.

"In the name of science," she confirms solemnly, though the grin tugging at her mouth ruins the effect.

Before you can answer, a blur of motion barrels toward you.

"Mama!"

You barely have time to brace before she launches herself into your arms, and instinct takes over so quickly it almost hurts. You catch her with a little gasp, holding her close against your chest as her momentum makes you stumble half a step back.

There she is. Warm, solid, real.

Her little hands curl into your shoulders, and she smells like sunshine and grass and sugar. You pull her in tighter without even thinking, pressing a kiss to the side of her head as emotion swells so suddenly inside you it leaves you breathless.

"Hi, my love," you murmur.

She draws back just enough to cup your face in both tiny hands, serious in the way only children can be. "Papa promised he'd take me to the market," she tells you, as if this is the most important matter in the world, "for something sweet."

"Did he now?" you ask, glancing over her shoulder.

Bucky is already walking toward you, still smiling, his hair falling into his face, the grass brushing against his boots. There is something so unfairly beautiful about him like this that it almost makes your eyes sting.

"He did," he says when he reaches you. "And I fully intend to keep my promise."

Your daughter beams. "See?"

"I see," you say gravely, adjusting her in your arms. "Sounds very serious."

"It is," she whispers, like she is sharing classified intel.

Bucky steps in close, close enough that the warmth of him curls around you before he even touches you. His hand settles at the small of your back, steady and familiar, and for a second all you can do is look at him.

There is so much tenderness in his face it nearly undoes you.

Then he leans in and kisses you.

It is soft, easy, practiced in the way that speaks of years instead of moments. A kiss shared in daylight, with your daughter in your arms and laughter still lingering in the air. Domestic and ordinary and everything your soul has been starving for.

A tiny groan of disgust interrupts the moment.

You pull back just enough to see your daughter twisting dramatically in your hold to look at Shuri.

"Eww, auntie," she complains, throwing one little hand over her eyes. "Close your eyes."

Shuri lets out the most offended sound you have ever heard. "Why must I close my eyes? They are your parents."

"They're being gross," your daughter says with absolute conviction.

Bucky huffs a laugh against your temple. "Gross, huh?"

"So gross," she mutters, peeking through her fingers.

You laugh then, helpless and full, and Bucky's forehead falls lightly against yours as his hand slides more securely around your waist. Shuri is still muttering something about ungrateful children and scientific excellence, but it all blurs around the edges, because this, this is the center of it.

Your daughter in your arms. Bucky at your side. Wakanda all around you.

A life so beautiful your heart doesn't know what to do with it except hold still and pray the moment never ends. Because this is what home was supposed to feel like.

You wake with a violent jerk.

Your breath catches hard in your throat as your eyes snap open, instinct dragging your hand toward the knife at your thigh before your mind catches up. The warm grass is gone. The golden Wakandan sun is gone. The weight of little arms around your neck has vanished so completely it leaves behind a kind of ache that feels physical.

For one disorienting second, you don't know where you are.

Then the stink of the docks settles in. Rotting wood, oil, brine, old blood hidden beneath the river stink.

Your pulse pounds as you force yourself upright from where you had been crouched in the shadows above the warehouse rafters, one hand braced against the cold steel beam beneath you. Below, the dock stretches out in jagged patches of moonlight and shadow, quiet except for the distant slap of water against pylons and the occasional groan of metal shifting with the wind.

You fell asleep.

The realization makes your jaw tighten.

Not for long, judging by the angle of the moon and the fact that your target has only just arrived, but long enough. Long enough to dream. Long enough to let your guard down.

You swallow hard, shoving the remnants of it away before they can root themselves in your chest. The little girl's laugh still echoes somewhere cruel and soft in the back of your mind. You kill it the only way you know how.

Focus.

Below you, the woman steps into the warehouse with all the confidence of someone who still thinks she is untouchable.

She looks harmless, that is the point.

Mid thirties maybe. Clean coat, neat hair, soft voice. The kind of face girls are meant to trust. The kind of face frightened runaways might follow without a second thought if she smiled at them and said, 'sweetheart, let me help you.'

Your stomach turns. You would think women would protect girls. Turns out evil doesn't care what face it wears. Turns out there are witches in this operation too.

You have spent weeks tracking her. Listening, following, learning the pattern. The way she lingered near shelters and bus stations. The way she knew exactly how to speak to desperate girls, exactly how to make herself look safe. By the time they realized they had been handed off to monsters, it was already too late.

Not tonight.

Your fingers tighten around the hilt of your blade as you watch her cross the warehouse floor, heels clicking softly against the concrete.

You have been extra careful this past year, you had to be.

The military got involved months ago, sniffing around the same filth you have been carving through in the dark. Official task forces, sweeps, raids. Cleanup crews arriving just late enough to find bodies and blood but never the hand that left them there. Every time, you are gone before they can lock the place down. Every time, they are left staring at another corpse and another mystery.

You make it a point to keep it that way. No witnesses, no mistakes, no trails.

The woman checks her watch, annoyed and impatient. Waiting for someone.

Not happening.

You drop from the rafters without a sound.

She barely gets half a breath to turn before your hand clamps over her mouth and drives her forward into the nearest support beam. Her muffled scream dies against your palm as the impact rattles through the metal.

Panic floods her eyes.

You press in close, voice low and lethal against her ear. "How many?"

She thrashes, nails clawing uselessly at your wrist.

You slam her harder into the beam. "How many girls?"

Her answer comes out broken and wet against your hand, not words, just terrified pleading.

Your lip curls. "That always comes at the end, doesn't it? The begging. The tears. As if fear somehow makes you human again."

You drag the blade lightly across her throat, just enough to let her feel the promise of it. "You wore kindness like a mask," you whisper. "Do you know what they probably thought when they saw you? Relief."

Her whole body shakes.

"And all you did was lead them straight to hell."

She tries to wrench free, but you don't let her.

By the time your hand leaves her mouth, it is only so she can gasp once before you bury the blade deep.

Her eyes go wide, a wet choke escapes her lips as her body jerks in your grip.

You hold her there, face blank, steady, letting her feel exactly what she gave others. Fear, helplessness, the certainty that no one is coming. Then you rip the blade free.

The woman crumples, blood darkening the concrete in a quick, ugly bloom.

For a moment, the warehouse goes still.

Your breathing is even. Your pulse no longer racing. Dream and grief and ache all folded back into the cold place where you keep them caged. You crouch, wiping the blade on the woman's coat, already calculating your exit. Rear door, north fence. Gone before anyone hears a damn thing.

Then a voice cuts clean through the dark behind you.

"So you're the one leaving me messes to clean up?"

Every muscle in your body locks. You spin just as the woman's lifeless body hits the floor with a heavy thud.

A man in military uniform stands a few yards away, half in shadow, half in the pale spill of dock light pouring through the warehouse opening. Tall, broad, built like someone the government made in a lab and then handed a flag to. His posture is sharp, controlled, but there is something almost lazy in the way he stands there, like he knows he already has your attention and doesn't need to fight for it.

You never heard him coming. That alone is enough to put your nerves on a knife edge.

His gaze flicks once to the body, then back to you. Not shocked, not horrified, assessing.

Your grip tightens on the knife. "You should've stayed out of it."

One corner of his mouth twitches, but it is not amusement. Not quite. "Funny," he says, voice dry as old gunpowder. "I was about to say the same thing."

The patch on his sleeve catches the light. U.S. military.

Your eyes narrow, so this is one of them. One of the uniforms who keeps showing up after the blood dries. One of the men meant to contain the rot instead of rip it out by the root.

He takes one slow step forward, eyes dropping briefly to the body at your feet. "I've been following this trail for months," he says. "Traffickers. dealers. corrupt cops. Every time we get close, somebody beats us to it."

Another step.

"Fast." His eyes lift to yours. "Efficient. Angry as hell."

His gaze slides over your stance, your blade, the blood on your hands, like he is piecing together a puzzle he's been itching to solve. Then he says, almost to himself, "Didn't expect you."

You shift your weight, ready to bolt or strike, whichever comes first. "That sounds like a you problem."

This time, his mouth does curve, sharp and brief. "You always this friendly?"

"Only with men who sneak up on me in dark warehouses."

He glances around at the corpse, then back at you. "Hard not to notice the dead body."

"She deserved worse."

Something in his expression changes at that. Not disagreement, not approval either. Recognition, maybe. The kind that comes from someone who has seen ugly things and still has not decided what that makes him.

"You don't get to decide that," he says.

A bitter laugh slips out before you can stop it. "Funny. Looks like I already did."

Silence stretches between you, taut as wire.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails. Too far to matter yet, but not for long.

The man's gaze flicks briefly toward the warehouse entrance, then back to you, steady and measuring. He does not look rattled by the body at your feet. If anything, he looks annoyed that he got here after the fact.

"You've got maybe two minutes," he says.

"I know."

His eyes drag over you again, taking in the blade, the blood, the stance that says you will bolt or fight depending on what breath comes next.

Then he asks, "What's your name?"

You let out a short, humorless laugh. "That's on a need to know basis."

