Valkyrie-MP Fanfics

The dishwasher hummed in the quiet of the Brooklyn apartment, the low whir of it nearly drowned by the steady patter of January sleet against the windows. Summer was long gone. Autumn had flown by. The city felt colder now—emptier in ways that had nothing to do with the weather.

Bucky leaned against the white-grained counter, thumb skimming the speech he’d been handed for his next campaign stop. Words blurred. Promises he didn’t know if he could keep. His eyes flicked to the burner phone on the table. It hadn't rung in the sixty-six days that he had had it.

Sam hadn’t heard anything either. Not yesterday. Not the day before. Not the day before that.

He sighed, dragging a hand over his face and through his hair—longer now, curling at the ends. The beard too. No point in shaving. No reason to pretend like anything was normal.

The burner had come in a plain envelope. No return address. Just a note tucked inside: Just in case.

It wasn’t much. But it was something. And it was all he had.

His real phone buzzed.

Claire DuMont: We’re set for Kansas City.

He stared at the screen a second too long, pulse slowing. Then: 👍

He crossed the kitchen and opened the dishwasher, steam curling out like breath in the winter cold. His left shoulder flexed. He clicked his vibranium arm back into place, rolling it once, twice, to feel it recalibrate.

Bucky stared out the sleet-slicked window, arms crossed, gaze tracking a pale blur on the sidewalk below. It moved—barely. A small twitch against the static gray of the storm. He squinted. Blinked.

A white blob.

He furrowed his brows. Didn’t look like trash. Didn’t move like it either.

By the time his brain caught up, his body was already in motion—jacket tugged over his tank top, campaign notes forgotten on the counter. He jogged down the stairs, boots thudding softly against the worn steps, and pushed the front door open.

The sleet and rain soaked his hair in seconds.

There, huddled on the sidewalk, was a white kitten—ears flat, soaked to the bone, mewling with a pitiful little rasp. It blinked up at him with watery blue eyes, as if it had been waiting.

“Shit,” Bucky breathed, crouching. “Hey, baby. What the hell are you doing out here?”

The kitten didn’t run. Just gave a soft, wheezy cry like it was asking the same question.

He didn’t hesitate. Scooped it up, pressed the shivering ball of fur to his chest, and zipped his jacket halfway to shield it.

“Come on, baby,” he murmured. “Let’s get you inside and safe.”

Back in his apartment, Bucky moved on instinct.

He flipped on the kitchen light, dim and yellow, casting long shadows across the quiet space. The kitten was still trembling inside his jacket, wet fur clinging to fragile bones.

“Hang on,” he murmured, crossing to the sink. He set the kitten gently in the dry basin, where it slumped like a soggy towel, letting out a wheezy squeak of protest.

Bucky dug under the sink, pulled out a bottle of dish soap, and turned it over in his hands. His eyes scanned the back label like he was decoding Hydra files.

No dyes. No bleach. No parabens. “That’ll have to do.”

He ran the faucet until it turned warm, then cupped water into his hand to test the temperature again. Slowly, carefully, he lathered the kitten’s muddy fur, the little thing mewing in miserable protest but too exhausted to fight.

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky muttered. “I hate baths too.”

When the water finally ran clean, he wrapped the kitten in a soft towel from the back of the chair and rubbed gently, cradling it like it might break. Once dry enough, the kitten blinked up at him, dazed and pathetic, like a half-drowned marshmallow with judgmental eyes.

Bucky leaned back against the counter, towel in one hand, kitten swaddled in the other. His hair was dripping, his socks were wet.

He stared at it. It stared back.

“Now what?” he asked it.

The kitten sneezed.

"You’re right,” Bucky said, scratching gently behind the kitten’s damp ears. “You need a doctor’s appointment.”

The kitten purred faintly, its tiny body curling deeper into the towel.

He spent the next hour calling every vet clinic in Brooklyn, one hand scrolling while the other kept the kitten tucked warm against his chest. Finally, a tired-sounding receptionist at an emergency animal hospital said they could fit him in tonight.

Bucky stood, scooped the kitten into his jacket again, and grabbed his phone off the counter. His campaign speech sat beside it, untouched. The burner phone lay next to both—silent and cold, like it had been every day since she left.

He shut the door behind him.

And in the quiet darkness of the apartment, the burner phone began to ring.

-----------------------------------------------

The vet said she was fine. Cold, a little underfed, but otherwise healthy—and a girl. So here he was cradling a cotton ball kitten in his leather jacket, his ball cap deflecting sleet as they waited. The kitten would need a name, and more than that it had to have a purpose, a story. He shivered a little in the cold—New York had a polar vortex warning. "Worse than the alps." He muttered to the kitten, and was relieved when the cab finally pulled up to the curb.

It hit him after they stopped at the pet store. Out of the blue.

“Alpine,” Bucky told her softly on the cab ride home, and she blinked up at him like she already knew that would be her name. Back at the apartment, he unloaded the cat carrier, a fresh litter box, and two bags of treats he didn’t remember buying. Alpine prowled the floor in cautious little steps, her tail flicking.

He set her food down, rubbed his hand over his face, and reached for the burner just to check—

1 Missed Call – Unknown Number

His stomach dropped. There was only one person with the burners number. Bucky licked his lips and closed his eyes. Swallowed hard as he hit call. The line rang once… twice…

Nothing.

He thumped the burner lightly on the counter, jaw tight.

125 days.

No calls. No texts. No her.

His eyes flicked to Alpine, who blinked up at him from the counter. He exhaled, the fight leaving him in one slow breath.

“This is your fault,” he said softly, petting her tiny head. “Missed it because of you, kid.”

But he didn’t really sound mad.

Alpine butted her little head against his metal hand, sniffed it delicately.

“You’d like her,” he murmured. “I bet she’d like you too.”

He scooped the little fluffball up and carried her toward the bedroom—toward the pile of blankets on the floor. He hadn’t slept in the bed since she sent him back to Brooklyn. Since she’d gone dark.

They all had.

Omega was off the grid. Safety. Protection. Bullshit.

He laid down, the kitten finding the nook between his shoulder and jaw to curl up in, her tiny paws kneading biscuits, her little purr rumbling through her chest.

He fell asleep to it.

And he slept right through the burner phone vibrating again in the kitchen.

-----------------------------------------------

The morning dawned cold but bright, sunlight glinting off the crusted sleet that clung to the windows like frostbitten ivy. Outside, Brooklyn still wore its coat of gray—salt-streaked streets, stoic buildings, the occasional car crawling past with wipers squealing against frozen glass. But inside the apartment, warmth was beginning to creep in, slow and quiet.

Bucky stirred with a grunt when a tiny paw batted at his nose. Then came a gentle headbutt beneath his chin.

“What?” he rasped, voice thick with sleep and disuse. He rolled onto his side, pulling the sheet higher. “I barely slept—leave me alone.”

Alpine, unimpressed, responded by scaling him like a snowy peak—claws gripping his scalp as her back legs scrambled for leverage. He swore under his breath as she crossed from one ear to the other, tail flicking him in the face like a whip.

“Okay, okay—Jesus, I’m up.”

He sat up with a groan, the sheet falling into a tangle at his waist. Morning light crept in around the edges of the curtain, soft and pale. His watch blinked 7:28 a.m. in stark digital judgment.

“Seriously?” he asked Alpine, who now sat like a gargoyle at the edge of the makeshift bed—her expression blank, her posture regal, like she’d just defeated a mountain lion instead of a grown man in a sleepy haze. “It’s not even seven-thirty. I don’t even have to do anything today.”

He reached for his phone on the nightstand, thumb already prepped to hit ‘snooze’ on a morning that required nothing from him.

Claire: Final draft sent to your email. I removed the line about toppling the government to start over. Bucky: 😒

He let out a dry laugh. “Cowards,” he muttered, tossing the phone lightly onto the blanket. The campaign team had been sanding the edges off him since the day he agreed to run. Soften the lines. Smile more. Use fewer threats in speeches.

The phone buzzed again.

Sam: Morning, sunshine. You still coming down to D.C. in a couple weeks? And what the hell is that white thing you sent me? Bucky: Yes to D.C. That’s Alpine. Congrats, Sammy. You’re an uncle.

He dropped the phone to the mattress before it could bait him into doomscrolling. No messages from her. No intel. No breadcrumbs. Just the news cycle on repeat, nothing new on the investigation on who set Sablepoint on fire, on who killed the director of it, nothing on the car bomb that killed an employee of Sablepoint.

He stretched, spine cracking in protest, muscles stiff from another night on the floor. “What’s the point,” he muttered to himself, pushing to his feet.

Alpine weaved between his ankles like a furry landmine, nearly tripping him at every step. She beat him to the bathroom and sat patiently on the bathmat like a gremlin summoned from steam. Her tail flicked once. She blinked up at him with those cool blue eyes.

“We're gonna have to set some ground rules,” he grumbled, turning the hot water tap. “No murder attempts before breakfast.”

The pipes groaned. Steam rolled up in thick clouds, fogging the mirror almost instantly. He stripped his sweatpants off with minimal ceremony and stepped into the spray, bracing one hand on the wall as the first blast of heat slapped across his shoulders.

It stung. It always did. Like waking up after frostbite.

He bowed his head beneath the stream, letting the hot water pound across his shoulders, sluicing down his back in steady rivulets. His hair hung in thick, wet strands over his forehead, plastered to his temples.

The dull clink of metal echoed as his dog tags tapped lightly against the tile wall with every breath. They were a constant—cold when he needed grounding, weighty when his hands shook, proof that he was still a soldier, still something… even when he didn’t know what the hell that meant anymore.

He stared down at the whirlpool forming around the drain. The water spun in lazy circles, carrying soap, and pieces of a life he hadn’t meant to start over. He fixated on the swirl, as if somewhere in its churning spiral, the answer might surface—where she was. If she was safe. If she was still breathing. If she ever thought about him the way he thought about her, relentlessly and without permission.

Would he know if she were gone?

Would something inside him splinter, break open, scream out?

Were they still that tethered?

Or had those last moments in the Georgetown kitchen severed whatever thread had tied them together?

He blinked hard, and her face flashed behind his eyes anyway.

Ripley, in her favorite black shirt, her hair in a braid that had come loose at the end—standing in the kitchen under too-warm lights, her face streaked with tears . Her voice had cracked on Flea’s name. But it wasn’t the grief that haunted him—it was the rage beneath it. Cold, precise fury that rippled off her like a storm front. He’d seen it in warzones, in after-action reports, in himself. It was the look someone wore when vengeance came easier than mourning.

He’d tried to reach her then. Physically, emotionally, didn’t matter—she was already pulling away.

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut now, trying to will it out of his head, but the memory stuck fast.

They’d loaded the Bronco in silence. Wick, Bennett, Ripley… what was left of Omega. If they could even call themselves that anymore. The team was splintered, ghosts of who they were. She’d checked her weapon, tossed her plate carrier into the back, and turned to him like it was any other day, any other mission.

No goodbye kiss. No handshake. No parting hug.

Just a final look that saw everything and gave nothing back.

“Bye, Bucky.”

That was it. The last thing she said.

He’d stood there, heart in his throat, while the tires crunched over broken asphalt and the Bronco disappeared into the dusk.

They had rules—ones they all agreed on. If he didn’t hear from them in sixty days, he would go looking. That was the deal. That was the only thing keeping him from tearing the world apart to find her.

The burner phone arrived on day fifty-nine.

He had stared at it for a long time. Like maybe, if he looked long enough, it would offer more than silence.

He hadn’t heard from her since: except for the two missed calls.

Now, with the water still burning against his skin and Alpine’s tiny silhouette visible through the fogged glass, curled on the bathmat like a quiet sentinel, Bucky braced both palms against the tile and bowed his head again.

He could do another day. He could keep breathing.

But he didn’t know how many more mornings he could survive like this—holding his breath in case the next call was goodbye. Or worse—someone showing up on his doorstep with a folded flag and one of her dog tags. Maybe her watch. Something small enough to destroy him completely.

He tipped his face into the stream, water hammering down until his lungs burned. The heat blurred everything—past, present, sense of time. For a second, it almost felt like absolution. Like maybe if he stood there long enough, he could boil the ache out of himself.

He wasn’t okay.

The admission came quiet, more exhale than thought. But it was true in a way that hit him low in the chest. The words tasted like rust and soap.

And somewhere in the fog, Doc Raynor’s voice drifted up—dry, steady, maddeningly calm.

“You don’t have to fix it. You just have to feel it.”

He’d rolled his eyes when she said it in session number thirty‑something, sitting in that too‑bright room with the clock that ticked like gunfire. But now, in the small tiled silence of his apartment, it felt like the only thing keeping him upright.

It’s okay to not be okay.

He gripped the edge of the shower wall, knuckles white against porcelain, and let himself breathe through it—slow, shaky, human. Not a soldier. Not a weapon. Just a man trying to remember what it felt like to still be here.

Bucky turned off the tap. The sound of running water faded, but the pulse in his ears didn’t. He stood there for another minute, dripping onto the tile, steam curling off his skin like ghosts refusing to leave.

Isolde Markov studied herself in the spotted mirror, comparing one angular side of her face to the other, poking at the deep line between her brows. Overdue for Botox. A tragedy. She finished her makeup, rubbed her lips together, and blew herself a kiss. Stuck in this godforsaken country for a month.

Her contact had warned her. Omega was back on the prowl in the United States, so Viktor Kovač and she had evacuated. They were the last two standing, after all. Of course they were. She preened a little, brushing her blonde hair back into a smooth bun. They were the most intelligent ones, after all.

She wrinkled her nose as she dressed in a sand-colored jilbab, blending in as planned. The last two, she thought, eyeing a purple, no, maybe blue, shawl to match her eyes.

Oleg Novogradov had ended his own life. At least that's what people believed. Kovač knew what he was doing, after all. Hal Levison—that was an easy one. She had facilitated that. The others were just pawns, expendable pieces, not worth the breath Omega would waste on them or the resources. Markov was safe. No one would think to look for her in Africa, of all places.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a thud downstairs. "Fucking animals," she muttered to herself, draped her shawl just so. "Perfection." She murmured to herself in the mirror. "Gregory! Get the car ready!"

Gunfire erupted as she adjusted her shawl, her stomach dropped. The door burst open; Gregory staggered in, blood streaming from his shoulder, a likely stray from his own men. He slammed the door, eyes wild. "We need to get you out," he said breathlessly, clutching his arm. "Now."

"Omega found us?" Markov's voice was soft, almost awestruck.

"No…just her."

Markov swallowed, bile rising into her throat. “We’ll be fine...there’s one of her and eight of us.” -0-0-0-0-0-0-

The two sentries lay bound and unconscious in the courtyard. Ripley dropped the mag from her M4. Her jilbab covered a third guard's body, tossed aside in the heat of battle. She wasn't after Markov's men; she only wanted the woman. She moved inside. If the intel was correct, four more guards remained, then Markov. She stepped on broken glass, the crunch loud in the silence.

"I don't wanna hurt you," Ripley called out, disturbingly calm, swapping to her off-set sight on her M4 as she rounded a corner. "I just want Markov."

A door opened to her left. She fired three quick shots. A scream of pain followed. She moved down the hallway. Satisfied the other rooms were clear, she entered the one with a man bleeding on the floor—the same man who’d opened that door. Blood poured from his side.

She knelt, opened her IFAK, and began to render aid.

“Where is she?” She asked quietly, applying QuickClot to the gunshot wound on his arm.

“Fuck yourself.” The man snarled at her.

Ripley ran her tongue along her teeth, nodding. “You’re never gonna walk outta here alive—” His words were cut short as Ripley’s thumb slipped into one of the bullet holes in his side.

"Where—" she twisted her thumb. His screams filled the silence. "Is—" Deeper. "She?"

“Upstairs!” He wept openly, harsh wracking sobs. “I have a family! Please!”

She thought of Flea, of Omega. Of Bucky.

“So did I,” she whispered, voice flat. She finished patching him up, not meeting his eyes, then swung the stock of her M4 into his temple with clinical precision.

She rose. Her eyes cut to the hallway. Her steps were precise and measured; a lioness stalking the Serengeti. "Little pigs, little pigs, let me in." She brought her M4 to her shoulder. Everything was still. She didn’t feel her wounds. She didn’t know she left a trail of blood behind her.

“Markov!” Her voice was firm as she shouted the name out into the open air of the courtyard. “Come out, come out wherever you are!” She sang it, her mouth coppery with blood. She spat to the side. “I only want you, Markov! Not your pawns!”

She turned, barely in time, before a booted foot met her ribcage, sending her tumbling into a carved wooden lattice. It splintered around her, into her. She screamed in fury, in pain, getting back to her feet.

“Jace, Mason,” the man nodded toward her. “Take care of this loose end.” The two men moved forward, guns drawn. Ripley wiped the blood from her lip with the back of her hand, tasting copper, her pulse a war drum in her throat.

“You got it, Maddox.” Jace stepped forward.

The shots that split the air weren’t from them. Jace ducked, dodging for cover. Mason took a round to his thigh, dropping hard to the ground. “Ripley!” Bennett’s voice boomed from the courtyard—rage, fear, command all braided together.

The chaos of firearms cracking, wood splintering, and glass shattering took over the sounds of Morocco. Ripley dove behind a stone pillar. Chunks landed beside her from stray rounds. She dropped her mag and replaced it. Her eyes zeroed in on the upstairs balcony, at the terrified figure watching it all before sliding back inside.

“Rip!” Bucky’s voice cut through the haze. Blood blinded her vision for a moment, and she wiped it away. Her blood? “Ripley!” A pitch of panic.

Ripley ignored him. She shoved to her feet, slipped on loose rock, rounds pattering the doorframe as she stumbled through.

Wick shouted again, closer now. “Rip!”

She ignored him. She ignored all of them.

She lunged up the steps, her blood smeared on the railing. Each blink blurred her vision, as if the world were underwater. The corridor seemed to warp, edges twisting at the edge of her sight. She reached the landing. The taste of iron in her mouth was overpowering, asserting itself over all her other senses. The muted thud of her heartbeat pulsed in her ears, muffling the world.

“Markov!” she screamed, her voice raw, cracked, and terrifying.

Below, Wick burst into the house. “Ripley, don’t you fucking dare!” His gaze dropped to the trail of blood, smeared where she had stumbled along.