Something in his expression shifts, not quite amusement, not quite irritation. "I'd like to know the name of the person whose messes I keep having to clean up."

Your grip tightens around the knife. "I didn't ask you to clean up the trash."

That lands.

His jaw ticks, just once.

Then he moves, fast. Faster than you expected for a man built like a tank in military issue.

But you move too.

He reaches for your wrist, probably expecting to disarm first and ask questions later. You twist before he can get a solid hold, knocking his hand aside as you pivot out of reach. He adjusts instantly, stepping in again, sharp and precise, and you meet him head on, matching him move for move.

His fist comes toward your shoulder. You duck and drive your elbow toward his ribs.

He blocks.

You slash low with the knife, not to kill, just to force distance, and he jumps back just enough to avoid the blade before surging forward again. His hand catches your forearm this time, but only for half a second before you wrench free and bring your knee up hard. He turns with it, takes the blow on the side instead of center mass, and exhales through his nose like you are becoming very interesting very quickly.

You spin, aiming the butt of the knife toward his temple.

He catches your wrist.

You plant your boot, brace, and shove into him instead of away.

For one charged second, the two of you lock there in the dark, close enough to hear each other breathe, each trying to overpower the other and neither giving an inch.

His eyes narrow. "Yeah. Definitely didn't expect you." he mutters.

You yank your wrist free and slash toward him again. He traps your arm against his chest, and your free hand flies toward his throat. He catches that too.

Now you are really close. Chest to chest, braced, straining. The kind of closeness that feels less like an accident and more like a threat.

He looks down at you, breathing hard but controlled, his grip firm without quite tipping into cruel. "You always greet people like this?"

You glare up at him. "Only the ones stupid enough to get in my way."

That crooked edge is back at his mouth, but it is meaner now, sharper. "Yeah," he says quietly, "I can see that."

You drive your foot down hard onto his boot and slam your head forward just enough to break his concentration, his grip loosens. It is all the opening you need.

You tear yourself free and spring back, knife raised, breath heaving.

He straightens slowly, shoulders rolling once as if settling back into himself, though his eyes never leave you. No smugness now, no easy confidence. Just focus, like he finally understands exactly what you are.

The sirens are louder now, voices beginning to rise in the distance outside.

He glances toward the entrance, then back to you. "This your thing?" he asks. "Swoop in, kill the target, disappear before the cavalry shows up?"

You edge backward toward the shadows. "You say that like you're offended."

"I'm saying," he replies, taking one step forward, "you're making my job harder."

You snort. "Then maybe you should be faster."

That sparks something in him. Not anger exactly, something hotter, something that looks a hell of a lot like challenge. "I'll remember that."

"Do," you say.

He studies you one last time, eyes flicking to the blood on your blade and back to your face. "Need to know basis, huh?"

You tilt your head. "Looks like you still don't need to know."

Before he can move again, you slip back into the dark beyond the warehouse beams, gone just as the first wave of voices spills in from outside.

You don't look back. But you feel him there anyway, watching.

You slip into the compound long after midnight, silent out of habit, keyed up enough that every shadow feels like a threat.

The mission should have calmed the noise, it usually it does.

Usually the blood cools something ugly in you, settles the rage back into its cage for a few hours, lets you pretend there is a system to this rot and you are cutting pieces out of it one by one. Usually by the time you make it home, your pulse is steady, your hands are clean, your mind empty enough to pass for tired.

Not tonight. Tonight all you can think about is the man in military green standing in that warehouse like he had every right to be there.

The way he moved, how he kept up, how he saw your face.

Your jaw tightens as you shut the door behind you more sharply than you mean to. The sound snaps through the quiet hall.

You curse under your breath and turn toward the stairwell, already peeling your gloves off finger by finger, mind racing ahead to all the ways this could go wrong now. A face is dangerous, a face can be traced, a face can be remembered.

You have spent the last year making sure all they ever found were bodies and ghosts and now one soldier with sharp eyes and a smart mouth has both.

You barely make it three steps before a voice cuts through the dark.

"You're late."

You freeze.

Natasha Romanoff stands at the far end of the hall, one shoulder propped against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. Barefoot, black tank, sleep pants. Casual enough to look harmless if you did not know better.

You know better.

She has been waiting.

Your expression hardens instantly. "You should be asleep."

"So should you."

You stare at each other across the dim hallway, the air between you tightening by the second.

Her face gives very little away, but you know her too well now. The stillness is deliberate, the calm too measured. She is not here by accident, and she is not here because she could not sleep. She is here for you.

You exhale through your nose and step toward the stairs. "I'm not in the mood for a lecture tonight."

"Good," Nat says quietly, pushing off the wall. "Because this isn't a lecture."

That makes you stop. Something in her tone catches. Not sharp enough to cut, but heavy enough to sink.

You turn back slowly. "Then what is it?"

She studies you for a long moment, gaze moving over your face like she is cataloging every crack you thought you had hidden. The late hour, the tension in your shoulders, the faint smear at your sleeve you missed in your rush to leave the docks.

Her eyes return to yours. "I'm onto you," she says.

The words hit like a fist to the sternum, though your face stays still. You do not blink. "Onto what?"

Nat does not rise to it. "Don't do that."

You laugh once, humorless and frayed. "Do what?"

"Lie to me."

The hallway goes very quiet.

Your exhaustion curdles into something meaner. "I really don't have the patience for this tonight."

"I know." She says it too softly, and somehow that is worse.

You take another step toward the stairs. "Then move."

Nat steps in front of you before you can pass.

Not aggressive, just there, just enough.

Your temper sparks fast. "Nat."

"It's not a lecture," she says again, and now her voice is low, steady, careful in a way that makes something in your chest twist. "I'm not calling you out. I'm not dragging Steve into this. I'm not stopping you in front of everyone and demanding answers you're not ready to give me."

You hold her gaze, breathing too hard for someone standing still. "Then what do you want?"

Her expression shifts then. Only slightly, but enough.

The spy gives way to the friend. The woman who has buried too many people and carries every one of them like a scar. "I don't want to lose you," she says.

The anger in you stutters.

Nat swallows once. "Not like I lost Clint."

That lands harder than you expect.

You frown, thrown enough that some of the fight slips out of your stance. "What do you mean by that?"

For the first time all night, Nat looks tired. Soul deep. The kind of tired that comes from grief settling in the body and refusing to leave.

She glances down the hall, like checking to make sure the compound is still asleep, then looks back at you. "I know Clint isn't the one doing this here."

Your stomach drops, but she keeps talking before you can cut in.

"Rhodey tracked him to Mexico."

You go still.

Nat watches your face carefully, sees the flicker there, the split second reaction you cannot bury fast enough. Recognition, calculation. The instant your mind starts rearranging pieces.

Of course she notices.

"He found him there weeks ago," Nat says. "Cartel. Multiple bodies. Clint's pattern all over it." Her voice tightens just a fraction. "So unless he figured out how to be in two countries at once, he's not the one leaving corpses in shipping yards and warehouses over here."

You look away first. A mistake. Because silence is not denial, not with Natasha. Not with someone built to hear what you do not say.

She steps closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough that you can feel the weight of her presence. "I didn't want to believe it was you."

Something jagged flares in your chest. "Then don't."

Her eyes flash. "You think I'm here because I want to be right?"

You don't answer.

Nat lets out a slow breath, reins herself back in. "I'm here because I know what grief does when you give it a knife and tell yourself it's justice."

Your jaw locks. "No," you say flatly. "You don't."

Her expression changes again, sharpened now by something wounded. "Don't I?"

The question hangs there, barbed.

You hate it because part of you knows she is not talking about Clint.

She is talking about herself.

Red in her ledger, blood in her hands. All those years when survival and vengeance and obedience blurred together so badly she probably forgot where one ended and the other began.

You look at her and see it all at once, and because you see it, you hate that she sees you too.

"This is different," you say.

Nat's mouth presses into a thin line. "That's what everyone says when they need it to be."

"They're not innocent."

"I know."

"They hurt girls, Nat."

"I know."

The quiet certainty in her voice makes your anger stumble, but not enough to stop.

"Then what exactly are we doing here?" you snap. "Because last time I checked, the system isn't exactly sprinting to save the people it leaves behind."

Her eyes do not leave yours. "This isn't about whether they deserved it."

"Easy for you to say."

"No," she says, and there is sudden steel in it now, cold and unmistakable. "It's not easy for me to say. That's why I'm saying it."

You look away again, toward the dark stairwell, toward escape, toward anything but the truth standing in front of you in bare feet and tired eyes.

Nat softens before she speaks next. "That path doesn't end where you think it does."

A laugh catches in your throat, brittle enough to break skin. "You think I don't know that?"

"I don't think you care."

That one hits dead center.

Your eyes snap back to hers. For a second, all you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears. Because that is the problem, isn't it? Not that she knows, not that she figured it out.

It's that she is standing here looking at you like she sees exactly how little you value your own life right now. Like she knows this is not just about punishment, it is about erosion. About letting each kill take something with it until there is not enough left of you to hurt anymore.

You fold your arms over yourself, suddenly cold despite the sweat still drying at the back of your neck. "I said I'm not in the mood tonight."

Nat's face crumples so slightly most people would miss it. You don't.

"I know," she says again, barely above a whisper. "But I need you to hear me anyway."

She steps closer, and this time you don't move.

"I lost Clint a long time before Rhodey found him in Mexico." Her voice is rougher now, more honest. "The second he decided there was no coming back from what the world took, I lost him. Maybe not all at once. Maybe not enough for everyone else to notice. But I did."

You stare at her, throat tight.

"I can see it happening to you," she says. "And I can't just stand here and pretend I don't."

The words press into every bruise inside you, because you want to tell her she is wrong. You want to tell her Clint is not you, you are not him, this is not the same.

But then you remember the woman at the docks. The dream before that. The soldier who saw your face. The way your first thought on the way home was not fear of getting caught, but fury that someone had gotten close enough to try.

You remember how little that scared you compared to waking up from the dream. How little any of this scares you now and maybe that is the worst part.

Nat's gaze searches your face. "You don't have to tell me everything tonight."

You let out a slow breath through your nose. "That's generous."

"I'm serious."

Your mouth twists. "That makes one of us."

A ghost of something sad flickers across her face. "I'm not asking you to confess. I'm asking you to stop pretending you're alone in this house."

That breaks somewhere deeper than anger can reach.

Your laugh this time is softer, uglier. "You really picked a bad night for this."

"I know," she says.

Because of course she does, of course she noticed more than the blood and the late hour.

Nat always notices.

Maybe she sees the leftover dream on your face. Maybe she sees the fresh fracture of it in your eyes. Maybe she just knows grief when it walks into a room and tries to pass for rage.

You scrub a hand over your mouth, exhausted suddenly, viciously, all the fight draining out so fast it leaves you dizzy. "I let someone get close tonight."

That is all you offer.

But it is enough to make Nat go still. "Who?"

"Military."

Her eyes sharpen. "Did he see you?"

You hesitate. That is answer enough.

"Damn it," she mutters.

You lean back against the wall, the cool surface pressing into your spine. "Yeah."

"Do you know who he is?"

You think of the uniform. The speed. The voice like a challenge thrown in the dark.

Your jaw tightens. "No."

Nat watches you, "Then it's only a matter of time before this gets worse."

You close your eyes briefly. "I said I know."

The silence that follows is heavy, but not hostile. Just full, crowded with all the things neither of you knows how to fix.

When you open your eyes again, Nat is still there.

Still steady, still not leaving. You hate how much that matters.

"I'm not Clint," you say finally, voice rawer than you want it to be.

Nat's expression softens. "No," she says. "You're not."

"Then stop looking at me like I'm already gone."

Something shatters quietly in her face at that. "I'm looking at you like I'm afraid."

The honesty of it strips you clean.

For a second, you are not at the compound. Not in the hallway, bloodstained and tired and mean around the edges.

You are just a girl who has lost too much, being seen by someone else who has lost too much, and neither of you knows how to save the other from the shape of that grief.

Nat reaches out slowly, gives you every chance to pull away.

When you don't, she rests her hand lightly against your forearm. Not restraint, just contact.

"You don't have to tell Steve tonight," she says. "You don't have to hand me your knives. You don't have to suddenly become okay because I asked nicely."

Your eyes burn.

"But you do have to let somebody in," she says. "Before this turns you into someone you can't come back from."

You swallow hard, staring at the floor between you. For once, there is no sharp answer waiting on your tongue. Just exhaustion, just ache. Just the terrible, quiet possibility that she might be right, and that maybe part of you already knows she is.

"I can't promise anything," you say at last.

Nat's hand squeezes your arm once, then falls away. "I know."

You nod, once, because it is all you can manage.

She steps aside then, clearing the path to the stairs, but her voice stops you one last time. "Whoever he is," she says, meaning the soldier, "if he got that close once, he'll try again."

You glance back at her.

In the dim hallway, she looks older somehow. Not in years, in burden, in love, in fear.

"I know," you say.

And this time, the words mean more than the danger.

Because now there is a new one lodged beneath your ribs.

Not the military. Not the ghost at the docks with the quick hands and sharper mouth.

Nat was right.

The worst part is not that someone saw your face.

It is that when she said she did not want to lose you, some broken part of you realized you are not entirely sure there is enough left worth keeping.

The first week, you vanish. Not literally, you still come back to the compound, you still train. You still eat just enough to keep Nat from watching you too closely and sleep just little enough that no one calls it rest.

But out there, in the city, in the dark places where your other work gets done, you become smoke. No repeated routes, no familiar rooftops, no lingering.

You stop using the same exits twice in a row, you switch boroughs, switch nights. You bury your patterns so deep even you start to feel like a moving target in your own skin. If the military wants to find you again, they are going to earn it.

For a while, it works. Two weeks pass with nothing but dead ends and cold leads.

You keep your distance, you observe more than you strike. You leave three targets untouched because the setup feels wrong, because your nerves keep whispering trap, because one man in green got close enough to learn your face and now every quiet street feels lined with teeth.

You hate him for that, hate that he got under your skin.

You hate even more that Nat's words still crawl around in your head when the city gets too quiet.

"You don't have to suddenly become okay."

"Before this turns you into someone you can't come back from."

You kill those thoughts the same way you kill everything else. By focusing on the next monster.

Tonight, it is another woman.

Late forties, church volunteer smile, community outreach badge. The kind of voice that says sweetheart and honey and darling while steering frightened girls toward "safe housing" that is anything but. You tracked her for eleven days before you were sure. Five more before you could isolate her.

She leaves the community center at 11:17 p.m. alone, heels sharp against the sidewalk, phone in hand, coat buttoned high against the wind. She cuts through an alley behind a row of old brick buildings, heading for the parking lot on the other side.

Bad choice, you drop from the fire escape behind her without a sound.

By the time she realizes she is not alone, the muzzle of your gun is already pressed into the base of her skull.

She freezes, her breath catches in one sharp little gasp.

"Don't," she whispers.

You almost laugh.

Don't, as if she ever gave anyone else that courtesy.

You shove her forward until she stumbles against the brick wall, one hand splayed there for balance, the other still clutching her phone like it can save her now. Your silencer gleams dull black in the thin spill of streetlight overhead.

"Hands where I can see them."

She obeys, slowly, shaking.

You step in close enough to smell her perfume. Something floral, expensive, sweet enough to make your stomach turn.

"How many?" you ask.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

You press the gun harder into her skull. "Try again."

Her voice breaks on the inhale. "Please."

That word again. Always so small on their tongues, so useless.

"I've seen the messages," you tell her, cold and quiet. "The pickups. The transfers. The girls you told you were helping." Your jaw tightens. "How many?"

She starts crying.

You feel nothing.

"Please," she says again, shoulders shaking now. "I didn't hurt them, I just... I just connected people, I just made calls, that's all, I swear to God."

The disgust that rolls through you is volcanic.

You hate this kind most. The ones who wash their hands in technicalities. The ones who tell themselves they never touched the fire, they only passed along the match.

"You sold them," you say.

"No, no, I..."

"You sold them."

The words crack through the alley like bone.

She sobs harder, body folding in on itself, and you think of every girl who probably believed this woman was safe. Every hand she held. Every smile she wore like a lie.

You raise the gun. Your finger tightens on the trigger.

Then someone grabs your wrist.

The shot goes wide with a muffled spit, slamming uselessly into brick.

The sound ricochets through the alley and the woman screams, dropping to the pavement before scrambling to her feet and running blind toward the street.

"No!" you snarl, wrenching around.

It's him, the soldier.

He has your gun hand twisted just enough to ruin your aim, his body crowding yours, fast and solid and infuriatingly real. He must have come out of the dark a split second before the shot, must have closed the distance with that same brutal speed as before, and rage detonates in your chest so hard it whites out everything else.

The woman gets away because of him.

You rip your wrist sideways, trying to break his grip. "Let go of me!"

"Not happening." His voice is rough, low, too close.

You drive your elbow back toward his ribs. He shifts, takes the hit half on, grip tightening instead of loosening. You spin into him with your free hand already coming up, aiming for his throat.

He catches that wrist too.

For one second you are pinned in his hold, both arms trapped, your back nearly against his chest, and humiliation burns hotter than fury.

Then you slam the heel of your boot down on his foot and throw your weight sideways.

He grunts, his hold slips.

You twist free and whirl on him, gun still in hand, fury shaking through every muscle.

"She got away!"

His chest rises hard once, but his expression is locked down, all hard lines and sharper intent. "Yeah," he says. "That was the idea."

You charge him before the last word even lands. There is no strategy in it, no patience, only rage.

You slam into him with enough force to drive him back a step, then another, shoving, striking, wild with the kind of anger that comes from having something taken. Your fist catches his jaw, his head snaps to the side. Satisfaction flashes hot and savage through you.

"You arrogant son of a bitch!"

He blocks your next hit, catches your forearm, but you wrench free and swing again. "Do you have any idea what she's done?"

"Yes."

The answer almost makes you falter.

"Then why the hell would you stop me?"

He ducks your next strike and grabs for the gun. You yank it back, bringing your knee up hard. He blocks with his thigh, hissing a curse through his teeth.