Gregory came barreling out of the room. She charged down the hall like a bull, raising her gun and pulling the trigger, only to feel it jam. She braced herself as the heavier, stronger man collided with her, slamming her into the wall hard enough to crack the clay. She thanked God for her plate carrier.

“I don’t want you!” The bloodied woman bared her teeth at Gregory. “I want her!”

“Then get through me,” Gregory reared his head back to headbutt her, and his hands fell off of her as Bucky’s vibramium hand clamped around his throat, pulling him away from her. Ripley stared at Bucky, chest heaving. Bucky met her gaze, his face thunderous. "Go."

“Don’t kill him,” was the only thing Ripley said before stumbling into the bedroom where Markov stood, chin held high. Bucky’s voice was cursing behind her even as Wick helped him detain Gregory on the floor.

“Ripley, please.....” Markov's voice was silkily smooth.

The soldier kicked her square in the chest, sending Markov crashing into the mirror with a shattering impact. As Markov collided with the glass, Ripley caught a fleeting glimpse of her own fractured reflection—a vision of chaos and ferocity mirrored in the broken shards. Her knife was in her hand before Markov could draw breath. Her vision tunneled, her bloodied hand reached out and hauled Markov up by the jilbab, and with the hilt of the knife, delivered two quick right hooks to the woman's face.

Markov cried out, falling into the wall, her perfect nose now broken. The same hand grabbed her again and shoved her toward a chair. Markov landed on the floor in a heap, tears running down her face, mixing with the blood and snot.

“Ripley, let’s talk, huh? Let’s talk about this,” Markov scooted back, palms smeared blood against the floor, heels slipping as she tried to push herself away. “Ripley, please...we can make a deal. You don’t have to—”

Ripley stalked forward, knife dripping her own blood onto the floor. “You think I want a deal?”

“ I-I can tell you who ordered it,” Markov stammered, chest rising and falling as adrenaline and fear flooded her body. “It wasn’t me. I swear to God. I was following orders—”

“Get up,” Ripley's voice was raspy, low. Markov rose shakily to her feet.

“Look,” Markov ran her hands over her hair, shaking, slipped those hands beneath her robes. “You seem like a sensible woman....normally.”  Ripley’s hand snapped out, grabbing Markov by the jaw, fingers digging into her soft skin. Markov sobbed, snot bubbling at her nose. “Please, please, I have money, connections, I can get you protection—”  

“Don’t lie to me,” Ripley hissed, her face inches from Markov’s. “Who ordered the hit on Omega?” She released Markov, waiting.

“Ripley!” Wick barked, finding her. “Back down, we’ve got the fucking cops coming—” She didn’t so much as flinch.

Markov swallowed hard. “Let’s talk about this civilly,” she said calmly, rationally, as if she were speaking to a terrified horse instead of a blood-covered woman.

"Civilly?" Ripley echoed, her voice raw and hollow. "Civil died with my teammate." She reached out, grabbing Markov's throat, pulling her up, and into the wall. Ripley's grip shook, driven by rage, grief, and exhaustion clashing within her.

Behind Ripley, Bucky's voice was quiet, too quiet. "Ripley... don’t do something you can’t come back from." His grip tightened on his weapon, a muscle jumping in his jaw. His boots were loud in the sudden quiet of the room, Bennett and Wick side by side on one side of her, Bucky moving slowly in her periphery on the other side.

Markov’s gaze flicked to Bucky, recognition landing, and with it a coy realization. “He was going to be next...” Markov forced the words out. Ripley’s eyes narrowed on her. “You think you’ll be able to save him? Like you wanted to save Fleanick? You kill me, and James Barnes will be next….”

Ripley’s fingers loosened around Markov’s throat.  The fear, the grief, cracked through her fury, visible in her eyes. Markov saw it. And a desperate woman will weaponize anything. Her hand darted beneath her robes, fast, practiced.

Wick saw it first. “Rip!”

Markov’s hand exploded upward from the folds of her jilbab, a sliver of steel glinting under the Moroccan sun. A small knife. She plunged it forward in a wild, terrified jab.

It was buried in Ripley’s ribs.

Ripley choked, more out of shock than pain—a wet, punched-out sound.

Markov screeched triumphantly, a feral edge to her hysteria. “You think you can threaten me? You think you terrify me? You’re NOTHING—”

Ripley’s hand snapped out, slamming Markov’s wrist into the wall so hard the knife clattered to the floor. Pain ripped through Ripley’s side, hot and nauseating, but her face changed. The grief vanished. Humanity vanished. Something cold slid into its place.

Ripley head-butted Markov square in the face—bone meeting bone with a sickening, wet crack. Markov screamed, clutching her nose, blood spurting between her fingers. Ripley snatched her by the hair, slammed her face against the shattered mirror, the wall, then the mirror again, each impact brutal and efficient.

“She’s done, Rip!" Bucky’s voice through the red haze around her vision, around the thundering pulse in her ear. She didn’t listen. Drawing her sidearm, she threw Markov to the floor, used the toe of her boot to hold Markov’s arm in place, and aimed.

“Rip,” Wick’s voice, calm, always so calm, she envied him. “Ripley, baby, listen to me, please.” He moved closer, and he saw the tremble of the muzzle aimed at Markov’s forehead, the wobble in Ripley’s lower lip. He looked at Bucky, his expression clear. ' She’s still in there.’ “Hey, we love you, okay, come back to us....we’ll hand her over to the CIA, FBI, the works.”

Bennett licked his dry lips, his eyes darting to the windows as crowds gathered at the commotion that had taken place. “Jesus Christ.” He muttered.

Bucky inched closer, arm outstretched toward her arm. “Sweetheart,” he took a soft breath. “Hey, hey, listen, I’ve been down this road, remember? This won’t make it stop.”

Wick, on her other side, had his hand extended as well. Markov whimpered from the floor.

"She deserves to die." Ripley's voice was hoarse, laden with heartbreak.

“Rip,” Bucky managed to put his fingers on her shoulder; it trembled beneath his touch, the muscle hard and honed. “C’mon. Don't do this. Don't do this to me.”

“A name,” Ripley whispered.

“Markov, she just wants a name,” Bucky spoke now, his fingers sliding over quivering forearm. “Give us a name, and you’ll live.”

Wick stood ready, his hands reaching toward Ripley to intervene.

Markov laughed bitterly at her. “Never.”

The shot echoed in the small room. Bennett lurched forward. The smoking hole an inch above Markov’s head spoke volumes about Ripley's control.

The doctor swallowed, unashamed of the wet puddle she had let go. “Kovač.”

“Full fucking name,” Wick ordered.

“Viktor Kovač.”

Bucky’s fingers finished their path down Ripley’s arm and closed firmly around the rail of her sidearm. He pressed down, not enough to disarm her, just enough to guide the muzzle toward the floor.

“You have a name,” he murmured, close enough that she could feel his breath against her temple. A tether in a stormy ocean.

Ripley blinked. The world swam back into focus, Markov’s sobbing, the taste of blood in her mouth, the pain in her ribs. She turned her head—slow, mechanical—and found Bucky right there. Not afraid of her. Not judging her. Just… there. Watching her the way someone watches a wounded predator, they still refuse to abandon.

“Bennett, cuffs,” Wick ordered, voice steady but tight.

Bucky wrapped both hands around Ripley’s wrists—one warm and calloused, one cold metal—peeling her away from Markov inch by inch. She didn’t fight him, not really. Her fingers slackened around the gun as something inside her eased. She let him move her, the adrenaline drain hitting her like a wave. Bucky took her firearm slowly from her hands, tucking it in his waistband.

Her gaze fell on the shattered mirror, her reflection staring back at her from the broken shards. Bloodied, bruised, wild-eyed, clear tracks where sweat and tears had fallen.

Behind them, Bennett swept past, zip-tying Markov’s trembling wrists. The doctor didn’t fight now. Didn’t bargain. Didn’t plead. She only sobbed, a hysterical, broken sound that filled the corners of the ruined room.

Wick stepped in front of Ripley, hands raised, palms out like he was approaching a spooked horse. “Hey. Hey, Rip,” he said gently. “Look at me, babe.” Her eyes dragged upward, unfocused and empty. “There she is,” Wick breathed, relief flooding his features. “You came back.”

Markov wailed as Bennett hauled her upright.

Ripley didn’t spare her a glance. Her knees buckled. Bucky caught her before she hit the floor, arms banding around her middle as her breath hitched once, sharp, pained, and she sagged against him.

“You’re okay,” he murmured against her hair. “I’ve got you.”

Wick pressed a hand to her face, brushing blood away from her brow with his thumb. “We’re done here,” he said quietly. “It’s over, Rip. You did enough.”

She tried to inhale. The attempt stuttered. Failed. Markov screamed as she was dragged from the room. Bucky supported her down the stairs, Wick retrieved the weapons, and an increasing wail of police sirens signalled urgency as they hurried outside. The shiny CIA badge that Valentina had sent them off with was their ticket out, smooth enough, they hoped. -0-0-0-0-0-0-

The Moroccan hospital wasn’t ideal. Bucky hovered outside the door of Ripley’s room, watching everyone who walked past. Wick sat in a plastic chair, burner phone in hand. He had come back in from outside. Valentina had called. Bennett had returned to their riad, collecting their gear. They would fly back to the States as soon as Ripley was cleared. A safehouse had been arranged for them. Bucky had already called in the favor with a neighbor to check on Alpine. His gaze peered through the window of the door. Ripley was pale beneath the lights above her, her body marred with bruises.

“Did you get checked out?” Bucky asked Wick.

“Yeah,” the ghost operative leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, head tipped back. “Rip took the brunt of it.”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky’s hands clenched at his side. “She’s the one who decided to go into an eight against one situation.”

Wick’s lips curved a little. “It’s okay to be pissed at her, I sure as fuck am.”

“A fucking note on the mirror,” Bucky said under his breath, shaking his head.

“She probably didn’t expect to come back,” Wick opened an eye to look at Bucky, the Winter Soldier, who was still peeking through the window. “Would it help you to know she’s been through worse than an eight against one situation?”

“No.” Bucky moved back as a nurse approached the door. Opening it, she smiled and made the hand signal for ‘okay’. He strode into the room, straight to the bed where Ripley was starting to rise. He put a hand under her elbow, steadying her. “Come on. We’ve got a private jet and a safehouse.”

“Markov?” She asked hoarsely.

“CIA has her,” answered Bucky tersely. He kept his hand on the small of her back as they reunited with Wick, then Bennett, outside beside the shitty VW van.

“Hey sunshine,” Bennett swept his eyes over Ripley. She was covered in dried blood, cuts, and bruises. “You look great.”

“Thanks, Owen,” she replied dryly. “Let’s get the fuck back to America... please.”  

“You got it, boss,” Bennett said quietly, and eased them onto the road to the airport.

Sixteen Hours Later

The safehouse was a log-style home tucked into the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee. They arrived in the golden hour of the evening, fresh snow untouched on the road leading in. Wick let out a low whistle when he parked the truck provided for them at the airport. “It’s like some rich asshole decided to cosplay as a frontier man.” He held out his hand as Ripley slid carefully from the back of the extended cab. She took it, wincing as she got to the ground. “Val said she stocked it, clothes, food, you name it...maybe having the devil on our side isn’t so bad.”

“Better the devil you know,” Ripley muttered, glanced at Bucky as he appeared as a silent shadow at her side. “Bennett, lead on.” She moved slowly, the ache of her own stupidity in her muscles, her bones, the very marrow of her.

“Holy shit, look at that fireplace!” Bennett’s low whistle followed Wick’s excited shout. “Ohhhh, a hot tub too!”

Ripley shook her head a little as she leaned heavily on the railing to get up the stairs. Bucky offered a hand, and she stared at it for a long moment before accepting the help. He had barely spoken to her on the plane, minimal words even for him. The bright glow inside the cabin made her squint and blink rapidly. Bennett was digging around in the fridge, plunking bottles of beer onto the counter. Wick, on the other hand, was trying to light a fire in the stone fireplace—floor-to-ceiling windows facing the mountains, and what would be sunrise the next day.

Bucky dropped his assault pack beside the leather couch, nodding his head slightly as he looked around. “This is nice.”

“Listen to the city boy,” Wick snickered as the flames caught. “This is better than nice, brother, this is fucking awesome.”

“Here, baby girl,” Bennett handed Ripley a bottle of beer. “Go find a nest, get some sleep.” He tapped the neck of his bottle against hers. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” He dropped a kiss on top of her head. Ripley limped down the hallway, peering in the first bedroom. A paper bag sat on the bed, Wick’s name in clear handwriting.

“We’ve got assigned rooms,” she called down the hall, and carried on. She found her room, the master bedroom with its massive windows, corner jacuzzi tub, and fireplace. She stared with a scowl at the two bags on her bed—one for her...one for Bucky.

“Is nothing fucking secret anymore?” She muttered to herself and shut the door. She walked to it, opening her bag. Her scowl deepened as she pulled out a scrap of black lace. “Jesus Christ.” There were outfits for a few days, a pair of pajamas, thank God, and a note from Valentina.  Thought you all could use some nicer clothes. The plane will pick you up at TSY on Monday. Lie low!

"Never thought the CIA would be a good idea," Wick said, poking his head into her room. "But this is pretty nice. Sablepoint could never."

Ripley didn't say anything and handed Wick the note. "Yeah," she muttered finally. "But what will we owe her?"

Wick leaned against the doorframe, glanced at the note, and folded his arms across his chest. "Might I remind you," he began quietly. "That you were the one who wanted the upper hand when it came to Markov, and now Kovač…CIA gives us the upper hand, protection, really bougie safehouses like the one we're standing in." He jerked a shoulder. "So, what, we stay with them for a year maybe, do the Special Activities thing, pay off the debt."

Ripley was about to speak, but her mouth closed as Bucky's shadow crossed over Wick. The Winter Soldier clapped a light hand on Wick's shoulder and slid past him into the room, his blue eyes taking in the bedroom, the bags. His brow furrowed. "The hell is that?"

"Clothes," Ripley answered quietly. "Wick, we'll talk tomorrow."

Wick smiled at her and walked into the room. He hugged her and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I love you, Reaper."

"I love you too, Tracer." She hugged him hard and let go. Bucky stood by the door, muttered his good night to Wick, then shut and locked it. Ripley watched him warily as he crossed the gleaming wood-planked floor. He fiddled with the fireplace, turning it on. He moved into the en suite bathroom, admiring the glass shower. Ripley sighed to herself and rubbed sweaty palms on her pants. She didn't need to be nervous. It was Bucky for Christ's sake.

Bucky turned on the shower, let the water run cold over his hand until it warmed up. "Come shower, Rip, you've got blood all over you."

"Things I bet you never thought you'd say to a woman you're sleeping with," she quipped with a sardonic twist of her mouth. Bucky sent her a baleful look, crossed his arms over his black t-shirt, and leaned back against the bathroom counter. "Are you goin' to give me the silent treatment?"

Bucky rubbed his fingers across his forehead, trying to find the words even as she stripped and climbed into the shower. "You piss me off, y'know that?"

"Since the day I met you," she replied cheerfully, though the tinge of sarcasm bled through.

Bucky licked his lips and studied her form behind the fogged glass of the shower. "D'ya want to walk me through what you were thinkin'?" Ripley washed her hands, scrubbing at the dried blood, wincing as the raw skin met the hot water. "I was thinking about Flea," she said quietly. "And about ending this so that you're safe…"

"That's bullshit and you know it," Bucky replied hotly. "You were thinking about revenge…"

"And so what if I was?"

"'I love you, forgive me'…" Bucky walked to the edge of the shower and opened the door. She scowled at him as the cold air hit her body. "Written on a mirror in a fucking riad in Morocco."

Ripley froze the water cascading over her, washing away the sweat and blood.

"Do you know what it sounded like?" He jabbed a finger at the tiled floor between them. "It didn't sound like a goodbye, Ripley; it sounded like a suicide note. It sounded like you were giving up on everyone, including yourself." His piercing blue gaze held her still, the steam pluming around them. "You've only said that you've loved me once, and it was before you took off for four and a half fucking months. So imagine my surprise…"

"Bucky," Ripley's voice held every warning under the sun in her tone as she turned away from him to finish washing. "If you wanna fight while I'm naked, then get undressed and get in here."

He huffed out a frustrated breath, shaking his head, but he took off his boots, stripped down to bare skin, and walked into the shower, closing the door behind him. Ripley turned toward him, his eyes were on the stitches at her side where Markov's knife had landed its blow. "I need you to stop acting like you're the only one who's hurting over this," Bucky said quietly. "Wick and Bennett weren't hell bent on revenge…"

Ripley swallowed hard, looking away from him, tears bright in her eyes. "We all handle grief differently."

"If you had pulled that trigger today…" Bucky began. She flicked her gaze to his, chin lifting. "I dunno what I would've done, Rip…the logical part of me said walk away…"

"So do it," Ripley whispered brokenly. "Just walk away." Bucky's jaw tightened as she stepped closer to him, tilting her head back slightly to look up at him. "I wouldn't blame you—I wouldn't blame any of you."

He loosed a sigh laden with irritation, worry, and love and tugged her into his arms, holding her head to his shoulder. "You drive me insane." He muttered against her hair. "Tell me."

"Tell you what?" She asked quietly, her stomach clenching because she knew…she knew precisely what he wanted.

"I don't want to read it, I don't want to hear it as you're going off on a suicide mission," his broad calloused palm covered her cheek, cool metal meeting the other side as he tipped her face up to his. "I want to hear it."

"I…"

"Hey Rip, do you wanna—" Wick tried calling through the door.

"Not now, Wickwire!" Bucky shouted back, eyes still on Ripley. "Is anyone dead, dying, or bleeding?"

"Uh…no…" Wick answered, the grin on his face clear in the words.

"Come back later," Ripley interrupted both men. She waited for his footsteps to recede before looking back up at Bucky. "Buck…"

His fingers stroked her cheekbones, thumb brushing against the corner of her eye. "Why is it so hard?"

Ripley scoffed. "When's the last time you said it to someone?"

"Sam."

"A female, romantically?" Ripley’s question sliced right through him.

Bucky blinked, just once, but it was enough. His hand paused mid‑stroke against her cheek. The steam curled around them, thick and heavy, but somehow the air between them felt even thicker.

“A female, romantically,” she repeated, quieter this time. A challenge. A confession. A damn plea.