"Because I need her alive!"

The words hit like a slap.

You stare at him for half a second too long. He uses it, surging in, one hand catching your gun wrist, the other bracing at your shoulder as he drives you back against the brick wall.

Your spine hits hard, pain sparks. He presses in just enough to control, not enough to crush.

"I've been building a case for weeks," he says, breathing hard, face inches from yours. "Surveillance. Contacts. Routes. Safe houses. Names." His grip tightens when you try to jerk away. "You put a bullet in her head, I lose the line."

You glare at him, chest heaving. "You lose the line?" you spit. "They lose their lives."

His jaw flexes. "You think I don't know that?"

"I know you don't move fast enough."

That lights something in him.

His eyes flash. "And I know you don't think past the trigger."

The alley goes dead still.

You stare at each other, every breath sharp, every inch between you electric with hatred and something worse, something more dangerous because it is not simple.

He is angry. You are furious.

And beneath all of it is the undeniable fact that he had you, for a second again.

You hate that most of all. You bare your teeth at him. "Get off me."

He doesn't move. "Go ahead," he says, voice lower now. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"She was filth."

"I didn't say she wasn't."

"She deserved it."

"Maybe."

That stops you cold.

Maybe, not no. Not some righteous lecture about due process and restraint and law.

His face is hard, but not sanctimonious. There is dirt under this man's nails too, even if he hides it better.

"That doesn't mean you get to burn every lead before we can pull the whole structure down," he says.

You try to wrench your wrist free again but he holds fast.

"I had her," you hiss.

"No," he snaps back. "You had one body and five more girls disappearing next month because the rest of the network got spooked and scattered."

That one gets under your skin because you cannot dismiss it fast enough.

He sees that, of course he does.

"You're good," he says, not kindly, but honestly. "Fast. Careful. Mean as hell. But you're playing whack a mole with a machine."

You stare at him, breathing fire. "And what," you say, voice cutting, "you're gonna save them with paperwork?"

His mouth twists. "No." A beat. "I'm gonna save them by getting the doors kicked in before the girls inside get moved."

Something about the certainty in that, the ugly practicality of it, rattles against the walls you have built.

You hate that too. You shove at his chest with your free hand. "Let me go."

This time, after a beat, he does. He steps back just far enough to keep distance, but not enough to stop watching you like you are a live grenade with the pin half pulled.

You immediately raise the gun again, not quite aiming, not quite not.

The soldier's gaze drops to it, then returns to your face. "You gonna shoot me?"

The question is too calm, too steady.

Your finger flexes against the trigger. God, you want to.

Not because he is wrong, but because he made you miss. Because he touched your wrist and turned your shot to dust and let her run. Because he keeps appearing where he should not, seeing too much, saying too much, matching you. Because some part of you knows he is not entirely wrong, and that makes you want to put a hole through the alley wall.

Instead, you step forward until the muzzle presses into the center of his chest.

He does not flinch.

Up close, you can see the bruise yellowing faintly along his jaw from the last time. You feel a wicked flicker of satisfaction at that. His eyes stay on yours, unreadable except for the tension in them, the alertness, the challenge.

"You ever touch me again," you say quietly, "and I'll break your nose before I pull the trigger."

One corner of his mouth threatens to rise. Not quite a smile, more like a bad idea thinking about itself. "You can try."

The audacity of it nearly makes you see red. You jab the gun harder into his chest. "I mean it."

"So do I."

There it is again, that infuriating thing about him.

He does not back off, and he does not posture. He just stands there and meets you head on, like he has accepted from the start that this is going to be ugly and kept walking anyway.

Sirens wail faintly somewhere in the distance. Not close yet but close enough.

He glances toward the mouth of the alley, then back at you. "She won't get far."

You laugh, sharp and bitter. "Because now you're on it?"

"Because I planned for the route she'd take if she ran."

That lodges like a splinter. You hate him for being prepared. You hate yourself for not accounting for that possibility.

He sees the calculation flicker across your face and, maddeningly, does not gloat.

"She's not the end of it," he says. "She's the thread."

Your jaw tightens. "Then pray your people don't lose it."

He holds your stare. "Pray you don't cut it first."

For one wild second, you almost tell him what Nat said about Clint. About losing people before they are gone, about being afraid. But that would mean giving him something real, and you would rather swallow glass.

So instead you lower the gun just enough to make it clear you are not shooting him tonight.

His shoulders shift, not relaxing exactly, but recalibrating.

"You've been following me," you say.

His expression barely changes. "You noticed."

"Don't flatter yourself."

A faint snort escapes him. "Hard to miss the body count."

The alley falls quiet again, the kind of quiet that feels like a held breath.

You take a step backward, then another, slipping toward the shadows with your gun still lowered but very much in hand. He watches every movement, posture alert, blue eyes locked on you like he expects you to either vanish or lunge again.

"Stay out of my way," you say.

His mouth twitches, not quite amused. "Can't do that."

You nod once, sharp and humorless. "Then this keeps happening."

"Yeah," he says.

Just a fact laid down between you like a line neither of you plans to stop crossing.

You shift to leave, but his voice stops you one more time.

"You got a name."

You let out a scoff and glance back over your shoulder. "It doesn't matter."

He takes a slow step forward, not enough to crowd, just enough to make it clear he is not dropping it. "I'd like to know the name of the person who's been a pain in my ass for the last year."

That almost gets a smile out of you.

Instead, you study him for a beat, weighing the absurdity of it. This man has spent the better part of a year arriving late to your wreckage, chasing a ghost through bloodstains and vanishing acts, and now here he is in a filthy alley asking for your name like this is anything close to normal.

Maybe it is exhaustion, maybe irritation. Maybe you just want to see what he does with it. So you humor him.

"Mara Hart."

The words land softly, but they do not stay that way.

You watch the shift happen in real time.

It is subtle. A flicker, really. Something in his face changes, eyes narrowing just slightly, like he is turning it over in his head. Fitting the sound of it to the woman standing in front of him with a gun, blood on her hands, and enough fury in her bones to light the whole damned city.

Like he is deciphering it, like your name is some kind of code he did not expect to be given.

When he looks back up at you, something about his expression has sharpened. Not softened, not warmed.

Just settled, filed away... kept.

Then he says, "John Walker."

You stare at him.

The name fits too well. Solid and blunt and military straight down the middle. The kind of name that sounds like it belongs on paperwork, medals, and bad decisions.

A humorless breath leaves you. "Good for you."

That finally pulls the faintest hint of a real smile from him. Crooked, brief, gone almost as soon as it appears.

"Now we're acquainted."

"Wouldn't go that far."

His gaze drifts once to the gun in your hand, then back to your face. "Still," he says. "Better than nameless."

You should leave, you know you should.

Instead, you hold his stare one second longer than necessary, something taut and strange winding itself through the silence now that names have been laid bare between you.

It changes everything.

Because he is not just the soldier now and you are not just the ghost in his crime scenes.

You hate that. You hate more that part of you will remember the sound of his name.

Walker steps back first, just enough to give you the exit. "Get out of here, Hart."

The way he says it, clipped and low, sends something hot and irritated down your spine.

You hide it well.

"Try not to be late to your next cleanup, Walker."

Then you slip into the dark before he can answer, but this time you do not leave empty handed.

You leave with his name and the dangerous knowledge that now he has yours too.

John stays in the alley long after you're gone.

The sirens are closer now, somewhere beyond the mouth of the street, red and blue light threatening to spill around the corner at any second, but he does not move right away. He just stands there, staring at the space where you disappeared, jaw tight, pulse still not settled.

Mara Hart.

He turns the name over once, then again.

It does not fit the way he expected it to. Or maybe it fits too well. Too soft in one breath, too sharp in the next. Like something split clean down the middle. Like the woman who just shoved a gun into his chest and looked ready to pull the trigger without blinking.

For the better part of a year, you had been a ghost to him. Bloodstains, bodies, rumors. A pattern with no face.

Now the ghost has a name and somehow that feels worse.

John exhales hard, scrubbing a hand down his mouth as he glances toward the street where the woman ran. His team should already be closing in. If his timing held, if his people did not screw it up, tonight would still count for something.

Still, all he can think about is the fact that this is the second time he has let you walk away.

When really, he should be bringing you in.

He knows that.

He knows exactly what you are on paper. Vigilante, murderer. A wild card with a body count and a talent for disappearing before anyone can slap cuffs on the mess.

So why didn't he?

John's jaw flexes.

Because every time he gets close enough to touch you, something does not add up.

It is not mercy or hesitation, it is something in your eyes.

Not guilt or fear.

Grief, maybe. Rage twisted so tight around it that one almost passes for the other. Like if he grabbed too hard, the whole damn thing might come apart in his hands.

That should not matter but it does anyway.

A shout echoes from the far end of the block. John straightens, forcing himself back into motion, back into the mission, back into the part of this that still makes sense.

But as he steps out of the alley, your name follows him.

Mara Hart.

And for the first time in a year, the ghost he has been chasing feels dangerously real.