He huffed a small, humorless laugh. “You know exactly when.”

Ripley’s breath hitched. She did. But she wanted to hear him say it, too.

“Say it,” she murmured.

He tilted his head, water dripping off the ends of his hair, jaw clenched in a way that betrayed something softer underneath. “Last time I said those words to a woman I loved?” He swallowed. “1943, and I'm not sure I actually did love her…not like this.”

Ripley looked away, her eyes flicking to the tile, to the steam, anywhere but him. But his metal hand cupped the back of her neck, guiding her gaze back up.

“My turn,” he murmured. “When’s the last time you said it in a way that wasn’t a death wish?”

She flinched. He stepped closer, chest brushing hers, voice dropping.

“You can spit it out before going dark. Leave it in a note before going into an impossible situation...” His thumb dragged along her jaw. “But standing here, safe, with me? Suddenly, you can’t say a damn word.”

Her throat worked. “This isn’t easy for me.”

“It ain’t easy for me either, sweetheart,” he replied, soft but insistent. “Difference is, I’m standin’ here anyway.”

She closed her eyes, letting the water hit her face, trying to hide the trembling in her chest.

Bucky wasn’t having it. He used his warm hand to gently take her chin, thumb stroking the pulse beating fast beneath her skin.

“Ripley,” he murmured. “I’m not askin’ you for poetry. I’m askin’ you for the truth.”

She opened her eyes. And for the first time since they got back from Morocco, she didn’t look furious or detached or feral. She just looked unprotected.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered.

“You already fucking did,” he breathed, not cruelly—just honest. “Now tell me why.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

“You think I’m gonna leave?” he asked softly. “You think I’m gonna get tired of you bein’ stubborn and damaged and complicated?” His fingers retraced the stitches, feather‑light. “Rip, I fell in love with every part of you.”

She shook her head, tears rising in her eyes. “You shouldn't—”

“No,” he cut her off firmly. “I’m askin’ for three words. Not a lifetime commitment. Not a fairy tale.” He brushed his forehead against hers. “Just three damn words I know you feel, because you wrote ’em on a goddamn mirror like you weren't going to make it back…and you did.”

She inhaled shakily, the sound catching in her throat. Her hand rose, fingers splaying over his chest like she needed something solid to hold onto before she drowned.

“Rip,” he whispered, thumb brushing away a tear that spilt down her cheek. “Say it when you’re staying, not when you’re leavin’ me.”

Her mouth trembled.

“I…” Her breath faltered. She swallowed and blew out a breath, her stomach quivering.“Bucky.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth—soft, grounding, warm. “I know,” he whispered. “Say it.”

Ripley sucked in a breath, shaky as hell. And very, very quietly—“I love you.”

Bucky’s eyes closed like those three words hit him harder than any bullet ever had. When he opened them again, they were soft in a way he rarely let anyone see. “There she is,” he murmured, voice thick.

She made a slight, broken sound, something between relief and terror. He caught her face in both hands—warm skin, cool metal—and kissed her once, slow and deep, like he needed her to feel every piece of what she’d just said.

When he pulled back, foreheads touching, breath mingling, he whispered: “Say it again...”

She managed a watery laugh, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her body into his. "I love you, James Buchanan Barnes."

He felt like the wind had been knocked out of him, his smile was slow, and he threaded his fingers into her wet hair, tipping her face up toward him. He stared into her eyes for a long moment, as if seeing every moment that they had ever shared in the whiskey colored depths. "I love you," he whispered hoarsely. A soft sob left her throat mixed with a laugh. "I love you, Ripley Evelyn Todd."

The heat was oppressive. Bucky could think of nothing else as he watched the crowds surge through the bazaar. He sat behind the wheel of the battered VW van they’d been assigned forty-eight hours ago in Morocco. Frankincense and myrrh drifted from a nearby stall, mixing with sharp spice from a food vendor. The scents should have tempted him, but he hadn’t been hungry since the discussion in his kitchen with Ripley.

His blue eyes tracked her as she crossed the busy road and slipped into an alley. Behind him, Bennett snored in the back of the van while Wick watched the road on the small TV monitor feeds.

"So," Wick broke the silence, cracking into an energy drink. "You guys good?"

"Wick," Bucky muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose in preparation for Ripley's best friend's digging.

"Just askin', man," Wick stretched his arms over his head, cracking his back. "She doesn't look too great."

"No?" Bucky turned in his seat to look at Wick, eyebrows raised. "Could it have something to do with the hundred-and-forty-five-day spree your team spent hunting Flea's killers across half the world?"

Wick snorted. "No, we've done that sort of shit before…and it was actually only one hundred and thirty-ish....we used a safe house after dropping that guy off in PA just to make sure we hadn’t been followed.”

“This is different. It isn’t a mission anymore...” Bucky searched for the right words. He knew the path she was on; he’d walked it himself. Steve had done the same, burning bridges. Sharon Carter had been exiled to Madripoor. He knew the cost of what they were doing. “Wick, she’s killing herself.”

"Yeah," Wick sighed, long and loud, tucking his tongue into his cheek. "She doesn't handle grief well, does she?"

"No shit," Bucky muttered, turning back to the front just in time to see Ripley duck out of the side alley and melt into the crowd. "You really gonna let her go down this road?"

Wick zoomed in on a camera, tracking his best friend on the feed. His hazel eyes stared at the screen, but his mind was elsewhere, remembering Omega at Club Med, belting out 'Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now', team lifts, training together, the nights around the bar. The ache for that normalcy, the raw wound left by Flea's murder, throbbed fresh.

"Wick?" Bucky glanced behind him.

"She's a big girl," Wick's voice was thick; he cleared his throat and sniffed once. His fingers tapped anxiously on the console, a small gesture betraying his otherwise firm claim. There was a moment where he stared off into the distance, as if picturing an alternate reality where all his friends were safe and happy. "She can make her own decisions."

"So you're prepared to bury another friend?"

"No," Wick punched a few keys with more force than necessary. "Rip wants to be cremated."

“When you two are done,” Bennett spoke, his baritone voice low and rough with sleep. “I’ll take the front seat, Buck. You should try to sleep.”

“I can’t believe the two of you,” Bucky muttered, rubbing his hand across his jaw. “That’s your friend...your family.”

“We’ll keep her from going over the edge,” Bennett sat his 6’6 frame up in the cramped space, wincing and rubbing at his lower back.

“Little late for that,” Bucky replied, but he could hear Steve’s voice in his head, steady, patient, the kind of calm he’d never been able to fake. Steve would’ve known what to say to Ripley, or at least wouldn’t have let his own temper get in the way. Bucky got out of the van, slamming the dusty green door behind him with more force than necessary.

He had lost sight of her; his eyes did a quick scan of the bustling crowd. It had been two days since they had lashed out, two days since Valentina’s offer. He regretted it.

Ripley kept pushing everyone away, and he felt a familiar sting. Steve had done something similar, making his own choices, leaving Bucky to deal with the fallout. Maybe he should’ve been used to it by now. He’d learned a lot from Doc Raynor, but helping someone determined to go it alone wasn’t one of them.

He flexed his metal hand, tucked away in a glove. He stared down at it for a long moment. He would lie to himself if he said he wouldn’t get involved if they needed help. For now, he was a passenger, an observer. She had given him that much; she had let him choose to follow them to Africa. He heard the shuffle of bodies in the van behind him as Bennett took the driver's seat.

“We should move further up,” Bennett said through the open window. “She’s been quiet.”

Bucky’s jaw worked, but he pushed off the van, sweat sliding down his back. “Yeah.” He climbed into the passenger seat. “Get us closer.”

The alley was narrow enough that Ripley’s shoulders nearly brushed the clay walls. Heat radiated off them in waves, the faint sweetness of orange blossom drifting from somewhere she couldn’t see.  Her jilbab clung to her spine in the heat, the muted red fabric doing its job—no one gave her a second look as she moved, head dipped, scarf loose around her hair. Just another woman running an errand. Just another shadow.

She paused at the mouth of a smaller, darker passageway. A boy kicked a deflated soccer ball past her without glancing up. Ripley stepped aside, keeping her posture small, soft, unremarkable.

Static answered her at first; she was too deep in the medina for clean comms, but then Wick’s voice flickered through, low and muffled. “You’re close. Check for blue doors. That’s the only landmark the director gave.”

“Half the fuckin’ city uses blue doors,” she muttered, but she moved. Down another alley. Then another. The medina twisted like a maze built on a dare; one wrong turn and even locals got turned around. “Gonna get lost in fuckin’ Africa.”

She rounded a corner and froze. A door, deep cobalt, sun-faded around the edges, sat recessed into the wall.  Her pulse kicked. She stepped closer, adjusting her shawl to hide the angle of her face, pretending interest in the prayer beads hanging from a nearby stall. A vendor snored under the awning, tuned out to the world; the smell of mint and old tobacco pooled around him.

Ripley’s gaze slid back to the door. Movement, just a shadow, shifted behind the lattice panel.

She didn’t react. Didn’t tense. Didn’t breathe too sharply. She just drifted past the stall, hand brushing the wall, fingers finding the faintest groove, fresh scratches near the hinge. Reinforced hinge.

Someone inside expected trouble.

Her jaw tightened. Good. So did she.

She angled her body away, lifting the small silver compact mirror from her bag like she was checking the scarf’s drape, angling it toward the windows of the building. The reflection caught just enough—

A man in Western clothes. Standing guard inside.

She dropped the compact, letting it clatter to the ground, bending to pick it up, giving her one more angle.

Definitely not local. Ripley straightened, her shawl across her face, only the brown of her eyes showing, lined with kohl.

She murmured into the scarf, voice steady, calm, and cold: “I found her door.”

“Got your location marked.” Wick’s voice in her earpiece. “C’mon back, we’ll come up with a plan.”

Ripley stared at the door, the sounds of the market fading away beneath the kick of her pulse. She could handle a guard. Her blood felt hot; it was not from the desert sun. She took a step closer toward the door. She didn't want a plan; her sweat turned cold. She wanted it over. She wanted to see Markov on the ground, wanted her to pay for Flea's death. It was more than just revenge; it was about making things right, about finding some kind of peace for Flea, for herself. It was about proving to herself that she still had control over a world that had become so chaotic and unrecognizable.

"Reaper." Bucky's voice in her ear now, familiar, quiet, firm. Her fists clenched beneath her sleeves. "Come back."

She stared at the door, her chest rising faster than she would've liked. Finally, as if her feet were weighted, she turned away from the door and retraced her steps back into the bazaar. The van met her at the corner, and she climbed in quickly, removing her shawl as soon as the door shut.

“I had her,” Ripley’s voice was hard, barely restrained anger.

“Yeah, and how many guards were in there?” Bucky asked, not looking back at her.

“I saw one.”

“Try eight, Rip,” he passed back the tablet from his lap. “Much as I don’t like Valentina, the drone is an asset, can’t believe I’m gonna say this, but I wish we had Redwing.”

She said nothing, scanning the photo, bodies outlined by heat signatures. Her jaw twitched. She zeroed in on the smaller body compared to the others. By themselves in the eastern room on the second floor. She would’ve had to get through four on the first floor and four on the second. She shoved the tablet onto the seat beside her, letting her head drop back against the side of the van.

Bennett turned on the stool he was on, away from the monitors. Offered her a cold energy drink. She took it, drank deeply. “You’re gonna have to sleep sometime, babes,” He told her softly. She glared at him over the edge of the aluminum can. “Don’t hate the game, hate the body.”

“You need rest.”  Bucky’s voice was matter-of-fact. “We hole up in the riad, make a plan.”

She didn’t answer.

The night air was cooler when Bucky walked out into the riad's courtyard. His boots made a soft sound on the white-and-blue tile work. She sat by the fountain, her head buried into his, her hands, her braid mussed from being under a shawl all day.

He didn’t say anything, just sat down on the stone bench beside her. His thigh close to hers, almost touching, but the warmth of him seeped through the jilbab she still wore.

Ripley breathed deeply. He had showered, and the scent of his soap and sandalwood, the leather of his glove, was familiar, comforting after a day in the bustling market. “I could’ve gotten her.” Her fingers tightened at her hairline; the knot in her throat felt more like self-hatred than grief.

“It would’ve been suicide,” his baritone voice was low, roughened at the edges. “All you had was your sidearm. That’s what? A ten-round magazine?”

“Eleven,” she lifted her head, elbows on her thighs. “I keep one chambered.”

“Of course you do,” Bucky huffed out a little laugh. He turned his head to study her in the light from the moon above them. She looked tired, drained. His hand lifted, as if to brush away the strands of hair from her face, but he let it drop instead. “Wick and Bennett...they’re scared for you, y’know that right?”

They should be," she whispered, her brown eyes lifted to the fountain, watching the stream of water splash into the pool. She was tired, so very tired. Her stomach twisted in a constant knot of anxiety. Some days, she almost believed she could hear Flea's voice, gentle and soft, urging her to let it go, to let him go, saying it’s okay. She claimed, "I’m in control." But her voice held a faltering edge, as if she was trying to convince herself as much as anyone else. "I’ve got this," she added, though she couldn't tell if she truly believed it or was simply clinging to a fragile illusion of control.

Did she? She wondered as Bucky rose with a sigh. Her mouth opened, a soft breath leaving, a silent plea, 'don’t go.' She watched him walk back into the house and licked her lips slowly. How far was she willing to go? She wondered, her eyes moving back to the fountain. How much of herself was she willing to lose to clear the list of names who had wronged Omega?

Wick glanced up from the monitor in the surveillance room they had set up on the second floor. Bucky shed his leather jacket and tossed it on one of the footlockers.

“How is she?” Wick inquired quietly, his fingers tapping against his muscled thigh, a rhythm of anxiety.

Bucky dragged a folding chair beside Wick and dropped into it with a heavy exhale. “You might wanna talk to her.”

“What makes you think I can get through to her?” Wick replied with a sardonic snort. Bucky didn’t say anything, just leaned forward, running his calloused fingers through his hair, before letting his hands dangle between his legs.

That was the thing, Wick realized as they sat in silence: two of the men Ripley loved most couldn’t break through the walls of isolation, hatred, and rage she’d built around herself. All they could do was sit and hope they’d be able to pull her back if it came to that.

Bennett shuffled in, three long-neck beer bottles hooked between his fingers. He handed them out, dragged over a third chair, and sat down hard. “Wick.”

“Yeah?”

“We gotta stop,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He lifted dark eyes to hazel and blue, fixing them with quiet intensity. “All we’re doing is feeding her anger...”

Ripley stopped short in the hallway, hearing the low murmur of voices. Her jaw tightened even as she pressed further into the shadow, ears straining as she tried to hear the soft conversation.

Bucky sighed, rubbing his hand across his forehead. “Until they're gone, Omega is in danger; she’s trying to protect all of you....”

“She’s thinking of herself,” Bennett fired back hotly. “You think this is the first time we’ve been targeted?”

Wick stared down at the beer in his hands. “Yeah, but this time they got one of us...”

Ripley’s throat worked hard to swallow in the hallway, the sharp sting of disgust at herself slicing through the grief. She took a deep breath and held it.  

“So, what do you wanna do?” Bucky asked, his Brooklyn accent thicker than usual. “Tie her to the bed?”

“That’s your job,” muttered Bennett. Bucky snorted softly before Bennett continued. “Let’s just...pull the plug on the op. We’ll use the safehouses until CIA and FBI wrangle up the ones who did this...” He broke off as Ripley passed the doorway. “Going to bed, champ?” He called out.

“You know it,” she called back brightly, and shut the door to the bedroom she and Bucky shared.

“Good, maybe some rest will do her some good,” Wick glanced at Bennett. “You taking surveillance?”

Bennett nodded. “Yeah, I got it till 0200, then Bucky is taking it.” His gaze shifted to the congressman. "Going to bed?"

"Yeah," Bucky rose, finished off his beer. "Wish me luck."

"You'll need it," Wick quipped, and watched the man leave. "Oddly enough, I think they work."

"Trauma bond," Bennett turned his attention back to the feeds, scrolling through to the alley where Markov's hideout was. "Did Rip say what the CIA expects from us?"

"Special Activities," Wick fumbled with a bag of chips, trying to tear them open. "Sounds pretty cool, I talked to Hughes about it, sounds like we're gonna fold into his team."

Bennett didn't say anything for a long moment, his eyes following the movements on the videos. "Rip won't be team lead?"

"I dunno," Wick replied, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. "Would you want her to be? After all this?" He slid his gaze to Bennett's profile, lit by the computer monitors.

"Listen," Bennett turned to glance at his friend. "I'm not saying that she's sane right now—"

"Far from it, actually," muttered Wick.

"She's a solid leader, always has been, that's part of the issue we're facing…" Bennett rubbed his eyes, taking a break from the screens. "She blames herself for Flea."

"She's lost control…" Wick finished his beer, set the empty bottle aside, and shook his head. "Do the ends justify the means?"

"We should've left her and Bucky in New York, you shouldn't have called her."

"And when she eventually found out?" Wick quirked his brow at Bennett. "What then? How were you going to hide that?"

"I dunno, Wick…I…want her to be happy again." Bennett shrugged his broad shoulders. "I want us all to go back to the way it was."

"It will never be what it was," Wick's voice was barely a whisper.

"I know, we'll rebuild…" Bennett nodded slowly. "When she's ready." If he didn't say it, but they both knew it.

The thin mattress sank as Bucky eased onto it. Ripley shifted to give him room. His response was to pull her back toward him, to wrap her in his arms. She stiffened against him, awake now. He pressed his nose into her damp hair, smelling her shampoo, and closed his eyes.

"I don't deserve you being nice," she whispered into the darkness. He stared over her shoulder at the slatted doors covering the door to the small balcony, where moonlight glowed through the slits.

"Y'know," his voice was soft. "I always thought that when it came to you being nice to me." He nuzzled into the back of her neck. "Tables turned, Rip."

"Tables didn't turn," she rolled over in his arms, the pale light lit his face enough for her to see him. Her Bucky, the version he didn't show anyone else. His brow was furrowed, his eyes concerned. "The tables are flipped over." She reached her hand up, brushing her fingertips along the stubble on his cheekbone. "You can't save everyone, Buck."

His eyes flicked to hers. "Rip."

“Don’t try to save me,” she murmured, eyelids heavy, her breath a thin, shaking thing against his collarbone. Her fingers curled lightly on his face before she could stop herself. “I’m not worth it.”

Bucky swallowed hard, his jaw working back and forth beneath her fingers. He could tell by the way her breathing had deepened that she had already fallen asleep. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips to her forehead, sighing through his nose. The helplessness was no stranger to him; how often had he felt like that as the Winter Soldier, forced to carry out missions and then be wiped clean of them? But the road she was going down, he knew it all too well.

She jerked away at the first echoing words of The Adhan; her body was covered in cold sweat, her heart thundering like a herd of galloping horses, from whatever dream she had been having moments before. The sheets beside her were cold; Bucky had eased out of them hours before. She dug trembling fingers into her loosened curls. She swallowed hard and lifted her head, staring at herself in the ornamental leaning mirror across from the bed. She froze, the brows in the mirror furrowed, relaxed, furrowed again. She didn't recognize the person in the glass.

The woman who stared back at her looked drawn, pale, weak. The tank top hung looser than it used to, skipping meals, running on fumes. Her eyes were the worst. Haunted, the eyes of prey, not predator. She took a deep shuddering breath and loosed it, flipping back the thin sheet. She knew what she had to do.

Ripley moved quickly, quietly. She drew on her compression shirt, her cargo pants, and her thigh holster. Her movements were methodical, practiced. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She ignored it. Moving into the bathroom, she brushed her teeth, her hair, and braided it back, just as she did on any other day. She checked her sidearm and slid it home into the holster.

The plate carrier went on second-to-last, a favorite patch of Flea's, front and center below her honey badger. Flea's was simple 'It's fine. This is fine. Everything is fine' with the cartoon dog, sitting while flames engulfed the room. She tapped her fingers on it lightly. It would be fine. After today, it would be fine. She checked her extra mags, put her jilbab on over everything else, and lifted her M4. She adjusted the two-point sling, slid it beneath the folds of cloth, and checked herself in the mirror. It would work, especially that early in the morning.

She sighed softly. She was tired, so fucking tired. Soul-deep exhaustion. It would be easy to turn the cheek, so easy to let the puppeteers behind Flea's murder get away with it. She met her own gaze in the mirror, took the grease pencil from her assault pack on the floor, and jotted a note on the mirror.

I love you. Forgive me.

She wrapped the beige shawl around her head, slid on the sunglasses, and stepped out onto the balcony of the room. She gripped the latticework, lowering herself carefully. Her boots found narrow footholds in the carved wood.

Her stomach leapt into her throat as one of the pieces of timber snapped below her boot. She froze, eyes shooting to the surveillance room where Bucky was taking his shift. She waited with her breath held, nothing.

Ripley let out a little sigh, jumped down the last couple of feet, and landed softly on the tile. She adjusted her garb and moved into the crowd, heading toward the mosque.

“Get up, sunshine,” Wick nudged his shoulder into Ripley’s room, his gaze landed on the empty bed, then flicked to the mirror. His blood ran cold, fear spiking into adrenaline. “No, no, no.” He backed out of the room, his boots pounding hard as he ran to Bennett’s door, shoving it open. “She's gone.”

Bennett's head lifted off the pillow. "Huh?" His brain was still fogged over from sleep. "What? Who?"

Wick frowned at Bennett and turned as Bucky's boots thudded across the boards. "Where is she? What did you do?"

"What d'ya mean, where is she?" Bucky replied, his brows furrowed. "I didn't do anything." He backtracked and looked at their empty room, at the note on the mirror.

"Who?!" Bennett shouted after him.

"Ripley, you fuckin' idiot," Wick called over his shoulder, turning into Ripley's room. He grabbed his gear off the footlocker in one complex, decisive movement. “She’s going after Markov,” Wick said, breathless. “She’s gonna hit the house alone.”

You're making me go Then making me stay Why do you hurt me so bad? It would help me to know Do I stand in your way Or am I the best thing you've had? Love is a Battlefield (C) Pat Beneath 0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0–0

Ripley felt the tension seep from her muscles as the limo door shut with a gentle thunk, sealing them off from the glittering chaos of the gala and the world beyond. A mix of anticipation and relief coursed through her as she exhaled, her mind replaying the subtle dance of power and diplomacy she had just navigated.

The faint, lingering scent of champagne hung in the air, mingling with the muted bass reverberations from the gala, which still pulsed in the distance. She let her head fall back against the seat. 

"Finally," she muttered, and peeled off her heels, dropping them to the floor, wriggling her toes.

Bucky didn’t say anything. Just looked at her for a long moment. “You were incredible back there,” he said quietly, voice rough around the edges. “And I don’t just mean the dress.”

Ripley arched a brow, half-teasing, half-daring. “You sure? Valez was…interesting to say the least. I thought you were gonna throw hands there for a second.”

He leaned in, slow, brows lifting a little. “You really think I could watch another man put his hands on you and not want to make my position abundantly clear?”

Her smile twisted, sharp, dark, hungry. “You're the one who made it my choice."

He moved closer to her, something predatory in his eyes.

Ripley swallowed hard. "And I wanted to help your cause, which I did by the way, I dunno if you caught that last part…"

"I remember," Bucky said softly, his head cocked as he looked at her. "How drunk are you?"

"Barely a buzz hanging on at this point." She replied, her heart thundering as his fingers ghosted down the column of her throat, her brown eyes nearly black with desire. "You?"

"I can't get drunk, remember?" His mouth traced her jaw. "Ripley."

"If you're asking," she shifted a little toward him, her fingers tugging his bow tie loose. "For permission, you don't have to with me…you know that." She leaned into him, her eyes not leaving his.

He kissed her, hooking a finger beneath her chin to tilt her face up. Every second he had waited felt like a punishment. He let his palm rest flat against her back, steady and reassuring, while his other hand traced slow, teasing circles along her hip before guiding her into his lap.

Her legs straddled him easily, the slit in her dress parting as if it had been made for this. He traced invisible patterns over her thigh, his touch both grounding and electric, thumb sweeping gently along the inside of her knee.

"Let me, just let me," his voice was against her throat, his hands shoving her skirt higher, her fingers fumbling on the buttons of his shirt. They didn't hear the whir of the divider being rolled up to grant them more privacy, or the limo driver sliding in his AirPods and shaking his head.

Bucky fumbled with the zipper of her dress. "Jesus Christ, did we glue it on?" He gasped against the swells of her breasts. She choked out a laugh, her hands on his belt buckle. She felt the zipper on her dress let go. "What the fuck are those…." He stopped dead in his tracks.

Ripley furrowed her brows, looking down between them. "Those are sticky boobs, God, that's so unsexy…"

“Sticky what?” Bucky leaned her back just a fraction to look at her, like he was trying to solve a fucking Rubik’s cube.

“They’re—” Ripley broke into a breathless laugh, rolling her eyes at the situation, "They’re like strapless bra things….I wore them at the wedding. They stick to your boobs, hold them up, make 'em look good.”

Bucky blinked, disoriented by both the concept and the half-dressed woman straddling him. "Does it hurt?" He asked as she gently began to remove one of them. She made a little noise that meant both yes and no.

She folded it like a clamshell and tossed it aside. "Remind me to punch whoever invented those.” He told her and flipped their positions, settling her back against the leather seats, his hands running up her legs.

The limo hit a bump. The sudden jolt caught them off guard. Bucky’s hand slammed against the window beside her head, bracing. Ripley burst out laughing, breathless and exhilarated. "Drive better!" she shouted toward the front, then quickly covered her face as Bucky shook with silent laughter above her.

“Rip, I am begging you not to pick a fight with the driver—” he groaned as she rocked her hips up against him. He growled and tilted her back just enough to kiss down the curve of her throat, her chest, her ribs as he pulled her dress lower, all of it bunching just above her hips.

The limo rolled to a stop, and the sharp rap of knuckles signaled their arrival at the apartment. Ripley looked up at him, unable to hold her snicker. "Shortest drive ever."

"Don't forget your stick-ons," he told her, trying to piece himself back together. "I'll carry you up."

"Why?"

"Too much effort to zip you back in just to unzip it again."

"Congressman Barnes," Ripley tried to look at him sternly. "Are you saying you want me to crawl out of this limo half-naked?" She ignored him and managed to get her dress halfway zipped at least, her sticky boobs shoved into her clutch haphazardly.

"Yeah." He opened the door using his jacket as a curtain until she had tucked everything important into place. He scooped her up, tipped the limo driver with cash and a wicked grin.

He managed to get them into the apartment with little effort. He kicked the door shut, rattling it in its frame, and nearly tripped over Alpine as he pinned Ripley to the wall, tugging at the dress again. "Do you like this dress?" He asked breathlessly. 

"What?"

"Do… never mind," he ripped the bodice of it, buried his face between her breasts, mouth hot and wet.

"It was unzipped!" Ripley argued even as she arched into his mouth.

"Effort," Bucky fixed his mouth back on hers, pushing the ripped, useless fabric to the floor. He spun them off the wall and finally softened the landing onto the bed for her. Free from the confines of the dress, his arms, Ripley's fingers brushed his buttons. Her eyes met his with a gleam. "Don't," he warned softly. "I like this shirt, it goes with the tux."

"I liked that dress."

"I'll buy you all the dresses you could ever want," he said, undoing his shirt himself and tossing it aside, along with the white undershirt. She laughed a little before his mouth was back on her.

He had her pinned beneath him now, skin bared where the dress had been peeled away, her breath warm and uneven against his cheek. His metal hand rested at the small of her back, grounding her, while his other hand skimmed the length of her thigh, pausing at her knee to squeeze gently.

“Open for me,” he said, low, coaxing, but firm. That voice could’ve undone nations. “Wanna see all of you.”

Ripley obeyed without thinking. Her body responded to that tone, authority laced with hunger, the quiet worship of a man obsessed with the woman he was with. She spread her legs, the cool air of the apartment brushing over heated skin, prickling gooseflesh.

“Fuck, look at you…” Bucky’s gaze swept her body, his metal hand trailing fire along her ribs, up between her breasts where his thumb brushed the curve of one, slow, unhurried. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Ripley arched up. “Then show me.”

“Oh, I will.” His voice dropped another octave. He dipped down, kissing the inside of her knee, then higher. The scrape of stubble, the heat of his mouth. “But I’m gonna take my time, doll. You earned that.” He slid one finger along the seam of her, light as a breath, and smiled when her hips jerked. “So fucking wet already. You want my fingers, or my mouth first?”

“Both,” she gasped, eyes dark. “Both is good.” Her voice had pitched a little higher as his tongue followed the finger that had slid along her center.

He didn’t stop when she came, just eased her through it, mouth and fingers working as he memorized every twitch and whimper. And when she was gasping, limp with aftershocks, he rose over her again, beard glistening, pupils blown wide.

“Still with me?” he murmured against her lips.

“Yeah,” she whispered brokenly, blowing out a shaky breath. Her eyes met his, and her lips curved a little. “More.”

“Good girl.”

Ripley groaned—he grinned. He undid his pants, shedding them into a heap and lining up against her, dragging the blunt head of his cock through the slick of her, teasing, just enough to make her moan.

"Rip," he whispered. A man starved for months for the one thing he craved. "Tell me you want this."

"What?" She reached for him, nails dragging down his chest. He moved back a little, gaze reproachful. They locked gazes, chests rising and falling with bated breath. She licked her lips, finally, and said softly. "I want you."

“Yeah,” he breathed as he slid into her, her head falling back with a cry; his lips were on hers. “You’ve got me.” He murmured against her mouth.

He found her hand and wove their fingers together, guiding them up above her head, their palms pressed together as if in a silent vow. He kept her hand there not to hold her down, but to keep her close—each movement deliberate, deep, an unspoken promise in every touch.

His mouth was greedy, loving, claiming every inch of her it touched. The curve of her throat, the swell of her breasts, the underside of her jaw where her pulse leapt with every push of his hips.

“Look at me,” he rasped, voice like gravel, foreheads brushing. “Don’t look away, Ripley."

She looked. And what she saw nearly undid her—Bucky, undone and holding on by his last thread. “You’re mine,” he whispered. “And I’m yours. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she breathed, her throat suddenly tight. “Always.”

His fingers speared into her hair, his mouth on hers in a rough meeting of tongues and teeth and two people who couldn't explain the roiling turmoil inside of them. She barely had time to breathe before he moved again, shifting her hips up higher, sliding deeper, his pace maddeningly slow, like he was drawing it out on purpose.

“Touch me,” she gasped, arching under him. "Bucky." Her hands framed his face, fingers digging into his hair.

“I am touching you,” Bucky said, his voice low and rough in her ear. His metal hand trailed down the side of her face, cool and gentle. “But you want more. Don’t you?” She nodded helplessly, lips parting. He caught her chin between two fingers. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“I want more,” she whispered. “I want you. I want everything.” The words slipped out during each slap of his hips against hers. Baring her heart and soul to him without even realizing it.

Her name slipped from his lips in every breath, every growl, every groan like it was the only one he’d ever learned to say. When her second orgasm hit, she bit his shoulder hard enough to bruise. He grinned through it, rocked deeper, kissed her temple.

“Bucky—” her voice cracked and caught like breaking glass. She wasn’t crying, but it was close to tears. Too much. Too good. Too safe.

He gathered her into his arms and whispered, “I know.”

He kissed her, slow, lingering, like a promise. He let himself go, burying himself deep with a groan that sounded like her name and a confession in the same breath as he spilled into her. He didn’t look away, her eyes glossy, staring into his as the last of his orgasm wracked his body.

When it was over, he collapsed beside her, his arm draped over her waist, lips brushing the crown of her head as he caught his breath. They lay in silence, the hush broken only by the slow return of their heartbeats and the golden stripes of streetlight on the sheets.

Quietly, Bucky murmured, “I didn’t want the night to end like that.”

Ripley blinked up at the ceiling, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She made a little bit of an insulted frown. “Like what?” God, don't regret it, please, don't regret this or me.

"I was trying…" Bucky lifted his metal hand, let it drop gently on her hip, and rubbed his thumb in circles.

C'mon, just say it. He thought to himself and closed his eyes for a moment.

He hesitated, then met her gaze. "Trying not to..." His voice caught, but he pressed on. "I can't handle it if you walk away again."

"Bucky…" Her voice was soft. She sniffled, tucked her lips, the words were there, right on the tip of her tongue.

"I know." He said quietly, gathering her into his arms, pretending he didn't feel the tears against his bare skin. "I know."

"I don't think you do," she whispered.

Bucky looked down at her, his eyes tracing over her face. He brushed away her tears with gentle knuckles. "Can I guess?" He asked. She nodded, watching him with weary eyes. "You wanna say something, and the words get caught right in here." He tapped the notch of her collarbone. She nodded. "Same." He smiled a little, pressed his forehead to hers. "We'll figure it out. Try to sleep. You earned it."

She snorted softly. "Thanks."

"Valez was the last senator I needed for a vote for my proposal," Bucky said quietly, his fingers traveling along her side now, circling the tall tale signs of bullet wounds. "You secured that vote tonight." He sighed softly against her hair, his calloused fingers moving through the strands of her hair as he stared up at the ceiling. "Thank you."

"I didn't do anything besides letting the dickbag dance with me," Ripley murmured, staring off into the middle distance. The bedroom walls were bare, no paintings, no photos, easy to leave behind just in case. It twisted her heart a little bit.

You have a home, she thought. Just come to it.

Bucky's lips pressed to the crown of her head. "What're you thinking?"

Ripley sniffed softly. "You don't wanna know," she replied, her voice monotone. Bucky's fingers stilled on her. "I'm not leaving." She added, and sat up slowly, his arms falling off of her. "I'm gonna go shower."

Bucky watched her walk away, brows furrowed a little in thought. Not leaving, he thought, but not staying. -.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.Bzzz.

Ripley blindly patted around the nightstand. No lamp. No clock. No phone. Nothing.

"Fucking bachelors." She muttered and rose unsteadily out of the bed. Bucky rolled over, the thin sheet draped over his hips doing little to conceal him.

"What is it?" he asked, voice husky. She didn't answer him. The phone had begun buzzing again. She dug under his pants, the shirt, the wreckage from the night, of what they had done. She found her clutch and yanked her phone free.

"Yeah?" she said, one hand rubbing her forehead.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" Wick asked irritably, staring at his TV, where Senator Valez spun Ripley around amongst the glitter and glamor of the gala, a news story of all things.

"Wick."

"You just slapped a fucking target on your back," Wick snapped. "Does this look like keeping a fucking low profile to you?"

"Yeah? Well, maybe I'm sick of fuckin' running, Danny. Maybe I want them to come to me this time around."

"And Bucky?" Wick challenged sharply. "You're putting him in harm's way, and for what?"

Across the room, Bucky lay still, his head pillowed on his arms. Hearing every word. His blue eyes tracked her naked form as she turned, digging her fingers into her hair. "I don't know Wick. I don't fucking know."

The silence on the phone was thick for a few beats.

"Bennett and I are coming to you," he finally said, voice hard as a rock. "Phones are already compromised by now. Georgetown too, y'know why?" He waited a beat. "Because that's where a fucking congressman has been staying, Rip."

She swallowed hard. "You were supportive of this a few days ago."

"Yeah, well, that's before Boone showed up bleeding on my goddamn doorstep."

Her spine went rigid. "What?" Her voice hardened. Bucky sat up in bed, leaning forward, brows furrowed, listening harder.

"Don't you get it?" Wick snapped. "They're coming for us. Dump your phone. Get a burner." The line went dead before she could speak.

Slowly, she leaned down, sliding on Bucky’s white dress shirt like armor, crossing her arms over herself in a hug. "You heard."

Bucky ran his tongue over his teeth, jaw tight, and nodded. Inside, a flicker of uncertainty gnawed at him, wondering if he was ready to face whatever decision she might make.

Yet, he forced himself to look steady. "What do you want to do?"

Ripley looked at him finally, her eyes running over him, taking in every detail of him in the dim winter sunlight, his bed ruffled hair, the curve of his muscles. She swallowed hard and sighed. "You already know."

His heart sank, and he shifted forward, as if to reach for her. "Ripley, don't."

"I can't lose you, Bucky." Barely a whisper.  Not like this, not because of me.

"I've already been lost, Rip, for years. I have a choice now," he told her, equally quiet; his gaze didn't waver. She didn't speak. Just walked over to the bed and sat beside him. His arm wrapped around her hips without hesitation. He rested his chin on her shoulder.