 You’d promised her that the trip to Wakanda would be quick. Nothing more than a routine mission. Bucky, Steve, Nat, Vision and Wanda were going to be there, it shouldn’t have gone so wrong. But it did. You watched so many of them turn to dust in front of you and that trip home was the worst thing in the world. Calling your wife’s phone with no answer hoping that maybe she was asleep, maybe she’d misplaced it or gone to take a shower. But you felt that pit in your stomach like you’d walk in that front door and the place would be empty. Devoid of life. But you didn’t want to think about that then. Not before you really had to. For a little while longer you didn’t want to imagine the worst. But you couldn’t hold out hope forever, and the moment you confirmed it slamming through the door, too hurried to bother using the keys, you collapsed to your knees in tears. Screaming her name and checking every room crushing doors with your hands out of pure grief and anger. She always said she didn’t need you to protect her. Made a big deal of it too, whenever you tried, she’d joke and smile saying she wasn’t with you for your strength or for protection. Insisted she could fight her own battles. But there was nothing she could do this time, and now there was nothing you could do either.

That first day walking through your home felt like hell. Everything was untouched, nothing had moved. The crib your wife was working on had come along well. She’d made progress since you last saw it just a few days prior. You looked around to see what she was doing when the unthinkable happened, maybe she’d gone out and was still out there somewhere, no matter how slim the chance, maybe...You checked the bathroom, the living room, and kitchen. No signs. Eventually when you got your head back a little convincing yourself being angry wasn’t helping. You called her phone, hearing it ring and wincing before following that stupid sound that you’d told her was ridiculous for a ringtone but she kept it anyway. The phone was on the floor in the bedroom, you should have realized the blanket was pulled open a little, like she’d meant to get in but got distracted. Or…she never had the chance to. You sunk to one knee to pick it up, holding it in the palm of your hand, thumb rubbing across it to feel the casing, the screen only slightly cracked. She dropped it often, so it was a wonder it didn’t develop more cracks along the screen over time. You turned it on, unlocked it with her password. It was her birthday. Today actually now that you thought about it and that would’ve hurt so much more if you allowed yourself to think about it. Between Thanos, the grief, and trying to hope for the best, remembering her birthday kind of escaped you. And it was a stupid password for security reasons but she always said she’d never ever lose her phone so it just needed to be something she’d remember if face ID was giving her trouble. When you unlocked her phone, it opened to whatever she was doing before the snap. Your heart may have broken even more because it opened straight up to her texts with you. Of course she was firing off a text to you. How tragically poetic.

You hadn’t replied to the few messages she sent before that until afterwards while you were panicking on the flight over here, and all your texts to her were along the lines of “Babe! Reply cmon.” Or “Pick up the damn phone!”. She had a habit of sending you little updates even when she knew you were busy on a mission, hoping that when you did get a second, it’d bring a smile to your face. You looked down at the screen to see the unfinished text that she was probably in the middle of typing and didn’t have the chance to finish and send:

“Taking a nap now ❤️. Stay safe over there. Save the world. Miss you. Love you. Come ba”

You winced hard and shed a tear that fell on the screen. You had to stop yourself from crawling into the bed and wrapping her blanket around you before crying your heart out. You wiped the tear off from the phone against your pants and finished the text the way you thought she would.

“Taking a nap now ❤️. Stay safe over there. Save the world. Miss you. Love you. Come back soon babe. Me and the baby are waiting for you”

And hit send which caused your own phone to buzz in your pocket. She was the only person in your contacts you had notifications enabled for, who else was actually worth being notified about? And that was how she signed off on messages nowadays, like she was writing for two. You pocketed the phone and walked out of the apartment after taking another look around the room. That place could not be your home anymore. Not without her there.

That was exactly a year ago now so naturally it was her birthday again. That’s how calendars worked. The birthday you should have been spending with her and your 4-month-old child if everything hadn’t been ruined by that giant purple prick. And you were back here. In the apartment like her ghost still occupied the space. Like the memories never truly left you. Like they haunted you, showing you visions of the life you should be living. You and her in the kitchen trying to make dinner while the baby watched you and babbled with the cutest smile. You trying to keep the little one occupied with toys while your wife tried to work, maybe even the middle of the night feeding shifts you’d have to take when the baby started crying. You’d imagined all that before, and the visions weren’t any less vivid in this moment. The bomber jacket, military boots, sunglasses and cargo pants were all part of the illusion of disinterest. Pretending like it was a past you’d moved on from. You were crying on the inside; you’d been crying all year but you had to pull it together eventually. Otherwise, it just eats you alive. But how could you move on. You failed. The team failed. To do the one thing you were supposed to do. Protect the fucking world and you couldn’t do that one thing! All you had to do was make sure Thanos didn’t get that fucking stone- make sure he couldn’t snap his stupid fingers, and if you’d just done something differently maybe the world wouldn’t be the depressing mess it was. Maybe she’d still be here. Maybe you wouldn’t be so fucking alone all the time.

Your head was reeling with all those thoughts and you let out a scream of desperation punching the floor in front of you hard enough that it broke a hole that plummeted down through the lower floors. Oops. Thankfully this building was empty these days otherwise that would’ve been pretty dangerous. You fixed your hair, took off your sunglasses and pocketed them in your jacket, stepping through the apartment again to the baby’s room. Looking at the crib again. Untouched for a year and it hadn’t broken yet but it had gotten dusty. So, you stepped over running your hands across it as the dust kicked up visibly while stray rays of sunlight still filtered in through the window. It was quiet. Until you heard footsteps and didn’t bother turning around. Nobody else was stupid enough to come here. And nobody else was smart enough to know you’d be here.

“Go home Valentina. It’s not happening.”

Valentina Allegra De Fontaine. Acting Shield director, in line to run to the CIA. The world had gone to shit and still needed it’s political figureheads to right the ship despite the fact 50% of them were just gone. That meant the people who’d always been “this close” were finally in line for something. Valentina was one of them. Always too aggressive in S.H.I.E.L. D’s eyes, politically she wasn’t getting far but that was before half her competition was wiped out. Now? She had the charisma, the cunning, and the resourcefulness to make use of her chances. It helped that people were desperate for literally anyone who still cared enough to do work for the government.

Her voice came out quiet, like she cared. Although you’d come across her enough over the last year to know that this was just how she spoke when she needed something. And she always. Needed something.

“I know today must be a difficult day for you. It being her birthday and all? But you’ve been ignoring my letters and emails. Which by the way? I hate sending you letters, what is this the 90s? But you leave me very few options. So, I thought I’d take the opportunity to find you on a day that I knew exactly where you’d be. Don’t curse at me for your own predictableness.”

She had a ways about her when she spoke. Like she knew everything and nothing about what she was talking about all at once. Like she was hedging a bet while being fully informed on everything she needed to know so she could prepare to deal with her target. And right now, that was you. She’d approached you multiple time over the last 6 months. Hoping to convince you the world needed it’s heroes. That it could and should be you. You’d always thought that if she wasn’t going to Steve, or Nat, or Tony- you know, real symbols of hope- then she was scraping the bottom of the crap barrel with you.

“Eat shit Valentina. You’re not making a strong case for yourself.”

Val only let out a light chuckle, moving the white streak of hair off her face and crossing her arms as she stood in the doorway…or what was left of it since you’d crushed it open a year ago.

“Alright. Alright. Take it easy. I’m not here to bite you. I understand these can be…frustrating times. Really, I do. But look at you. What were you again? A symbol of hope for America in the mid 2000s just as smartphones were becoming a thing? An attempt to recreate the “brilliance” of Captain America? How old were you. 17? 18? Couldn’t possibly be more than that right? I remember your face when it first flew across my tv screen and I thought. That, is a hero.”

Val let out another chuckle and you could sense the condescension in her tone, she wasn’t exactly praising you right now.

“Now look at you. Is this what she would’ve wanted for you huh? Should we call her and tell her what you’ve turned into? How…useless you are right now? I mean, a mess is an understatement, at least the others are trying to do something and I can kind of respect them for that but you’re just-”

In a flash you had Valentina pinned to a wall, hand pressing against her neck just enough to not actually kill her even though you could do so without even trying, your face one red of pure anger, fuming even as your voice came out rough.

“Do not. Bring her up again if you want to leave with your organs still in the right place Valentina. Shit talk me all you want. Bring her up again and I’ll make sure you don’t see the world the same way ever again.”

Valentina choked, held her arms up to surrender and when you finally let go, she rubbed her neck but didn’t lose an ounce of confidence.

“Fair enough. Consider me well warned. Not sure what I expected from the crappy imitation of Captain America anyway.”

Valentina let it sit for a minute before she continued, she could sense the anger but you didn’t react much, you’d heard it all. “Failed Super Soldier”, “Captain America: At Home edition”, “Dollar Mart Cap”. That was never your mission but people thought it was, to replace the legend that he was and the names stuck. Even after Steve was “revived” and came back into the world.

“Look. I’m just saying. You need a life sweetheart. This? Moping around over a year later isn’t going to fix shit. And the world out there? Is a dang mess if you haven’t realized. The heroes the world adores are gone or holed up overthinking their failures. It’s made my job quite impossible honestly. You can’t fix the past, but you sure as hell can help me make sure the world doesn’t burn itself to the ground. If you’re going to mope about your failure…at least make yourself useful and help clean up the mess you’ve made.”