Ripley sighed and shook her head, staring at the windows. "Y'know, when a random woman approached me last night and said she could help us avenge Flea, I didn't believe her, but now…"

Bucky pulled away from her. "What? What woman?"

“Some obnoxiously long name.” Ripley jerked her shoulder and rolled her eyes, though a flicker of unease crossed her mind. It was the kind of name that sounded powerful, laden with both allure and danger, and given the circumstances, it felt like a name she should tread carefully around.

“Valentina Allegra de Fontaine?” Bucky's hand curled into a fist at her hip.

Her gaze narrowed at him. "How…"

"Do not take whatever deal she's offering you," Bucky warned her, his voice firm. She scowled at him, her brows drawn together in a hard line. “Don’t Ripley....”

“She said she could help us avenge Flea...” She said quietly. “She's got resources, she said Markov’s name, Bucky, how many fucking people know that name?”

He heard it in her voice, the pain, the ache, the grief. “Baby, I know—” She refused to look at him, and he sighed heavily. “Ripley...I’m not going to tell you what to do...”

“Then don’t.” She stated coldly.

Bucky leaned away from her, hand flexing, glaring at the ceiling. “Have I mentioned how infuriating you are?”

Her lips quirked to the side. “Once or twice.” She looked down at her hands lying on her bare thighs. She could see the calluses from the gym, the invisible blood that stained them from years of army service, from years of special operations.

“I loved him, Buck,” she whispered, her throat tight. “I loved him so fucking much, he was like a little brother to me...”

Bucky didn’t say anything, his glacier blue eyes running over her face. His heart tightened; he hated seeing her in pain. And worse than that, he couldn’t take it from her. He couldn’t remove the grief; he couldn’t fight her battles for her. All he could do was support whatever decision she made.

"Say something," her voice rasped. "Please, Bucky, anything…" She turned her head toward him.

"I dunno what to say, Rip," he admitted, his voice rough and blunt. He lifted his eyes to hers, and she hated herself for what she saw. Disappointment.

She licked her lips and sighed. "We're never gonna be able to get this right, are we?" She whispered.

Bucky rubbed his forehead and gestured with his hand. "What do you want me to say, Rip?" He dropped his hand, let it hit his thigh with a dull slap.  

Her jaw tightened, and she looked away. "Nothing…" She rose and gestured toward her phone. Distancing herself. Closing herself off. "They're on their way here…we'll get out of your way as soon as we can…"

"You're doing a great job at not running," Bucky reached for his sweatpants beside the bed, and tugged them on, rising. "Really great." He left the room, nearly tripping on Alpine. Ripley stared at his back, hands clenched at her side. She had a choice in that moment, and damned if she wasn't choosing him.

"Hey!" She walked out into the living room after him. "I'm not done with you, Barnes."

He glared at her over his bare shoulder as he prepped the coffee maker. "Maybe I was wrong about you, Rip," he said it so casually that she felt like he had punched the air straight from her lungs. "I was waitin' on a different story, I guess."

One where we could be happy.

"One with a happy ending?" Her voice was low, and her throat felt like it had needles inside of it. "One where we're both clean?" Her gaze lifted to his, her brows scrunched together. "One where I don't let rage get the best of me? You didn't think that this would happen when they pushed me to the brink?"

Bucky leaned forward on the counter, his hands spread wide, his lips pressed into a thin line. "You look me in the fuckin' eyes and you tell me that this is the last step you take for avenging Flea." He lifted his stare to hers, searching her face for some semblance of the woman who had whispered that she was his.

"When Markov is gone, what next?" He challenged. "Another name on your list? When is enough, enough?" Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she licked her lips slowly. "Do I have to bury you, too, Rip?" He asked hoarsely, gaze unwavering. "Do I have to stand over your grave with Bennett and Wick?"

She inclined her chin, swallowing hard. "The grave doesn't scare me…"

He scoffed softly and turned his back to her, shaking his head. "Okay." He busied his hands pouring his coffee; he closed his eyes when he felt her move up behind him. "You know how many times I wished you had called so I could say goodbye while you were off playing vigilante?" He asked quietly. "I waited for you."

Ripley's jaw worked back and forth as she tried to find the words, but all she could manage was. "I know." She lifted her hand, fingertips inches from his shoulder, before lowering it, stepping away. "I can't make you understand why I need to do this." She whispered. "And I'm not going to try..."

"Yeah, well," Bucky lifted his gaze to the cupboards. "It was my fault for handing you a heart worth breaking."

The words hit her harder than any strike she’d taken in the field. Ripley recoiled as if he’d actually slapped her. Her breath stuttered out of her chest, sharp and ugly, and for a second she just stood there, bare legs, his dress shirt drowning her frame. “Don’t you dare,” she said quietly.

Bucky didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.

“You think I wanted that?” she rasped. “You think I wake up every morning excited to find new and improved ways to fuck things up between us?”

That made him turn. Slow. Wary. Already regretting what he’d said, but too stubborn and too wounded to take it back.

“Rip—”

“No.” Her voice cracked, but she held her ground. “You wanna make me your villain?” Her voice cracked. "Fine."

His fingers flexed, metal hand opening and closing. “Ripley, what am I supposed to do?” he asked, voice fraying. 

“Buck…” Her voice softened. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“You don’t need to try,” he said, quiet and blunt and devastating. “You've already done it."

Her breath caught. She stepped forward before she could stop herself. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. Close enough that her fingers almost brushed his arm.

He shook his head, swallowing hard. “Take it from someone who's been where you've been…it won't make you feel better. Killing Markov won't bring Flea back."

He reached for her arm. She stepped back. Not a run. Not an escape. A flinch. He let his hand fall. The tears she had been holding back had started to fall; she didn't know when. She didn't care; she swiped at them.

"I'm calling in some favors," her voice was low and tight. Ghost Lead. Not Ripley. "You'll have a security detail until this is done."

"I don't need it…"

"It's not optional." She lifted her gaze to his. "It's the only thing I can do to make sure you're safe."

“You wanna keep me safe?” He fired back hoarsely. “Then stay.” He kept his eyes locked on hers. “Stay.” He whispered. She tore her gaze away from him at the sound of her phone vibrating again. “Don’t pick it up.” 

She turned it toward him. Unknown Caller

He took it from her and swiped to accept the call on her phone. "Hello?" 

"Congressman Barnes, put Ripley on." 

Bucky's jaw tightened. "Valentina." 

"Now, Congressman, I have some pertinent information for her." Valentina's voice sounded bored. He put her on speakerphone. 

"I'm listening," Ripley said, her body taut. 

"A little birdie told me that Doctor Isolde Markov is visiting a friend in Morocco this week." 

Ripley's gaze jumped to Bucky's. He stood, arms crossed, his face looked as if it were carved out of stone. 

"Another little birdie," Valentina went on. "Also, let me know that your teammates have just landed in New Jersey." 

"What do you want?" Ripley asked finally. 

"Quid pro quo, Ripley. I scratch your back, you scratch mine." 

"I don't want your favors…" the woman spoke quietly. Bucky's hand tightened around his bicep. 

"Join Special Activities, and I will personally deliver Markov with a ribbon around her," Valentina said sweetly. "You want revenge, I need a team that knows what they're doing."

Ripley stared at the countertop, her brows furrowed. "I need time to think." 

"Think away, but your buddies are being followed…pretty sloppily, I might add." 

Ripley growled and walked away from the phone, then back to it, her face a storm of barely concealed rage. "Nothing illegal?"

"Everything by the book." 

"Fine."

"Ripley," Bucky warned. "Think about this." 

"I have," she said quietly. "Get the tail off my team, Miss. De Fontaine," Ripley warned softly. 

"You're gonna make a fantastic asset to Special Activities," Valentina said, her smile audible. "My new little Belgian Malinois. Consider the tail gone. Talk soon, kisses." The line clicked dead. 

Bucky stared at Ripley for a long moment. "I hope you know what you're doin', Rip." 

She offered him a weak smile. "So do I." 

He hesitated, extended his hand toward her. "I'm sorry," he whispered. She stared at his hand and slowly placed her hand in it. 

"I'm sorry, too, Buck." She moved into his arms, closing her eyes. She rubbed her cheek against his bare chest. 

"I'm not givin' up," he murmured against her hair. "Not on us." 

She swallowed hard, the tears falling again quietly landing on his skin. "I can't promise I'll stop at Markov." 

Bucky frowned, but nodded. "I know." He pressed his nose into her hair. "Don't prove me right." He warned her. "I won't ever let you live it down." 

She huffed out a laugh. "You ever been to Morocco?" 

Bucky pulled back a little bit to see if she was being serious. "No…"

"Might wanna tell your handler you'll be out of the country." 

"Rip…"

She offered a weak smile. "You have the choice." 

Bucky nodded, brushed his knuckles across her cheekbone. "I choose you." 

"Even though you don't agree?"

“Get up, Rip.” The low voice rumbled in the chest pressed against her back, warm and gravel-edged with sleep. She made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a curse. “C’mon,” he tried again, his arm slung heavy around her waist. “We gotta get on the road.”

“Yup. Okay,” she said, with the conviction of a woman fully committed to not moving. She burrowed deeper under the covers, inching lower—slow, smooth—and dragged half the blanket with her, body gliding down the length of his. Bucky’s breath hitched. Her head was now level with his chest. Her ass pressed squarely into the rigid length of him. 

He pressed a palm flat to her back, firm, nudged. “Ripley.”

“What?” she mumbled, unapologetic as she rolled over, pressing her face into his bare chest.

“You know exactly what.”

A lazy smile ghosted across her lips against his sternum. “Wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of your… vulnerable morning state, sweetheart.”

His eyes dropped shut. “Jesus Christ.” His fists clenched. Her hips shifted, slowly, a long, smooth leg sliding over his leg. Deliberately. He exhaled hard through his nose, jaw clenched. “You’re playing with fire, doll.” She hummed, like she hadn’t heard him at all. “Don’t start something you’re not ready to finish,” he added, voice tight.

Ripley stretched against him, arching back, catlike and smug. “You gonna punish me, Barnes?”

He went still. One beat. Two. Finally, through gritted teeth. “Get. Up.” 

Ripley heaved a dramatic sigh, but flipped the blankets back, and rose, the baggy tee shirt she wore barely grazing mid-thigh. She looked down at him with those sultry brown eyes that seemed to be just from sleep. "Good morning." 

Bucky licked his lips, sighed through his nose. "We leave in forty minutes."

"I can make it in twenty." She walked toward the bathroom, shedding the tee shirt, stark naked as she shut the door behind her. 

"I said take it slow," Bucky told himself as the water turned on. "I'm taking it slow. this is slow—this is…killing me." He ran a palm over his face and got out of bed, tossing his suitcase onto it to begin packing. Alpine trotted in, her purple toy mouse clamped in her teeth, and jumped onto the bed, dropping the mouse into his suitcase. "Your toy can go with us." He told her affectionately, giving her downy head a rub. 

Bucky folded a Henley and added it to the neat stack already in his bag. Alpine butted her head against his forearm like she had opinions about his packing technique.

“I know,” he muttered. “I should bring the black one, not the navy. You’re just like her, you know that?”

Alpine meowed. Definitively.

“She’s got you trained, too,” he said, grinning as he zipped the mesh pocket shut. The little purple mouse was still tucked near the top.

The water shut off down the hall. Bucky went still for a second, hands braced on the bed, his eyes falling shut. He could picture her in there, steam curling around her, towel barely wrapped around her, skin flushed from the heat. 

He pushed off the mattress with a sigh that could’ve doubled as a prayer, snatched up his phone, and left the room before he embarrassed himself in front of the cat. 

She packed all her makeup and hair products, then stood for a moment in the towel in the bedroom, staring around as if an outfit for the gala would magically leap out. "I can always buy something in New York." She told Alpine. She dragged her own suitcase and her packing cubes and began tossing outfits onto the bed. She didn't even know how long to pack for—no, she did. She put her foot down with herself; she would go for the weekend. Four days. 

She got dressed, leggings, a hoodie—travel cozy. "Good enough." She muttered to the cat and herself. She went downstairs, bag in tow, sending it rolling into the kitchen on its own while she went into her closet for the SIG. 

"Really?" Bucky asked from the kitchen, a to-go cup of coffee in hand. "I don't think you'll need that." 

"It's part of my outfit," she replied dryly, and reached into the fridge for a pre-made protein shake. 

"No, eat real food." Bucky offered her a protein bar. 

She wrinkled her nose at him, gestured with her shake. "This is food."

"Baby…no," Bucky shook his head, the endearment slipping out. "We'll get real food on the road."

"You're the one who woke me up at the ass crack of dawn…" She scowled at him, adding her baseball cap and a jacket to her pile. 

"It's a six-hour drive." He reminded her patiently. She glared. "All I'm sayin' is you get pissy when you get hungry…" 

She stared at him for a long moment before turning away to finish gathering her belongings. Her silence was an indication that he was right, and Bucky took a hint of pride in that.

The Bronco rumbled beneath them, cruising north up I-95 under a sky that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be cloudy or clear. The sun broke through in long, slanted shafts, lighting the wet pavement like gold foil, but neither of them commented on it.

Bucky’s hand rested on the wheel, easy but alert, thumb tapping lightly in rhythm with the lo-fi playlist playing low through the speakers. No lyrics, just soft percussion and mellow guitar. Ripley sat in the passenger seat, sunglasses on despite the shifting sun, sipping what was either her second or third gas-station iced tea. 

They’d been on the road nearly two hours before either of them said much.

“You gonna nap or just stare a hole in the glove box?” Bucky asked finally, his voice smooth and quiet, but laced with amusement.

Ripley tipped her head toward him without removing the glasses. “Would you rather I sleep or stay awake and be a second set of eyes?”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “Sweetheart, you snore like a dying chainsaw. But I’d still take that over you trying to win a silent war with the dashboard.”

She gave a half-smile. “I don’t snore.”

He glanced at her. “You absolutely do.”

She didn’t argue again, just took another sip of tea and settled her head against the window.

They passed signs for Philly. Then Trenton. Ripley dozed off somewhere between them. Quiet, chin tucked to the side, arms folded like a bouncer on break. Bucky caught himself looking too long at her legs stretched out as far as they could go. His eyes flicked back to the road.

By the time they hit the Holland Tunnel, she was awake again, reapplying lip balm in the visor mirror and trying not to look anxious.

“You okay?” Bucky asked, flicking the turn signal.

“Yeah.” She didn’t sound convincing. “I just hate tunnels.”

Bucky glanced sideways at her, reading the tension in her jaw. He reached over and brushed the back of his fingers lightly across her knee. “Almost through, baby. You’re alright.”

She didn’t answer. But her hand found his on the console between them a minute later, fingers brushing, lingering. She didn’t grip it. Didn’t make it a thing. But the contact was there.

The city swallowed them whole in a blink, horns, brakes, the shuffle of pedestrians, and too many yellow cabs. It was louder than she remembered. Faster. Bucky navigated like it was muscle memory, guiding the Bronco through downtown like he’d never left it.

He parked a few minutes later, pulling into the spot in front of his brownstone like it had been waiting for them. He killed the engine. They didn’t move for a second.

Ripley unbuckled first and looked over at him. “We made it.”

“We did.”

She opened the door, stepping out into the cold air and stretching her arms high over her head. Bucky grabbed their bags from the back, tossing her the lighter one before slamming the tailgate shut. Ripley grabbed the cat carrier, Alpine yowling pitifully. They climbed the steps in silence. Close, but not touching. Not yet.

Inside, the apartment was warm, clean, quiet, and still holding onto that faint scent of him. Bucky tossed his keys onto the table by the door. He brought the bags to the bedroom, Ripley set the cat free, and then stood in the middle of the living room for a moment, staring out the window at the street below. “So,” she said. “You ready for this gala bullshit?”

Bucky came up behind her, voice soft at her ear. “I’m more ready with you here.” He didn't touch her, but she knew if she leaned back even just a little, he was right there. "I've never brought anyone to them before…it'll be nice to have someone I know." 

She turned to face him, her eyes catching his in the soft light coming through the window. The street noise below barely filtered in. It felt like the whole apartment had paused, waiting for something.

“I promise not to embarrass you too much,” she said, dry as ever. But her voice had gone soft at the edges, like it wasn’t really a joke. Like she was worried that it would happen. 

Bucky looked down at her, just for a second. Just long enough to memorize the way her mouth tugged into that crooked, almost-smile, the one that used to mean trouble, or a dare, or something deeper she didn’t know how to say.

“You never do,” he said quietly.

They stood like that, close, but not touching. One wrong move and they’d fall into each other again. One word, one glance too long.

Ripley let out a breath, one hand brushing her hair behind her ear, suddenly unsure of what to do with it. “So where am I sleeping?” she asked, a little too casually.

Bucky’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Wherever you want, doll.”

Her brow arched, eyes narrowing. “Dangerous answer.”

“Only if you’re scared of the consequences.”

She huffed a laugh. “I’m not.”

He stepped around her before he did something stupid, like close the inch between them. “No sense changing the arrangement we've had going…you'll sleep next to me, same as always,” he said over his shoulder. “And there are takeout menus in the kitchen drawer if you’re hungry.”

She watched him walk away, jaw tight, hands fisted in the sleeves of her hoodie. She wasn’t hungry. Not for food, anyway. 

Brooklyn was cold in that mid-January way that soaked into his bones. He walked two blocks before he realized he hadn’t even picked a direction; he was just moving for the sake of moving. Just trying to bleed off the tension sitting heavy in his chest.

Everywhere he looked, couples. Holding hands, ducking into cafes, laughing. God, was he that fucking cliché now?

It hit him at the corner florist. He doubled back, hand already digging into his jacket pocket for his card. The bell above the door jingled. He stared at the lines of flowers. 

"Do you need help?" The woman behind the counter smiled at him, her gaze curious. He imagined he must've looked frazzled. "Mother, sister, wife?"

"Uhhh," Bucky stared like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Girlfriend? Date?" 

"Yeah….yeah."

"Okay, um, what does she like?" The woman rounded the counter, matronly in her sympathetic gaze. "What is she like?"

"Stubborn," the word left his mouth before he could stop it. The woman laughed a little. "She's strong, gorgeous, funny," Bucky stared off a little as he spoke. "Badass. She's not simple…not basic…" 

The florist was quiet at first, watching him with a practiced kind of patience, until she gently reached for a few stems. “This one,” she said, holding up a sprig of thistle, “is for protection. But it also means resilience. Good for the kind of woman who shows up swinging.”

Bucky swallowed. Nodded once.

“And eucalyptus,” she added, tucking it in next, “is for healing. Soothing. For when you don’t know how to say ‘I hope you find some rest.’” She paused, eyes flicking up to his face. “Am I close?”

He huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.

“And roses,” she murmured, choosing the darkest wine-colored ones, almost black in the center. “Not red — not classic. These are for passion, but not the easy kind. These are complicated.” He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The florist smiled, soft and knowing. “I’ll add a little something wild. She sounds like the kind of woman who doesn’t like to be boxed in.”

He nodded, one hand still shoved deep in his jacket pocket like he was holding himself together by the seams. She wrapped the bouquet in soft brown paper and tied it off with a dark satin ribbon, and added a vase.

“I hope she knows what she’s got,” the florist said gently, offering it to him.

“She doesn’t,” Bucky said quietly, taking it from her hands. “But I’m trying to show her.”

“It’s a good start, son,” the florist replied with a knowing little smile. “I hope to see you back… women like the one you’re describing….they need softness in their lives. Even if they don’t ask for it.”

He nodded once, slipped her his card, and muttered a quiet thanks. 

Fifteen minutes later, he was standing outside his own apartment door, flowers clutched like contraband, heart thudding like he’d just walked off a battlefield. He took a breath, another, and opened the door.

The soft shuffle of movement met him. Ripley’s head lifted from where she’d been curled on the arm of the couch, hoodie swallowing her whole, one leg bent under her. Her expression was sharp for a split second, muscle memory, then eased when she saw it was just him.

Her eyes dropped to the bouquet in his hands.

“You rob a wedding on the way home?” she asked dryly, though her voice caught somewhere in the middle, like it wasn’t entirely sarcastic.

He stepped inside, gently nudging the door shut behind him with his boot. “No. Just stopped at a florist.”

“For…?” She rose from the couch, crossing to him. 

“You.” He held the bouquet out like it might explode. 

Ripley took them from him, careful not to crush the petals, and set the bouquet on the counter like it was something sacred. She turned, no warning, no smirk, no guard, and wrapped her arms around him.

Bucky froze for half a beat before his hands came up, tentative, then firm around her. He could count on one hand the number of times she had ever initiated contact like that. Her face tucked into his shoulder, warm breath hitting his neck. She held on like she meant it. Like she needed it.

And just for a second, she hated that. Hated how easy it was to fold into him, how natural it felt to be there. Her brain, it screamed too soft, too much, because she knew better. Softness got people killed. Got people burned.

But his arms were around her like a shield, not a trap. And he wasn’t asking for anything.

His arms tightened. One hand found the small of her back, the other slid up into her hair.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she mumbled into his shirt.

“Yeah, I did,” he said quietly, mouth brushing her temple. "You deserve it, Rip."

She exhaled against him, and it damn near buckled his knees. He pulled back just enough to see her face,but not enough to let her go. Her eyes met his, unreadable, wide and dark and a little stormy. Her hands fisted lightly in his shirt.

“Bucky…” she started, voice caught somewhere between a warning and a confession.

“Yeah,” he said, eyes flicking down to her mouth for one devastating second. “I know.”

And for a moment, just a moment, neither of them moved. She leaned her forehead against his collarbone, tucking beneath his chin. "You're too nice for me." 

Bucky huffed out a laugh. "Bringing a woman flowers after a date isn't 'too nice,' Ripley." He paused, trying to find the words. "It's what you do when it matters, and you wanna do it again." 

"It is in my world," she muttered. 

"Next time I'll bring you a box of ammo," he promised lowly. "Get those flowers into the vase." He kissed the top of her head and stepped away from her before he chose to do more. She nodded, not meeting his gaze as she took care of the flowers. He studied her for a long moment. The desire to ask, to know more, was there. They had known each other for—Bucky's eyes widened with realization—a year. 

"What is that face?" Ripley asked him. She had turned toward him, somewhere between his revelation and 'oh shit. 

"What face? There's no face." Bucky shook his head, making a face. 

"There was a face," She narrowed her eyes at him. 

"Sweetheart," Bucky grinned at her. "There was no face." 

"That's called gaslighting," she said, airily brushing past him. "And it's part of narcissistic behavior." 

He watched her go into the bedroom, with a cocked head, an affectionate smile playing on his lips. She was going to be fun to spoil. 

Ripley didn’t do spas.

She did field kits. She did five-minute showers in sand-choked bathrooms. She did bruised knuckles and split lips and another goddamn scar. What she didn’t do was cucumber water and lavender oil, and women in matching scrubs saying things like “square or almond?” as if it mattered.

But here she was. In a robe. In a chair. Submitting her hands, those tools of violence and precision, to a very patient nail tech with perfect eyeliner.

“Square or almond?” the woman asked again gently.

Ripley blinked stupidly. “Uh. Functional?”

The woman just smiled. “We’ll go with squaoval.”

The massage wasn’t better. She lay face down on a heated table while someone with unsettlingly strong thumbs attempted to break up what he politely referred to as “resistance.” Cute word for years of tension layered between scar tissue and muscle.

“You hold a lot of tension in your glutes,” he noted, matter-of-fact. "Shoulders and neck, too." 

“Yeah,” Ripley muttered into the face cradle. “You don't say.”

He laughed. She didn’t. But of all the torture she went through that day, the massage was the best form of it. 

A stylist smoothed her damp hair back into something that would eventually be pinned up, murmuring something about cheekbones and volume. Ripley didn’t catch most of it, she was busy trying not to flinch under the softness. Under the kindness.

Later, standing in front of a full-length mirror in the boutique’s softly lit dressing room, Ripley stared at herself in the black strapless gown. It hugged every curve, the lines clean and unapologetic. She ran a hand slowly down her hip, slowly, reverently.

Don’t you dare cry over a dress just because you feel pretty. 

She thought to herself. 

Back at the apartment, the quiet was almost jarring. Alpine trotted up to greet her, tail high, tiny paws thudding softly against the wood floor. The dress was carefully slung in its garment bag over one shoulder, her nails a neutral, glossy beige, her hair swept up with elegant precision.

She didn’t feel like herself.

She felt… something else. Like maybe she was allowed to be soft. For one night. In this armor shaped like beauty. She didn’t know how to sit with that. She dug into the fridge, rattling around bottles as she searched for a beer. 

"How was the spa?" Bucky asked from the doorway of the bedroom, fixing the cuff on his shirt. She turned the bottle of beer halfway to her lips. 

Her eyes dragged over him, slow, stunned. Bucky stood there in a crisp white shirt, black bow tie, hair swept back in that loose, easy way that always made her suspicious of how little effort it took him to look that good. His cufflinks gleamed. So did his eyes. He was watching her watch him.

Ripley blinked. Tried again. Failed. Her lips parted, beer forgotten in her hand. “…The spa was fine.”

Bucky’s mouth curved into a smile so smug and slow it was practically criminal. “You good?”

“No,” she answered honestly. She gestured at him with her hand. "This is…this is…nice, it's good." 

He stepped into the kitchen, closing the distance like it was nothing. “What is?”

“That.” She waved the bottle at him like a weapon, gesturing vaguely to all of him. “You. In that.”

“You like it?” he asked, playful now, chin dipping slightly to look down at her. 

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re fishing for compliments.”

“And you haven’t given me one yet.”

Ripley crossed her arms. “I said it was good." 

Bucky chuckled, reached around her to get a beer from the fridge, cracking the bottle open and taking a sip. He lingered close, just long enough to make it clear he knew exactly what he was doing to her blood pressure. “I’ll be ready in ten. You need help with your dress?”

“No.” She turned toward the hallway, grabbed the garment bag, and headed down it. “But if I start screaming, it’s because the zipper betrayed me.”

“I’ll come running,” he said, still grinning. 

Ripley flipped him off over her shoulder, but the edges of her mouth betrayed her. There was something soft clawing up inside her chest, and it scared the hell out of her. She didn't scream for help, but she did sheepishly back out of the bedroom, half zipped into her dress. "Bucky."

"I got you," he didn't miss a beat, and crossed to her, tugging the zipper up, his fingers hovered for a moment before tracing a three-inch scar between her shoulder blades. "That's a new one." He murmured. 

She handed him a necklace to attach. "There are a few new ones since the last time we…" 

“Yeah.” His grunt was low, not angry, just tight with things he didn’t say. He worked the clasp carefully, swearing under his breath about how small the damn thing was, and when he finally got it, Ripley turned to face him.

The words died in his throat.

His lips parted like he was going to say something smart, or funny, or easy, but all that came out was breath. His gaze traveled from her collarbone down, slow and respectful, taking in the way the fabric hugged her frame, the curve of her neck, the flicker of nerves in her eyes.

“You look—” his voice caught. He cleared it. Tried again. “You look gorgeous.”

Not pretty. Not good. Not hot. Gorgeous. Like a storm rolling in across open ground. Like something ancient and powerful and not meant for his hands.

Ripley snorted softly, a knee-jerk deflection. “Yeah, okay.”

“I mean it,” he said, more serious now. “Don't get me wrong,” he gave her a lopsided smile. "I've seen you bloodied and bruised, and you look gorgeous then too, but this…" 

She paused something in her stuttering, like maybe she wanted to cry. Instead, she smiled, wide and wicked. “You'd better hope I don’t make you late, Barnes.”

He gave her that slow, smirking once-over again. “I’ve never minded being late for the right reasons.” He shrugged on his jacket. "Limos waiting."

"A limo?"

"Congress." He said wryly and held the door open for her.

The gala sparkled.

That was the only word for it. Light bounced off crystal and glass, laughter chiming like wind through silver chimes. It was the kind of glittering, high-society event that Ripley normally avoided like landmines. But here she was. Wrapped in silk and stepping into a room full of cameras, secrets, and expensive cologne.

She stuck close to Bucky’s side, not quite touching but tethered all the same. He felt it. So did everyone else. Her brown eyes swept the space, calculating. Security detail was easy to clock, earpieces, stiff postures, eyes scanning, not unlike hers.

She caught Bucky watching her with a little smirk as he shrugged out of his coat and passed hers to the attendant. Her clutch landed neatly in his hand. Without missing a beat, he slipped the coat ticket inside and handed it back to her.

“Can you stop eyeballing the security like you’re planning a heist?” he murmured near her ear, voice low and teasing. “Fix your face.”

She wrinkled her nose in exaggerated effort. “How’s that?”

“Better,” he said, lips twitching.

“Wouldn’t wanna disappoint Congressman Barnes,” she whispered back, her smirk sharpening.

“You never disappoint me, Rip—” Bucky’s smile widened with practiced ease, his posture shifting. “Senator Howe!” His hand found the small of her back and, just like that, they stepped into the lion’s den. 

Ripley sipped her champagne as she moved around the outskirts of the crowd. The clink of glass and silver, the swell of classical music, the practiced laughter, it was all so loud. Even the hush between conversations had weight. She scanned the room with casual disinterest, catching every glance that didn’t think it was being watched. Congressmen, CEOs, military brass, legacy families, and their photogenic wives. Predators, all of them. Polished to a shine.

But her gaze always found Bucky.

He moved through the room like he belonged there, and didn’t. That was the thing. He smiled when he was supposed to. Shook hands with the kind of grip that said yes, I could crush yours, but I won’t. He remembered names. Kissed cheeks. Thanked donors. Flattered. Dodged questions like a pro. 

It should’ve fit. But it didn’t.

Not really.

Not when she’d seen him drenched in sweat from a nightmare at three in the morning. Not when she’d watched him stitch her up without flinching. Not when she’d heard him growl her name like it was a prayer and a curse at once. That man, the real one, was steel and shadow and something earned.

This one? This was camouflage. Necessary. For whatever plan he had next. 

Senator Howe was laughing at something Bucky said now. Her ring caught the light like a diamond sniper scope. Ripley clocked the glances the older woman gave him, not quite maternal. Not quite professional. Bucky played it off with charm that was nearly reflexive.

Ripley sipped her drink again and forced her expression into something neutral. Not territorial. Not bitter. Not whatever the hell she was actually feeling.

It wasn’t jealousy. Not exactly. It was the sharp ache of knowing he could survive in this world. Might even thrive. But it would always sand his edges down until nothing real was left.

He looked over his shoulder and caught her eyes, just for a second. That was all she needed. That half-smile was a little crooked. The tiniest raise of one brow. It said I see you. It said don’t go far. It said help.

And then he was pulled away again, handshakes and empty promises.

Ripley turned back to the crowd, eyes narrowing. If she had to stand here and play dress-up, she could at least make herself useful. People talked when they drank. They talked louder when they thought a woman wasn’t listening. And Ripley was very good at not being seen until she wanted to be.

She grabbed another flute of champagne, moving past different clusters. A senator's mistress was pregnant. Someone was changing their minds on a vote. Boring. She was about to head back toward Bucky when a soft voice spoke from behind her by the ungodly giant plant. 

"So," Claire moved forward, stunning in emerald green. "You're who the congressman has been hiding." 

Ripley looked her over, one sweep that took in every detail. She sipped her champagne, hoping the bubbles would take away the bitterness on her tongue. "And you are?"

"Congressman Barnes' aide, and," Claire shrugged a pale, perfectly sculpted shoulder. "Whatever he needs at the moment." 

Ripley's brows rose a little, and she drank again, sighing into her glass. "I'm sure he appreciates your services." She said it dryly, the innuendo heavy.

Claire ran her gaze over Ripley, mouth twitching with something between a smirk and a sneer. “Are you just visiting? He’s very busy…”

Ripley tilted her head, slow and curious. “Is that your polite way of telling me to stay in my lane?”

Claire gave a small, humorless laugh. “I’m just saying politics is…delicate. And James has a lot on his plate. People depend on him. His position is fragile….carefully crafted." 

“Funny,” Ripley said, swirling her champagne, her tone even. “He doesn’t seem all that fragile to me.”

Claire blinked, just once, but it was enough. Ripley smiled, sharp-edged and not the least bit apologetic. “Look,” Claire said, voice softening to something vaguely condescending, “you’re obviously… passionate. But this world? His world? It eats people alive.”

Ripley’s smile widened, baring teeth now. “That supposed to scare me away?”

“I’m just saying,” Claire murmured, stepping closer. “I’ve seen a lot of women come and go in this type of setting.” Her green eyes tracked over Ripley's dress, the visible scars, and wrinkled her pert nose. "You don't fit in here." She said simply. "You have nothing to offer." 

Ripley’s eyes glinted like broken glass. “Then you should know I’m not like a lot of women, I think your college degree should have had some common sense handed out with it.” Claire’s smile faltered, just slightly. Ripley leaned in, voice dropping to a purr. “You work for him, he pays you. I’ve bled for him, and he's bled for me. Know the difference.”

She drained the last of her champagne and placed the empty flute on a passing tray without looking away.

Claire straightened, but the confidence in her posture had lost some of its vigor. “He's moved on from that life," she sidled in front of Ripley, her gaze landing on Bucky, openly admiring. "He doesn't need people like you anymore. He needs someone like me."

“Oh, sweetheart,” Ripley murmured, shifting to stand hipshot. “People like you are the reason people like me exist in this world." 

She angled her eyes down the perfect Pilates body. She felt like a fucking ogre. "You stay inside your pretty little bubble and pretend that bad doesn't exist," Ripley said lowly. "But that's okay, because when the wolves come howling at the door, people like me—people like Bucky—we're the ones who are ready." 

She disappeared into the crowd without waiting for an answer, her hips swaying with deliberate grace, head held high.

Across the room, Bucky looked up, eyes scanning until he found her. She didn’t smile. His gaze flicked to where Claire downed a flute of champagne in one swallow. His mouth tightened. 

The cold air hit her like a reset button.

Ripley stepped onto the marble balcony, the chatter behind her muffled by the thick doors, the stars smeared above the city like frost on glass. She braced her hands on the stone railing, chest tight, the champagne buzz fading fast. Her pulse thudded a little too hard in her ears.

It wasn’t Claire. Not really. Ripley had dealt with sharper claws, more venomous words.

It was what Claire represented. That truth Ripley didn’t want to look at head-on, that she might be the outlier. The misstep. A complication to be managed quietly and politely, until it made more sense to let her go. Because he could belong to this world. Not comfortably. Not permanently. But enough to survive it. Enough to be wanted by people who fit the mold.

She didn’t.

The door creaked open behind her. The soft click of it shutting. Bucky didn’t say anything right away. Just stood behind her, the air stretching between them like a held breath. The soft breeze carried his cologne to her. The only reason she hadn't been poised for a fight. 

“You okay?” he asked finally.

Ripley stared out over the city. “Fine.” She hated the city. 

He moved closer, slow like she might spook. His voice was lower now, gentler. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” she said. Too fast. She hated the way her throat felt tight. “Just needed air.”

“Claire said something.”

Ripley didn’t answer. Her silence was answer enough.

“She overstepped,” he said flatly. “I’ll talk to her.”

“No, you won’t.” Her voice came out quieter than she wanted. “It’s fine.”

Bucky stepped up beside her, shoulder brushing hers. “It’s not.”

Ripley pressed her fingers to the railing. “You can handle her. Handle all of them. You fit here. She would fit better with you.”

He turned to face her, brows drawn. “No, Rip—”

She looked at him then, sharp-edged again but not cruel. Just guarded. “You’re good at it. You belong here with them.”

“I belong with you,” he said, steady. No hesitation.

Something in her stuttered. Then cracked.

“I don’t want to be a thing you outgrow,” she said finally, voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s expression broke open like she’d just punched him square in the chest. “Jesus, Ripley.”

“I’m serious," she said with a little huff of bitter laughter. 

“So am I.” He stepped in, closing the distance, voice tight with something that almost sounded like hurt. “You really think I’d let you walk into a room like this, then wonder if you’re enough?”

Her jaw clenched. “Don’t—”

“No,” he said, firmer now. “You don’t get to do that. Not with me. I’ve spent months wishing I’d fought harder for you. Don’t you dare stand here and act like I wouldn’t trade every handshake and headline in there just to wake up next to you and have it mean something.”

She blinked fast. Looked away.