You weren’t even looking at her anymore. Just at the wooden crib your wife had made with her own two hands since it was as close as you could really get to her anymore as your hands moved across the bars, listening to Valentina in silence.

Valentina sighed realizing you were going to need more convincing.

“I’m not asking you to be a hero. Hell, I don’t think you can be if I’m perfectly honest with you. But the world is a political shitstorm and one blown meeting away from nuclear war that kills the other half of the population. I need a soldier. Not even a great one. Or a good one. I’ll even take this…husk of what may be an ok one! Give me something. A price. I can make it happen; you’ve just got to give me something to work with-”

You chimed in. Interrupting her. Maybe you’d heard her voice for too long already today and you were tired of everything because a part of you didn’t really believe the words that came out of your mouth.

“I want to forget. All of it.”

Valentina let it sink in. She thought for a moment before getting back to you.

“How much of “it” exactly-”

“After the Geneva assignment. Check my file if you want an exact date. I know you practically sleep with it under your pillow at night”

Geneva was the last assignment before the government force you to settle in New York and work on standby doing basic shit for SHIELD instead of the more public facing mission stuff they had you doing for the military. Just months before you met her…

“That…can be arranged for. Memory wipes are pretty standard procedures now I suppose. What about all this stuff? It’s a lot of paperwork to make it disappear, and I haaate paperwork. If I have to I will bu-”

“Leave it as is. Don’t touch a thing. I don’t know if…they'll find a way to bring the world back. But if they do…I want this to still be here. But I will be relocating myself. Far from New York if you don't mind”

What you were asking for was…insanity. But if it meant Valentina getting what she needed, she didn’t really care. Hell, you could’ve asked for a million dollars and she’d have found a way to cough it up, so this was a pretty cheap price to pay, for her at least. For you though, it was far too much.

“Fine. As long as you still remember that you’ll be working for me and you remember how to do your job, I couldn’t care less what parts of your life stay and go.”

“Then we have a deal?”

You hadn’t looked at her this whole time, focused on the crib and the small cylindrical bar you’d broken off and held in your hand like it was the most important thing in the world to you. You knew Valentina wasn’t going to let up, and maybe she’d pulled off an ingenious play by coming here. Today. When your emotions were a shitshow and your head really wasn’t in the best or even most reasonable place.

“We do. Come to D.C in a week. We’ll get you onboarded and everything. You don’t understand how great this is for the country by the way. You’ll be-”

“Leave Valentina. I caved. You win. You don’t have to keep selling it to me. Just leave me alone, I’ll be there in a week.”

Valentina nodded, not wanting to sour her “win” and decided to leave you to it. Leaving you alone in the room as the sound of her heels faded away and eventually out of the apartment. What had you just done? Why would you want to forget so much of your life? It wasn't just her you were going to forget, it was going to be everything with the Avengers. All those missions, the good times and the bad.

This life right now was painful, running from it like this was cowardice, but fuck, you had no clue how to go another year like this, forget a whole life or however long it took to maybe fix things. The idea wasn’t fully formed…reactive maybe. If it wasn’t her birthday today maybe you’d have said something different to Valentina, definitively told her to fuck off. But instead, you said what you said. Maybe you’d tell Val to restore your memories if the world ever fixed itself but what was said was said. And now? You wanted to soak it all in before you never felt that feeling again. Before her…you’d never have imagined a life beyond the guns and fighting and political chess moves. It sounded ludicrous. And she changed that- made you feel less government super soldier more…human. And now that she was gone…maybe you needed to be reminded of what you were before her. And the only way to accept that was to never have met her. No matter how much the thought of forgetting hurt…nothing compared to the aching hole in your heart that destroyed you every day you woke up in an empty bed instead of with her next to you, when you woke up in a room with with a blaring alarm clock on your phone and not the cries of a newborn. This…was for the better. You kept telling yourself that, maybe to convince yourself that this was a good idea after all. That things wouldn’t go terribly wrong.

Eventually, the week was over, and you were packing your bag for D.C. You’d closed the old apartment, gave it one last look before you likely never saw it again. Never felt the ghost of her presence again. Soon if you ever walked into that place, it’d feel like nothing and god you’d hoped for a moment like that.

You stuffed everything you needed into your suitcases. Clothes, your favorite guns and knives, the holsters, all the less normal things you’d need to take care of Valentina’s assignments. As you cleaned up around this little rental apartment that you’d holed up in you had more thing to do. You dug into one of the practically empty drawers since you’d been keeping your little project in there. The only reason you were glad Valentina gave you a week before your new life.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Ghost (optional)

Part 8

Taglist:

He wasn’t sure how he was ever going to out run the monsters of his past. For a while he just stopped sleeping. It may not have been a permanent fix, but he thought some relief was better than none at all. He used to go days, even weeks, without sleep during the war, so he figured it might be the best way to silence the past.

Dr. Raynor, however, caught on quick.

A lot of her methods seemed like bullshit to Bucky. He could tell she was genuinely trying to help him, but he doubted anything she had anything to offer him that would prove to be effective.

But at the end of the day she was definitely no fool. He had a tough time lying to her. She didn’t take anyone's crap, and that might have been the only reason he trusted her, even a little. It may have been the only reason he actually gave it a sincere try (besides the fact he’d be arrested if he didn’t).

So he probably shouldn’t have been surprised when she caught on to his sleep strike. In fact she called him out on it only three days in. He thought he’d get longer than that. Even so, he was almost relieved. After only 72 hours he already felt the nightmares slowly creeping into the day. Every time a door slammed or a car horn blared his body tensed. Every time he turned a corner he’d reach for a knife he no longer carried. So maybe it was better to let his past haunt his nightmares. That way he’d be alone when the memories took over. That way he wouldn’t hurt anyone else.

But he made a mistake. He did what he told himself he could never do. He let you get too close.

Falling asleep in your arms felt better than any therapy session he could ever imagine. It was the first time in forever he could remember what it was like to be his younger self. The version of him that marvelled at the idea of flying cars; who thought he could save the world by enlisting. The dreamy eyed boy who was hopeful for the future, who thought he had a future.

Lying next to you made him feel in control, like his problems didn’t matter. He was there to keep you safe, and warm, and comfortable. He never thought he’d feel like that with anyone. He didn’t think he was allowed.

You didn’t question his metal arm for starters. When Bucky took off his jacket, after the hundredth time you insisted - “It’s like 100 degrees in here Bucky, please take it off, you’re gonna melt” - he thought he’d instantly regret it. But you simply looked at it with wonder for only a moment, before returning your eyes up to his own. Staring back at you, he saw the wheels in your brain click into place. He could almost hear your thoughts as you decided what your next move would be.

In the blink of his eyes you tore your shirt off and stood completely still in front of him. For a moment his emotions were mixed, and he worried where your sudden advancement came from, but then he saw it. A thick white mark slashed across your torso.

You took only one step forward before speaking. “It’s not exactly… I know it’s not the same thing at all. But the scars - the marks we carry - they’ll be with us forever, whether we like it or not. Even if they remind us of the worst pieces of ourselves, or the worst moments of our lives, it reminds us that we can move forward. And it reminds me that there’s something to move forward to. I don’t know…it doesn’t really make any sense but somehow it’s almost comforting.  To know that something will always be with us, till the end”

His mouth was on yours in an instant.

He had been hesitant to let anyone in. After coming back - after going through everything he’d been through - he felt like damaged goods. He worried that the minute he let himself be happy, everything would come crashing down again, and he had good reason to believe it. It just kept happening over and over. It seemed like every time he found even a small amount of peace, the battle made its way back to him.

But when he found you, when he felt you, he felt peace. The softness of your skin, the gentle wave of your hair, the light scrape of your fingernails against his back and chest, your quiet moans muffled by his own mouth on yours. Being with you made the horrors of his past melt away. Even when you clamped down around him and bit into his shoulder muscle, even when he knew you’d left marks all over his skin. Knowing they came from you made all the difference. They didn’t remind him of the wars he fought, or lives he took, or the atrocities he committed. The sting of your nails and teeth weren’t pains from his past, they were reminders of his present, of the possibility of a life he could have. With you.

But in the end he knew that it was all wishful thinking. He knew he wasn’t cut out for that type of future. He knew you deserved better.

So he decided to let you off easy, to disappear from your life, leaving your shared experience to the confines of your bedroom. A memory, nothing more. He knew he’d have to sneak away once you fell asleep, because that way it might not feel real. Everything that happened between you might disappear with him.

But then he fucked up.

He was waiting for your breath to even out, a sign he would take to mean you had fallen asleep, but after listening to the air rush out of your body, and watching your bare chest rise and fall, your hypnotic essence overpowered his will, and he fell asleep alongside you.

Only he wasn’t asleep for long.