“I know I’ve been dragging my feet since you came back,” he said, voice low and thick now. “But it’s not because I don’t want this. It’s because I do. And it scares the shit out of me.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t trust herself to. He reached out, slow, cupped her face with both hands, tilting her chin up just enough to see her eyes. “You’re not something I survive, Ripley. You’re the reason I want to live—”

She surged forward, kissed him hard, mouth fierce and aching. His hands slid into her hair, steadying, anchoring. It was like a dam that had been cracked open. His tongue slid into her mouth, her hands slid under his tuxedo jacket, seeking the warmth, the hardness of him. 

It was messy. Desperate. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white as they dragged him closer. Bucky kissed her like he’d spent months starving for it, because he had. Like she was the only thing in the goddamn world that made sense, because she was.

She broke away first, panting, forehead pressed to his. “We shouldn’t—”

“I don’t care.” His voice was hoarse, almost a growl. “I’ve been careful. Slow. Thoughtful. And I’m done.”

She let out a sound that was part gasp, part laugh, raw, shaken. “We’re in public.”

“No one can see us.” His hands skimmed her ribs, then gripped her waist like he couldn’t decide whether to haul her closer or fall to his knees. “Rip,” he warned, “I’m hanging on by a thread.”

"Fuck, don't I know it," she muttered. 

They didn’t care about the music swelling behind the ballroom doors. Or the sound of someone laughing, too loud and far away. The whole world had narrowed down to breath and heat and the thrum of something inevitable.

She searched his face, eyes dark, cheeks flushed, hair mussed from her hands. He looked a little wild. A little wrecked. Hers. She smoothed his hair back into place, wiped his lips with her thumb where her lip gloss had transferred. 

"I'm going back inside,” she murmured, throat thick. “You give us one more minute out here, and I swear we’ll be on every security camera in the building.”

He didn’t argue. He just watched her, eyes roving her face like a map he never wanted to stop reading.

As she turned to go, he caught her wrist, just for a beat. “This isn't over,” he said, lower now. "This isn't gonna just stop, Rip."

"Are you prepared for that?" She asked him quietly. He pulled her back to him. "Are you prepared for what it entails? The trust, openness—"

"Are you?"

"No," she answered honestly. "But…" 

"Congressman Barnes…." Claire stood framed by the golden light of the ballroom behind her. 

"Of fucking course," Ripley muttered, and drew away from Bucky. "Think on it." She told him softly, and prided herself on not throwing her shoulder into Claire as she passed the woman. 

Claire's gaze flicked to Bucky. "Sorry to interrupt…"

"No, you're not," Bucky said, walking toward her.

She didn’t move out of the way. “Senator Valez wanted to speak with you,” she said smoothly, stepping aside just enough to keep her presence unavoidable. “It’s about the veterans initiative.”

Bucky nodded once, already brushing past, until Claire laid a hand on his chest. He flinched back as if she’d burned him.

"Are you okay?" she asked, voice pitched softer now. Concerned. Practiced.

He looked down at her hand, then up into her eyes. His jaw ticked. Something in his expression sharpened, flattened. "I'm fine," he said finally, the words shaped into a smile that didn’t even pretend to touch his eyes.

Claire blinked, withdrawing her hand. "Do you want me to go find your date?”

Bucky stepped in closer, just enough to make her freeze. His voice dropped low, quiet, cold, deliberate. “I want you,” he said, “to stay the fuck away from her, Claire.”

No raised voice. No heat. Just ice, controlled and cutting. Her mouth parted slightly, shock flickering behind her eyes. But Bucky didn’t give her time to recover. He turned and walked away, already pulling out his phone as he made a beeline toward the senator.

And Claire, for once, had nothing to say.

"Double tequila and soda, with lime," Ripley ordered the drink with an almost bored tone. She dropped cash in the tip jar, thanked God for an open bar. Ripley sipped her tequila soda, ice clinking softly against the glass. The woman beside her, blue streaks in dark hair, draped in elegance and something sharper, gave her a lazy smile.

"Here with someone?" the woman asked, sliding one stool closer. “Date? Plus one? Spouse?”

Ripley didn’t look at her right away. She tilted her glass, took a slow sip, let the pause hang just long enough to be dismissive. “Date,” she said finally.

The woman’s smile widened, catlike. “Congressman Barnes?”

Ripley’s only answer was silence, and that made the woman laugh, a rich, polished sound. “Relax,” she said, amused. “I’m not a reporter. Though the two of you do share the whole ‘person of few words and tightly coiled secrets’ thing.” She extended a jeweled hand. “Contessa Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.”

Ripley turned her head just enough to meet the woman’s eyes. Shook the offered hand briefly, cool, professional. “Ripley.” 

“No last name?” the Contessa teased, sipping her drink.

Ripley smiled, all teeth and grace. “You didn’t ask.”

The Contessa’s eyes gleamed, catlike and calculating. “I like you. I can see why he keeps you close."

Ripley didn’t smile this time. “And you? The Director of the CIA at a charity gala?”

“Well, you do know more than you let on,” Val said, lifting her glass, “I may have seen the guest list. A few names caught my eye.” Her gaze flicked over Ripley’s dress, the practiced kind that could catalog threats and vulnerabilities in a heartbeat. “This look is very femme fatale,” she added lightly. “Tell me, do you miss Sablepoint?”

Ripley’s glass paused halfway to her mouth. “That’s a hell of a name to drop in polite company.”

Valentina smiled like a cat who just heard a mouse squeak. “Polite company’s overrated.” She paused. "Or do I have the wrong Ripley Evelyn Todd? The team leader for Omega under Sablepoint, which is now obviously null and void…"

Ripley’s eyes narrowed. "I don’t recall my file being made public.”

“It’s not,” Val said, casually swirling her drink. “But I collect stories. And yours? Yours reads like a ghost story with teeth.”

Ripley tilted her head, cool again. “Is the CIA still curious about Omega?" 

“Not officially. Off the record, maybe. Something flexible. Off-books. No oversight, high stakes. Just the way you used to like it. My own pet project, OXE. Or Special Activities…”

“And if I say no?”

Val shrugged. “Then you stay here. Drink champagne. Let them dress you up and call you a plus-one. But someone like you? Sooner or later, you’ll want to be dangerous again. When that time comes, I’d like to be your first call.”

Ripley drained the rest of her drink. “If that time comes,” she said coolly, “I’ll already be where you can’t find me.”

Val smiled again, like she loved the challenge. Like Ripley had just made herself even more interesting. “Good girl,” she said, voice like velvet over broken glass. “But remember, if you ever get tired of playing watchdog for the congressman, I’ll have work that actually suits you. On or off the books. Maybe a little you rub my back, and I'll get you the names of the people who killed your teammate…" Ripley's head jerked toward Val. "You can expect my call….” Valentina smiled, all teeth, turned, heels clicking against marble, her silhouette vanishing into the crowd.

Ripley didn’t watch her go. She just reached for another drink and tried not to wonder how long Valentina had been watching and what else she knew.

Bucky shifted automatically as he felt her presence behind him, his hand automatically going to the small of her back as Ripley joined the small circle. He took a glance at her face, frowned a little as her brown eyes tracked a woman across the dance floor. 

"And who is this stunning gal?" Senator Valez extended his tanned hand toward Ripley. Bucky froze as he waited for a brush off, but relaxed when she slid her hand into the senator's, her lips curving to smile warmly when his mouth brushed her knuckles.

"Senator this is my date, Ripley Todd, who," Bucky said with a little nudge at her back. "Could speak best to your question, I think, being a decorated veteran herself." 

Ripley made a soft warning noise in her throat and accepted the flute of champagne the senator snagged off a tray and handed it to her. "Whatever the senator needs," Ripley said sweetly. 

"I was asking Congressman Barnes," Valez began, letting his dark gaze trace over her body, as if she were a mare at auction. "How soldiers fit back into society after everything they see and do. There seems to be an uptick in veteran suicide…" 

Ripley's muscles flexed beneath Bucky's hand, and he immediately regretted offering her opinion. He leaned closer to her, but she shifted forward, brows drawn lower.“They spend all their time training us to lose ourselves,” Ripley said, her voice low but razor sharp. “To become useful. Train us not to feel. Trained to kill. Trained to always put the mission first. Because we're the one percent, right, Senator?”

Valez nodded like he’d read the stat on a brochure, brows furrowed a little. “Only one percent of the nation serves.”

She smiled, cold and tired. “You know what they don’t train you for? How to come back. How to turn it off. How to unlearn being a weapon.” She took a sip of champagne, let the bubbles burn down her throat. “It’s like taking a working dog off the ranch and shoving it into a 300-square-foot apartment and wondering why it tears the walls down.”

The circle around them had gone quiet. Bucky didn’t move, his hand still resting at her lower back, tension in every line of him.

“They train us to run headfirst into fire,” Ripley continued, gaze pinning Valez like a butterfly to glass. “But no one teaches us how to live in peace. They don’t teach you how to sleep in silence without expecting the ceiling to fall in. They don’t teach you how to stop flinching when a car backfires. They sure as hell don’t teach you how to come back into polite society and work a corporate nine-to-five, Monday through Friday job when you were being shot at four weeks ago.”

Valez opened his mouth, then thought better of whatever thought he was about to share.

Ripley’s tone softened just enough to land like a punch. “You want to know how soldiers ‘fit’ into society? We don’t. We adapt. Because survival’s the one thing the military never stops teaching us. We took an oath of enlistment—that oath doesn't end just because we're not on a battlefield anymore…”

She lifted her glass in a small, deliberate toast. Her voice didn’t rise, didn’t need to. “Congressman Barnes is giving us something to adapt into. A place to land that doesn’t require us to bleed, break, or bury ourselves just to prove we still matter.”

The champagne flute caught the chandelier light like a blade.

“He’s building something that doesn’t ask us to die for our country again,” she said, gaze locked on Valez, “just to be a part of it.”

Valez studied her for a long moment, eyes lingering like he was trying to parse what kind of weapon she was. “Congressman,” he said finally, tone smoother than before, “might I steal your date for a dance?”

“That’s up to her, Senator,” Bucky said carefully. 

Ripley didn’t break eye contact with Bucky as she handed him her flute, an unspoken you owe me etched in the set of her jaw. Then she turned to Valez, her smile polite but void of warmth.

“He may,” she said simply, slipping her hand into the senator’s and letting him guide her onto the dance floor like it was a battlefield—and she already knew every exit.

“What state are you from?” she asked, conversational, as his hand settled at her waist.

“Arizona,” he replied with a practiced smile. “And you?”

“Massachusetts,” she said easily. Small talk. Harmless. She could do harmless. Her eyes flicked to his left hand. “No ring.”

“Sharp eyes,” he said, amused. “You either. Congressman Barnes hasn’t realized the kind of catch he’s got?”

She let him spin her, the move elegant and calculated, a smile curling her lips. “No need to rush,” Ripley murmured, letting him pull her back in. “Some things are better slow.”

Senator Valez chuckled, but she felt the shift, the subtle recalibration behind his gaze.

Good. She wanted him slightly off balance.

“We were surprised when he ran,” Valez continued smoothly. Bucky followed from a distance, quiet but ever-watchful, blue eyes trained on her like he was counting her heartbeats. “More surprised when he won.”

“I’ve felt that way about most politicians my whole life,” Ripley replied with a smile, sugar-dipped but sharp. “Present company excluded, of course.”

“Of course,” Valez echoed, his smile deepening as his eyes flicked to her lips, then back to meet her steady brown gaze. “What branch?”

“Army.” She held her poise as he dipped her dramatically, playing it up for the watching crowd, who gasped and applauded as if they’d paid for ringside seats.

Like a fucking circus act, Ripley thought coldly.

“How many tours?”

“Six.”

“Six deployments?” He arched a brow, pulling her in a little closer. “Was it worth it? Now that you’re out?”

She hesitated, but only a breath. The retort burned on her tongue, but she knew the game.“Yeah. I think it was. The ride was worth the fall,” she said, voice clear. “It was worth it to see my country stay safe. I’d do it again. A thousand times over.”

Valez studied her, nodded once. As the last notes of the music faded, he lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “The ride was worth the fall,” he echoed.

“Miles were worth the pain,” Ripley replied with a little quirk for her lips, “the pain was worth it all.”

He led her across the floor, handed her back to Bucky with a smile too warm to be entirely innocent. He placed her hand in Bucky’s metal one, clapping the man on the shoulder with the ease of a deal already sealed.

“Arizona,” he said quietly, “is voting yes on your proposal.” Then to Ripley, a kiss on her cheek. “Thanks for the dance,” he whispered and slipped away into the glittering crowd.

"But you rescued me from reachin' for the bottom.

And brought me back from being too far gone"

-Chris Stapleton The dining room at 1789 was all quiet elegance and soft shadows, tucked into a Federal-style townhouse that felt like it had secrets older than the city itself. Candlelight flickered in low sconces along cream-paneled walls, casting warm halos against oil paintings in gilded frames—past presidents, fox hunts, a Revolutionary War officer frozen mid-charge.

Dark mahogany chairs scraped politely against polished wood floors, muffled by thick, patterned rugs that dulled the echo of footsteps. Everything smelled faintly of oak, good wine, and butter—old money comfort dressed up as refinement.

White tablecloths stretched taut beneath sparkling crystal and silver, and the waitstaff moved like they’d been choreographed, blending into the ambiance. A piano played softly from a smaller parlor room nearby, jazz, maybe, but slowed down to a hush, just ambiance. Something low and timeless.

The windows were draped in heavy navy velvet, framing a view of cobblestone outside that blurred under the lamplight. It was the kind of place where no one rushed, and nothing felt cheap—not the wine, not the conversation, and definitely not the company you brought. 

Bucky glanced down at Ripley as they were led to their seats. The maitre d hadn't been quiet when he had said Congressman, and Ripley had stiffened beside him. "I wouldn't have said yes," Bucky murmured in her ear as they walked. "If I wasn't ready to deal with the outcome." His hand rested on her lower back, just above her hip, familiar and comforting. The waiter directed them to a table in the back corner, a cozy little half-booth. 

Ripley traced her brown eyes over his face, lingering momentarily on his lips before flicking back to his quietly amused blue gaze. "I guess the gala would've been more shocking than a dinner out in D.C."

"They'll be ready to get a story when the gala comes." 

"Great," she muttered, and smiled as the waiter approached asking about drinks. 

"I'll take an old fashioned please," Bucky studied Ripley across the flicker of flame. She smiled at him slow, as if waiting to see if he would remember her drink. "And a tequila, soda and lime for the lady, Don Julio if you have it." 

The waiter ducked away and Ripley leaned forward slightly. "What's my second drink of choice?" She asked with a little squint. Bucky cocked his head. "It's not a trick question, I don't think you know it." 

"If I had to guess," Bucky said leaning back a little, his fingers playing with the footed water glass. "Not wine, I know you'll drink that, but not when we're out…." He waited as the drinks were sat down until they were alone again. "Liquor?"

"Vodka." 

"Jesus," Bucky rolled his eyes a little, licking his lips in thought. "Martini…but knowing you and your love of salt," She nodded urging him to go on, that he was on the right track.. "Super dirty."

"Filthy," she agreed with a little smirk, taking a sip of her drink. 

Bucky’s mouth parted just slightly, not in surprise, more like reflex. Like her answer had triggered something in his bloodstream. He watched her swallow, watched her tongue catch the rim of the glass, and felt something primal stir low in his gut.

Jesus Christ.

She didn’t even know she was doing it.

Bucky looked away for a beat, cleared his throat, took a slow sip of his Old Fashioned—like it might cool the burn she’d just lit behind his ribs. “I’d say I missed that mouth,” he said finally, voice lower now, rough around the edges. “But that’d be a lie.”

Ripley raised a brow, cocking her head just enough to send her shorter hair skimming to one side. “Because you didn’t?” Her lips tugged into a little bitter smile.

Bucky cut his gaze to hers. “Because I never stopped thinking about it,” he said. “For one hundred and forty-three days, Rip.”

“Are we ready to order?” The waiter’s impeccable timing hit like a sniper shot. Bucky took a deep breath, sat back, and forced a polite smile that barely reached his eyes. 

Ripley didn’t speak. Not right away. She held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, her expression unreadable—something caught between memory and mourning. Finally, she looked down at the menu. The words blurring.

“I’ll have the filet, medium rare,” she said evenly, folding the menu closed without looking up. “And the gratin, please.”

Bucky cleared his throat again, just once. “Same for me.”

Menus exchanged hands, silverware adjusted, and the waiter disappeared with practiced grace. Ripley took a long sip from her drink, her red lips leaving a print on the glass that shouldn't have looked so good to him. "Say somethin', Rip." Bucky leaned forward, his fingers moving back to fiddling with the tines of his fork. 

"I've already apologized," she said softly, her gaze flicked to his. "What more do you want?" Bucky’s jaw tensed, his thumb brushing a phantom groove along the side of the fork.

“I don’t want an apology,” he said, just above a whisper, like it cost him something. “I want to know why you didn’t trust me enough to stay.”

Ripley blinked. Not because she didn’t expect the blow, but because he’d pulled his punches until now. “I didn’t leave to hurt you.”

“Didn’t stop it from hurting.” He leaned back, like if he stayed too close, he might say something he’d regret—or worse, mean it. His Old Fashioned was nearly gone. The ice clinked when he tilted the glass. “I would’ve followed you to hell, Rip,” he added, quieter now. “But you didn’t give me the choice.” He nodded to the waiter who had come back with new drinks for them. 

Ripley cupped her rocks glass, fingers tracing the ridges embedded in the crystal. "We've established I fucked up," she stated softly. "That I should've given you a choice…"

"I was waiting," He admitted, his brows furrowed a little. "For you to change your mind, for you to call to at least say good bye to…everything." 

Ripley swallowed, her throat already tight enough. She finally lifted her eyes to his, extended her hand palm up on the table. An offering. He place his over it, his fingers tracing the veins on her inside wrist, feeling her pulse skip beneath the pads of his fingers. When she spoke her voice was low, and a little husky. "I will always find my way back to you." 

Bucky let loose a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. He slid his fingers under her hand, brought his mouth to her palm, his breath warm against her skin, his lips softer as he kissed it. Ripley pressed her thighs together beneath the table, her fingers curling just enough to graze his cheekbone. Neither of them moved right away. The hum of low jazz filtered in from the other room, the clink of glasses and quiet laughter just background noise.