Eventually the past caught up, as it always had a way of doing. Images, and sounds, and smells all came flooding back to his uninhibited brain - sleep made him an easy target. He was vulnerable to every torment he caused, and every mission he was forced to carry out. Tonight was no exception. His brain managed to sift through every wall he thought he had up, and trudge yet another painful memory to the surface. The image of himself taking life after life, cruelly and viciously. There was no remorse, no stopping him. He saw every crime lord and politician he was made to terminate. Until his brain moved away to a new idea. The image of a young woman. Innocent and pure. But in the way of his mission. The Winter Soldier spared none.

He woke up in a blind panic. His surroundings were unfamiliar. Something was wrong. Was he being held captive or-

~

“Hey,” you made yourself known to him, and he twisted his head back to see you sit up beside him. You were quiet, and a worried expression blanketed your face.

Is he angry, you thought for a moment? No. Your brain was tired, and it was slow to process. Not angry, scared.

You knew from the minute you saw his arm that there was more going on. You already had some suspicions, nevertheless you expected there to be something like this.

For a moment, the two of you stared at each other in silence. You watched him regain his breath, and you carefully shifted your legs to sit crossed underneath you.

His steel blue eyes cut through the darkness, pinning you down. You wondered what was going on in his mind, what he might be doing to regain his grip on reality. You knew this moment too well. The quiet. The darkness. The fear. Not sure of how to move forward.

You were scared too, but not of him - more like you were scared for him. You knew he must be going through something, and you wanted to be there to help, but you also knew that was easier said than done. “Being there to help” was a nice concept, but in reality - well things were generally more complicated. You didn’t know if it’d be alright to approach him, mainly because you were unsure of your role in all this. Were you really someone he wanted around when he was so obviously vulnerable? You’d never seen him so raw and exposed, like a wound you wished you could tend to, while also fearing that your interference could make things worse.

You knew he wasn’t going to ask for your help, you could see he wasn’t that kind of man, but maybe if you made the first step, and let him choose - maybe he’d let you in. So, you held out your hand and waited. After a moment, you saw him move, only slightly though. His eyes darted down towards your hand and he subtly lifted his fingers off the bed. But it only lasted a second. He froze again, hand hovering near yours, and that’s when you realized he had been reaching for you with his left hand. You had been wary to touch it before, you thought it was probably a sensitive subject. Something about the idea of touching his metal arm seemed more personal, if that was possible. Like only the most trusted people in his life might be allowed to… and maybe not even then.

You felt your own eyes drop to your lap, an almost nervous energy now emanating in the space between you. But just before you could drop your hand too, his fingers hesitantly entwine with yours.

You shot your eyes up to see his right hand grazing the palm of your left. As your gaze slowly elevated, you found your way to meet his own eyes, only to notice the very sudden change in them. Whatever fear or darkness hid their before had now melted away. You couldn’t place it, but whatever emotion he now held sent a chill from your core to your fingertips. A lump in your throat formed and for a moment, you thought you might never be able to breath again. The look in his eyes was almost soft, but with a hint of yearning. Fire was blazing through every nerve in your body, while a chill kissed your skin, making every hair stand on edge.

Feeling outrageously brave, you took your free hand up to his jaw and held him there, gently swiping your thumb over his cheek, and allowing your fingers to reach slightly past his hairline and to the back of his neck. You wondered if he could feel the raging storm of your emotions through your touch.

“You okay?” you managed to whisper to him.

“Nothing I haven’t dealt with before” his answer pierced your ears with a hard tone, refusing to let any vulnerability resonate in his voice.

You shake your head at him, wishing he wouldn’t play pretend. “Okay then,” you mumble, letting your hand drop from his face. But as it fell, Bucky was quick to grab it, and hold it with a gentle squeeze. When you looked at him again, you knew he meant it as a reassurance, trying to tell you that he was okay.

~

He couldn’t handle the way you looked at him. Like you could see every thought in his head. A knowing gleam in your eyes told him that you didn’t believe him, and you’d be right not to. He wasn’t okay. He never really was. There was so much darkness surrounding him, poisoning every inch of his life. But you. Your touch was gentle and your voice was kind, and even though he had just seen your scar, he couldn’t help but think your world must have been so much brighter than his own. Looking in your eyes, he almost wished he’d never met you. He was so afraid that his pain might infect you too, the only good thing he had left. He wouldn’t ever be able to forgive himself if he let that happen; if he let his past ruin your future.

He wanted to leave, he needed to get out, before any of that could happen.

He slid off the bed quickly, and made his way to grab his clothes, but before he could you grabbed his hand - his left hand.

“Please Bucky don’t.” was all you could say. But the way your voice broke, on the verge of tears, fear of being rejected, of being left alone in the dark by the only man you ever wanted to let in - it was enough to stop his heart. He stood there, frozen from your touch. You kept his hand in yours, and for a second you worried it was too much. You worried you betrayed whatever trust you had built with him. Just holding his bare metal hand felt more violating and revealing than the fact that both of you remained completely naked. But you didn’t want to pull away. You didn’t want him to think you were afraid of him, afraid of the fact his hand could pulverize yours in a second - because you weren’t. You’d felt his touch. You knew how gentle and caring he could be. And you wanted him to see it too. That he wasn’t defined by his worst fears.

You pulled your body towards him, kneeling at the edge and facing him, “You don’t have to leave.” you spoke softly, as if he might be spooked and run off if you were any louder. “You don’t have to push everyone away. Please don’t push me away… I-”

Before you could finish, he was crashing into you. His tongue invading your mouth, like he was trying to soak up your unsaid words. His hands held your waist in place against his, steady and strong, but there was still resistance in his fingers; a hesitance to use too much force with you. You could feel how he feared he might hurt you.

Slowly you leaned back, feathering your fingers over his shoulders to guide him with you, and when he hovered over you, you let them slide into his hair, grabbing what you could and leading his head down…

~~~~

You lay there in the dark with your head on his chest, listening to his steady heart, feeling the crisp sting of metal graze your back. And even though you knew it was ridiculous, all you could think about was how you wanted to keep him safe. The man was stronger than any other human being, and probably thought you were fragile and helpless, and needed his protection more than anything. But still, you wanted him to be okay. You wanted him to know he could be safe.

“I’ll fight them for you.” you whimper quietly, suddenly worried that Bucky may have already fallen back to sleep.

“Huh? Who- what do you mean?” his words stuttered and tripped over his tongue. His half sleeping brain was suddenly running a mile a minute trying to decipher your statement. Who were you fighting? Why would you need to fight them for him? Surely he was more capable of fighting anyone off. He should be protecting you-

She knew better. She didn’t want the baby. She couldn’t stomach the idea of taking care of her. As much as she wanted to believe it was better that they found her, part of her mind still cried that Lizzy’s life would have been better if it had been cut short. She didn't deserve to live in this new world. It would have been better if she had died before they found her. Rachel didn’t have much milk and there wasn’t a lot of formula to be had. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

It wasn’t fair that her kids were not a part of the 50% that turned to dust in the decimation and yet, they were still gone. It wasn’t right that they had to experience the pain of burning to death. It wasn’t fair that she couldn’t have comforted them in their last moments. It wasn’t right that the sounds of their screams still haunted her nightmares.

“Are you okay?” Rachel’s voice snapped Dee out of her thoughts. Relaxing her fingers, she felt the joints creak. She couldn’t remember grabbing her pack but she had curled herself in on it and was clinging to it. The corners of her eyes were damp.

“I just want to go home.” Dee whispered.

“You will, soon. You two will abandon us and go safe behind the fence while we die outside. While everyone dies outside.”Dee was silent for a moment. She’d not been kind to Rachel and even now, she felt the annoyance prickle at her.

“It’s not that home I’m crying for.” Rachel hummed, for once minding her tongue or she was too tired to keep up the attitude. “I didn’t always live there.”

“Why are you there then? How did you convince him to take you in?”

“You can’t.”

“Help me. Woman to woman. If you had a child- maybe you’d understand.”

“You think I’m not a mother? You want to ‘mother to mother’ have a talk?” Deanna’s whisper was harsh.

“I mean- if you were you’d”

“I had two. In this bag-” Dee ripped open the zipper and reached in, under the bottles and cans to the bottom. Her fingers curled around the worn fabric. A small part of her relaxed as she pulled out the small tired blanket and stuffed fox. “A girl and a boy.”

“So you understand. So convince him to let us in. He trusts you, right? You can-”

“No.”

“But we could die? She’ll die.”

“Maybe that’s better?” Dee snapped, checking her voice as she glanced at Clint. His foot twitched but he seemed to still be asleep.

“Do you know what I’ve seen in the last what, six months?”

“Did you not see what you just saved me from?”

“I’ll go from most recent to the start for you. I killed people to save you. Living people who had friends, families who may still be alive to miss them and who may have not had much of a choice in what they were doing.”

“Yeah, but-”

“I was attacked in front of a store, in a parking lot. I sprained my ankle and killed a man trying to protect myself. Trust killed another protecting me. Clint- He saved me. I didn’t trust him at first. He brought me to the farmhouse.”

“So, why won’t he-” Deanna kept talking, not caring that Rachel had spoke. Somehow, it felt good to say it. To tell her story to someone. How much she was going to tell, she hadn’t decided.

“Before that, I had stopped in Utah. I killed a man there, too. He scared me and seemed insane. I shot him and when I searched his backpack- there was cans of formula. Some were busted open. His ID showed a local address. God, I felt so guilty. I hadn’t seen formula when I’d go into stores for supplies.”

“You killed a man trying to feed his baby.” Rachel accused.

“That’s what I thought.” Deanna still wouldn’t look at her. “I went to the address. I don’t know, I expected the wife or mom to be there. Maybe I was going to beg for forgiveness or for her to kill me. I don’t know. When I got there, no one was there. I looked and looked. Then I found her.”

“What happened to her? Did you give her away?”

“She was already dead.”

“You should have been faster.”

“She’d been dead for days, maybe weeks. Before I killed her dad. I think- I think the grief drove him mad. She was in clean clothes in the middle of the bed. I don’t think he was willing to admit she wasn’t alive anymore.

That was a few months ago, closer to the beginning. Before that, I met up with a young man who helped me figure out how to survive. I don’t know if he was a doomsday guy or what, but he had a plan that seemed like a solid one. He helped me figure out how to start moving forward.

We stopped to get supplies before leaving our hometown in California. We were loading everything up in the motor homes we were planning to live in. His family had owned a dealership. He- we had a run in with a teacher from my daughter’s school. The teacher- he shot him. I was lucky to get away.”

“I’m sorry.” Rachel whispered. Dee wondered what Rachel thought the lives of people in other places were like.

“It’s a blur before that. There was a dead body in a gas station. The news TV station was taken over by someone calling themselves a king.”

“Another one?”

“There’s probably more than a few.” Dee glanced to Clint again. He still was sleeping, snoring lightly. “Before that, a news anchor’s sister committed suicide. Mr. Rick and Mr. Taft, teachers from my daughter’s school- the same ones who attacked us while loading the RVs- broke into my house to steal food and supplies.

That brings me to the start of it all. The moment the new world began and the old world ended. The sounds- god I can’t get them out of my head. The crunch of metal hitting metal. The squeal of tires. The smell- smoke thick. The sound of screams- god so much screaming and waiting for sirens that never came.”

“What happened?” Rachel’s face was pale as Deanna shook like a leaf while tears streamed down her face. In that moment, Dee was gone and all that was left was the woman she had been, Deanna morning the loss of the life she had once had. The strength she had learned was nowhere to be found.

“They went to a year around school- I was a single mother so it was easier and they were getting a good education. No summer slidebacks in their knowledge. Did you know that kids forget up to 20% of what they learned the prior year during summer break?

I put them on the school bus. It was sunny, a beautiful day. I should have kept them home and taken them to the beach or something. But I didn’t. I needed to go pick up her birthday cake and set everything up for the party. The bus turned and the fuel truck barreled through the red light. I’m pretty sure the driver had turned to dust.

I don’t know how many on that bus also were in the half that were decimated. But I saw their faces in the window as the fire spread. I couldn’t- people tried but the emergency exits were pinned. They couldn’t get out of the windows and the fire was hot- god it was so hot. The roar was deafening but I could still hear them. I could hear their screams. I could hear them yelling for me. I could see them and they could see me. I close my eyes and I see their faces.

I should have gone to them. I should have gotten closer. I should have tried to get them out. I should have done more than sit there, watching while others tried. I should have died trying.

But I didn’t.”

Rachel sat and picked at the blanket wrapped around Elizabeth as Deanna stopped and wiped the tears from her eyes. “I’m sorry. They should have survived. No one deserves to go through that.”

“I’m not sure.” Deanna whispered as she prepared to give voice to her greatest secret. “Maybe it was better that they died. I don’t know if I would have wanted them to live in this world. Maybe it’s better for all the kids that turned to dust to not have to know what came next. Maybe the next best thing for them is to die early, quickly and painlessly if possible and not watch their parents become murderers and thieves.”

“You don’t mean that.” Rachel said, holding Elizabeth tighter. A part of her wanted to believe that Dee hadn’t met what she had said but a larger part of her feared that she did. It occurred to her that this woman, who had been taking care of her baby, that she had been counting on for refuge and safety, was deeply broken.

“Maybe.” Deanna answered. “We’ve all lost things. It’s a dangerous idea to count on anyone.”

“You count on him.”

“And it could someday get me killed. Or I could get him killed. We cannot- will not be solely responsible for you. We can’t.”

“But-”

“I need him and he needs me. That is the only reason we are together. That’s the only reason you should band together and trust anyone right now. Without that need, there is nothing to stop them from turning on you. Nothing stopped teachers from turning on their values, their morals. Anyone can turn.”

“How do you know the nurse won’t turn on me? I don’t have anything to offer her. I don’t have anything to offer anyone. Should I just give up, kill Lizzy then myself? Is that what you think would be the solution, the best course of action for me? Just end it because I’m too useless to be helpful?” Rachel’s voice was climbing some but the withering look Deanna gave her brought it down again.  

“When did I say that?” Dee snapped. “We saved your life. It’s not that we want you dead, it's that you are your own responsibility. We gave you a second chance, a second start at this new crappy world.

As for Sasha- You should be safe enough with her. She didn’t want to let us keep Lizzy at first. What she seems to need is someone to take care of. I get that, I needed that too. It’s how I ended up with Trust. What you need is someone to help support you and band together with you. You both have needs the other can meet and she’s helped us before.”

“So you trust her?” Rachel’s fire was dying and Dee was thankful for it.

“Well enough, I think. She needs food too. We’re supplementing her supplies so she’s got reason to keep us happy. She saved Lizzy, she had formula for her, checked her out and helped us warm her up. I still can’t believe she was still alive when we found her.”

“And that is good enough?” Rachel looked timid, scared in the darkness. She lacked to fire that seemed to hold back fear.Tears welled in her eyes.

Dee reminded herself that the woman had been through a lot of trauma. They all had been and each reacted differently. Some semblance of normal would do her good and hopefully Sasha could offer that.

“You should get some sleep. It’s a long walk back to the truck but once we get to it, it’ll be easy going.”

For once, Rachel didn’t argue. She nodded and curled herself around Lizzy on the ground with her back to the fire. She was cold but there wasn’t anything that could be done about it. Dee was cold too but that would only serve to help keep her awake.

Silence stretched on around her. Her heart ached and felt raw. Part of her wished she had never told her story to Rachel. Another part of her felt a weight off her shoulders to have finally said it, all of it.

“You should sleep.” Clint mumbled as he reached out for her. “It’s my turn.”

Deanna almost jumped out of her skin. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting there, watching the fire and lost in her thoughts. Tears had long dried on her face and she had repacked her bag.

"I'm fine." She whispered.

"Fine is good. But you won't be in the morning and it's a long walk. Come here."

She didn't argue. She didn't want to argue. There was nothing in the world she wanted more than to be held by him. He was her sanctuary. As much as she wanted to be safe behind the gate at the farmhouse, what she needed to feel safe, to be safe, was him. Just him.

Curling herself around him, her fingers dug into the layers of coats that covered his body. He shifted and unzipped his coat and slipped it from his shoulders.

“You’ll get cold.”

“Take yours off too.” He answered with a sly smile.

With a sigh, she did. The bitter cold bit at her arms as she handed over her coat.  She watched as he spread it out on the ground and settled himself on it. When he again reached out for her, she went willingly enough. Her coat was still warm from her under them. She could feel the warmth of him as he spread his coat out over them.

“It’s not blankets but it’s better than nothing. We’ll be warmer this way.” He mumbled into the top of her head as he held her tightly to him.

“What if you fall asleep?” She mumbled, already dozing off.

“I won’t.” Clint promised as he watched her slip into sleep. Her protests were half hearted at best.

She felt so good pressed against him, warm and solid. He drank in the feeling. Even if he had nothing else, he had her. It wasn’t something he planned on giving up any time soon. It wasn’t something he’d be willing to give up, ever.

It was early when Clint nudged her awake. He didn’t want to, waking her meant facing the day. There was a deep ache in his back and shoulders, one he hadn’t felt in a long time. It’d been a few years since he’d been on a mission where he’d had to rough it this much.

“Come on.” He whispered when Dee’s groggy eyes blinked open. “Eat what we can and set out a share for her-” his eyes flicked over to Rachel, still sleeping and curled around Lizzy. “Get a bottle ready too and pack everything else up. We’ll let her sleep until we’re almost ready.”

“Will we make it back to the house tonight?”

“If we’re lucky.” Clint sighed. “Careful not to wake her- I’m not ready to listen to her yet.”

Dee laughed softly before leaning up and placing a soft kiss to his lips. Clint’s arms tightened around her, pulling her closer somehow. His breath washed over her. “If we’re not, I don’t wanna get up.” She mumbled against his lips.

“I know Babe, but we have to.”

She whined dramatically and he chuckled. He was right, she knew it but in that moment it was like they were in a little bubble. The bubble that seemed to surround the farmhouse was somewhere there, with them, in that abandoned office building. If the bubble could find them there, she decided it could find them anywhere. The bubble of happiness and safety wasn’t the farmhouse, it was him.

“I love you.” She whispered as if it was some great secret.

“I love you too.” He answered. “But up, now. I really need to piss.”

~~~~~<3

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