Bucky pressed a kiss to her pulse point on her wrist, and moved back. "It's not like you to say sorry," he said quietly.

Ripley smiled, something small and real. The kind that showed in her eyes before her mouth. "Consider yourself blessed."

A second later, their waiter reappeared with practiced discretion, plates balanced expertly in each hand. Bucky didn’t let go of her hand right away. Just shifted his grip, lacing their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world. "About the gala…."

She withdrew her hand, not abruptly, but with that same grace she always had when she needed to shift the weight of something—emotional or otherwise. Her fingers slid away from his, and she picked up her knife, cutting into the filet with careful, practiced movements. “Go on,” she said, nodding slightly.

Bucky watched her for a beat, waited until she had a bite in her mouth, her eyes still cautiously trained on him. “I need you to be on your best behavior,” he said, tone light but not unserious.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she chewed, unimpressed and suspicious. “Define best behavior,” she muttered after swallowing, stabbing a bite of potato gratin.

“I also,” he added, slicing into his steak with deliberate calm, “need you to use your… skills to find out some information for me.”

“Define skills,” she echoed, a brow arching as she picked at her plate, her voice dry and warning. “Also, I thought the gala was one of your dates I owe you, Barnes. Not a…” She twirled her fork vaguely in the air, the words op and mission clearly flashing behind her eyes, but left unsaid. “Thing.”

“Can’t it be both?” he asked, shrugging.

She pursed her lips and exhaled slowly through her nose. “I suppose…”

Bucky leaned forward, elbows to the edge of the table, voice dropping just enough to meet the intimacy of candlelight. “You can flirt. You can seduce. I know you’re capable.”

Her brow shot up. “Oh, do you now?”

He nodded, a little smug. “Even if you don’t believe it, I’ve seen it firsthand.”

Ripley let out a quiet scoff, sipping her drink, letting the cold hit her tongue while the rest of her simmered. “Who exactly am I flirting or seducing?” she asked, casual and biting at once. “You?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Bucky said, his grin unfurling slow and cocky, “we’re well beyond that stage.”

She made a low noise, almost a laugh, not quite. 

“I need you to schmooze,” he clarified, casually twirling his fork between his fingers. “No specific target. Just circulate. Be charming. Mingle like you're not a walking classified file with a body count.”

“I don’t mingle,” she said pointedly, tilting her head at him. 

“Exactly,” he said with a satisfied nod. “That’s the charm. You lurking in a corner makes people talk. I need those pretty little ears open.”

Ripley rolled her eyes, but a corner of her mouth betrayed her—lifted in a reluctant smirk. “You want recon,” she said flatly. “At a black-tie gala.”

“I want intel,” Bucky corrected, spearing a bite of filet. “You’ll be the best looking bloodhound in the room.”

“Flattery,” she warned, raising her glass, “will only get you so far.”

“Good thing I’ve got a backup plan,” he replied smoothly, clinking his glass lightly against hers. “You in?”

Ripley took a long sip, held his gaze, and set the glass down with a quiet finality. “I'd prefer to be a Belgian Malinois,” she muttered.

His smile twitched, sharp and entertained. “That tracks. Agile, loyal, bites when provoked.”

“I want something in return,” she added a beat later, nudging her plate with the edge of her knife.

Bucky leaned back, giving her a slow once-over, the kind that said he knew when she was playing coy and when she was dead serious. “The wedding with your family from hell was done in full.”

“You really think my family is that bad?” she challenged, tilting her head.

“I mean…” he dragged out the word, grinning, “your sister isn’t great.”

“That’s what they all say.” Ripley stabbed another bite of steak, but the jab was more about Ava than the meat. “Till she hooks her little talons into you.”

“I’d rather have your talons in me,” Bucky said, voice dipping into something slow and unbothered, smooth like bourbon. Then, with the kind of grin that wasn’t helping his case: “Speaking of which…”

Ripley gave him a look. Flat, incredulous, but not entirely unamused. “My sister or the talons?”

He didn’t answer right away, just pushed his empty plate to the side with the kind of casual grace that meant his real focus was on her. “I’ve set up spa appointments for you the day of the gala,” he said, as if continuing the same conversation, tone neutral like it wasn’t a deliberate shift.

Ripley’s brows drew together. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“Because you deserve it,” he said simply. No teasing, no curveball. Just that quiet certainty she’d learned to recognize when he got stubborn about taking care of people, especially her.

The check arrived right on cue, delivered with practiced efficiency. Bucky reached for it automatically, but her hand landed on his with a snap of challenge, eyes narrowing.

“You’re absolutely not buying dinner,” she said firmly, already reaching for her purse with her free hand. “It was my idea, and I chose the place,” she added, rifling for her wallet.

“That’s not….no.” He started dragging the check toward him anyway, her hand still pressing down on his. The tension in the air wasn’t hostile, but it crackled just enough to turn heads if it escalated. "You're not buying dinner, that's not how this works." He said through clenched teeth. 

Ripley leaned in just a hair, dropping her voice like they were negotiating an arms deal. “Don’t make a scene, Barnes.”

He tilted his head. “Don’t test me, Todd. I’ll win.”

“Rock, paper, scissors.”

Bucky recoiled like she’d slapped him. “Absolutely fucking not.” He dragged the bill closer to him. 

“Oh, come on,” she grinned now, smug as hell. “Afraid to lose?” 

He rolled his eyes. "One and done," he told her firmly, and made a fist. Ripley's grin widened. "Rock, paper, scissors, shoot." He chose a rock, she chose scissors. He took the check from her, slid his card into the billfold and held it out as the waiter reemerged. She scowled at him. "Relax, you can buy me a drink and some dessert." He told her.

"Oh?"

"Were you done with the evening?" Bucky arched a brow at that, something sharp and knowing curling at the corner of his mouth. “I was hoping we’d stretch it out a little.”

Ripley leaned back in her seat, legs crossing slowly as she studied him over the rim of her glass. “Stretch it out, huh?” she murmured, letting the implication hang there, just long enough to make him shift in his seat.

He didn’t take the bait, not fully. But his eyes flicked to her mouth again, and that same rough-edged heat returned to his voice. “It’s not often I get your full attention.”

“You always have it,” she said softly..

The weight of that admission landed between them like a dropped pin, quiet, but sharp. She took another sip to cover the sting, glancing away as the waiter returned with the paid bill and a polite nod. Bucky stood first, stepping around to help her out of the booth, his hand steady at her lower back again. 

Outside, the winter air cut cooler than it had before dinner, and she instinctively stepped in closer. He shrugged off his jacket without a word and draped it around her shoulders, his fingers grazing her collarbone in the process.

“I know a place,” she said after a beat, voice softer. “Somewhere we can get that drink. And maybe dessert.”

"Lead the way, maligator." 

He didn't know what he had expected, but a blues bar wasn't top of his list. Ripley turned to smile over her shoulder at him as her hand found his in the darkness of the bar, leading him toward a small table by the dance floor. "Welcome to Dapper Dan's," she said in his ear as they sat. "They do dueling pianos on Saturday nights; tonight it's just the juke box." 

There were still couples on the dance floor, Bucky watched everyone half interested as Ripley ordered them drinks. She shrugged his coat off, the blue ambience lighting catching her collar bone, the curve of breast. Bucky's metal hand flexed involuntarily against the dark wood of their table. The first strains of a bluesy ballad came on, not one he recognized immediately, but Ripley did. She took a big sip of her drink before standing, moving slinkily beside the table, offered Bucky her hand, with a little teasing wiggle of her fingers. He downed his drink in two hard swallows, and followed her out, his eyes glued to the shape of her in the dress.

The bass hit like a heartbeat, low, steady, a pulse beneath the floorboards.

Ripley didn’t tug him out into the center of the floor. No, she brought him just inside the edge of it, where shadows still lingered and the lights softened into deep sapphire hues. She didn’t rush. Just moved. Like smoke. Like a woman who knew the room was watching but only cared about the man in front of her.

Her body turned first, her back to his chest, not grinding, not blatant. Just enough space to keep him guessing. She rolled her shoulders to the rhythm, let her hips sway with practiced ease, and then—without looking back—reached behind to catch his hand, placing it low on her hip. Her head tilted to one side, her temple brushing his jaw.

Bucky stood still for half a beat, his breath stalling as his hand settled where she wanted it. His flesh hand landed on her waist like instinct, holding her there, grounding her or maybe himself.

Ripley moved again. Slow. Measured. Seductive, but not overt. Her hips brushed his, her arm reached back to loop around his neck, and when she looked over her shoulder at him with that quiet smirk that made a man feel like he was drowning.

“You okay, Barnes?” she asked, voice low, nearly lost in the music. “You look like you forgot how to breathe.”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His hand squeezed her hip gently, grounding himself in the heat of her, in the way her body fit so neatly into his without trying. He dipped his head, brushing his mouth just beneath her jaw—where her pulse thrummed steady and sure. Just a breath. Just enough to feel her lean into it.

“We should probably go home,” Bucky murmured against her ear, his voice frayed at the edges, nuzzling into the soft skin just beneath it.

The song faded. Another began.

Otis Redding’s These Arms of Mine melted through the speakers, all honey and ache and promise. Bucky shifted her in his arms, pulling her flush to his chest.

“Rip?”

“Hmmm?” She swayed with him, loose-limbed and quiet, letting him lead. Her eyes flicked up, met his—steady and burning like coals.

“I’m not gonna sleep with you tonight,” he murmured near her ear. His breath was warm. His hand at her lower back didn’t move.

Ripley blinked, the words registering—but she didn’t pull away. “That’s a little insulting,” she replied, soft and sharp all at once. “But I get it.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug that looked nonchalant, but didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Do you?” he asked, voice low. Less challenge, more concern. Like he wasn’t entirely sure she did. She didn’t answer, not directly. Just let the song carry them the last few bars, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. When the track changed again, Bucky gently guided her back to their table. She moved without hesitation, reached into her clutch and laid a few bills beside their glasses.

He took his jacket from the back of her chair, held it open. She slipped into it without looking at him, but the brush of his hands at her shoulders—steady, sure, familiar—made her eyes close for just a second. The scent of his cologne settled over her. 

"Let's get outta here."

Ripley just nodded, eyes ahead, but her fingers brushed his briefly as they walked like she needed one last point of contact before the night shifted again.

The drive back to the townhouse was quiet. Not awkward, not heavy. The kind of silence that didn’t beg to be filled. A jazz station murmured low through the speakers, saxophone and soft snare, matching the unspoken weight hanging between them.

Bucky’s hands stayed steady on the wheel, but his eyes kept drifting, sideways, quick glances, catching her in profile as the streetlights painted shadows over her face. Her expression was unreadable. That unreadable Ripley look he’d never fully cracked, not even when she was naked in his bed or bleeding in his arms.

She didn’t speak, but she wasn’t gone, either. One hand rested on her thigh, fingers absently tracing the edge of his jacket cuff. She was wearing him. Wrapped in something that still smelled like him. And it did something to his chest, something he wasn’t ready to name. He parked the Bronco in the garage, opened the door for her, and offered his hand. Her fingers curled into his without hesitation.

The contact was brief, warm palm to warm palm, but something passed between them that hadn’t been spoken back at the bar, or over dinner, or on the dance floor. It wasn’t forgiveness. Not exactly. But it was closer than they’d been in months. Maybe since before she left. Before she’d made the choice for both of them.

The townhouse was dark when they stepped inside, save for the soft glow of the entryway light. Familiar. Still. The hum of the fridge. The faint creak of old hardwood under their steps. His keys hit the bowl near the door, and he watched as she peeled off his jacket slowly, folding it over her arm and then on the back of the bar stool. 

"Is it because I hurt you?" She asked as he prepared to head down the hall toward the staircase. Her soft words halted him in his steps. He turned back to look at her, she was leaning on the kitchen island sliding her high heels off one by one. He moved to her in four quick strides, framing her face between his hands, shaking his head. 

"No, no, Rip, absolutely not," He looked skyward trying to find the words. "I want to—Jesus—do I want to, but I want to give you what we didn't have before." 

"Was there anything wrong with before?" She looked down from his piercing gaze. 

Bucky sighed, his breath ghosting across her forehead, he pressed his nose into the crown of her head. "No," he murmured. "No. How do I explain this?"

"Honestly." 

Bucky licked his lips, tucking his tongue into his cheek. "Okay, I can do that," he nodded slowly, his fingers brushing over her cheekbones. "You deserve more than us just falling into bed together." 

"I don't need romance," she jerked her head up to look at him fiercely. "Don't try to make yourself—"

"I'm not making myself Ripley, I want to." His brows furrowed. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Fix your face." He muttered, and stepped back from her, giving her space. She smoothed her scowl and furrowed eyebrows out. "Better." He nodded. "Now, tomorrow we head to Brooklyn. Day after that is the gala." 

She lifted her chin, angling her head in a regal move. "As you wish Congressman Barnes." 

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Woman." 

"Dibs on the shower."  Ripley disappeared around the corner, and a second later, Bucky heard the water start. 

He hadn't meant to sleep in her bed again. But once he’d carried her upstairs—limp from sleep, bone-tired in a way he recognized too well—and Alpine had stubbornly clung to her like a purring burr, it felt ridiculous to leave. Not when she curled unconsciously into his warmth the second he set her down. Not when the house had gone still around them and that awful, aching silence started creeping in.

If he was honest—and that was new, uncomfortable terrain lately—he’d slept better in that bed with her beside him than he had in months. Maybe years.

Which is why it caught him off guard when he jolted awake to find her arm flung across his chest like a shield. His hand shot out by instinct, catching her wrist—not hard, but firm. Her body was tense beside him, twitching, her breath shallow and quick. He sat up halfway, reaching with his other hand until his palm found her forehead—damp with sweat. She thrashed slightly, head turning into the pillow like she was trying to bury herself in it.

“Rip.” The name scraped out of him, low and gravelly, not quite a command, not quite a plea.

His hand pressed against her forehead, steadying her. That simple touch grounded her. Her breathing slowed. Her hand curled against his chest.

“'M good,” she whispered, the word barely audible. “S’okay.”

“Is it?” he asked softly, letting himself sink onto his side to face her, propped on one elbow. His heart was still racing.

Ripley didn’t answer. She sat up instead, slow and quiet, reaching for her phone. He watched her as she squinted at the screen—2:42 a.m. She rubbed a hand down her face, eyes still shadowed with whatever images her mind had conjured.

She didn’t say anything to him, didn’t look back. Just opened the group chat and started typing.

Ripley: Sound off.

The replies came fast—other soldiers in the night with too many memories haunting them.

Wick: You know where I am. Bennett: Gucci. Tango: We’re accounted for on this end. Boone: Nightmare?

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. For a second, Bucky thought she wouldn’t reply. But slowly her thumbs moved as if weighted.

Ripley: Yeah. Love you all.

She set the phone face down on the nightstand. Bucky’s gaze lingered on it as she leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Her eyes were locked on the bathroom, staring.

He followed her gaze—nothing but shadows: the standing tub, the shower glass, the cold tile floor. Nothing threatening. But he knew it wasn’t about what was there. It was about what her brain had filled in when she couldn’t stop it. He recognized that particular stare. Haunted. Tracking ghosts.

“Hey.” His voice was gentler this time. He reached out, fingers brushing the back of her neck where the sweat had cooled her skin. She flinched at the contact—but didn’t pull away.

“Talk to me,” he urged, hand steady.

She didn’t look at him. “How’s the weather? Heard it was gonna be blue skies and sunny this week—”

“Ripley.”

“I’m fine, Buck.” Her voice was tired, not biting. When she turned her head, her chin resting on her shoulder, her expression was neutral—but her eyes were exhausted as she looked at him. “You know how it is.” Her lips moved in a little in what should've been a reassuring smile.

He didn’t answer right away. His hand moved, brushing the damp strands of hair away from the back of her neck. She let him.

“Are you still seeing Raynor?” he asked quietly.

Her nose wrinkled in distaste. “No. You?”

He let a beat pass. “Matter of fact, yeah. Once a month.”

She blinked, mildly surprised. “Didn’t think you were the keep-in-touch type.”

“She grew on me,” Bucky murmured, still absently stroking the nape of her neck. "And you were gone…"

Ripley exhaled through her nose, tired and skeptical. “She's not bad… I guess.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t argue. Just said, “You don’t have to say anything to me. Not if you don’t want to. But you don’t have to carry it all alone either.”

She turned her head toward him, just enough to see the faint outline of his face. For a long moment, she didn’t say anything. But eventually, she lay back down, curling on her side with her back to him. He stayed sitting for a moment longer before shifting closer, lifting the blanket higher to cover her. Alpine, purring softly from her perch near Ripley’s feet, barely stirred.

He lay down on his side beside her, sighing softly.

“Bucky?” Her voice was soft, thick with silent tears. He inched closer, an invitation. She turned over, burrowed her face into his chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

He didn’t answer right away.

There were a hundred ways he could’ve responded—sharp, soft, funny, deflecting, honest. All of them sat heavy on his tongue, none of them feeling right. Her voice had cracked on the word 'sorry,' as if it cost her something to give it. Maybe it did.

So he just wrapped his arm around her instead, pulled her in tighter. Her breath hitched when he did, like she was bracing for something worse, and that killed him more than any apology ever could.

He pressed his cheek to the crown of her head. He tried to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come out. Alpine, as if sensing the struggle, clambered up between them and planted herself squarely between their hips.

Bucky let out a quiet huff of a laugh, stroking Ripley's back in long, steady lines. The kind meant to calm. To reassure. “I got you, Rip,” he murmured, lips brushing her hairline.

She shifted just enough to look up at him. Her eyes found his in the pale wash of moonlight filtering through the window. “I got you too,” she said softly.

And for the first time in weeks, the weight on their shoulders lifted, just a little. .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Five AM came too soon, Bucky tossed his phone across the room the second the alarm went off. Ripley groaned into his chest, where her face was smushed. "Fuck off with your bullshit fucking politics." She moaned into his skin. His arms tightened around her in response. "Don't be late." 

"I'm not gonna be late," he replied roughly. "Can I just enjoy this slice of peace a little longer?" 

She snorted softly, not opening her eyes at all. "I dunno, can you?"

"Maybe if you stop talking for half a second." Bucky's lips curved in a small smile. "Silence is golden."

"Duct tape is silver." 

His chest shook with a quiet laugh. "You're something else, Todd, you know that?" 

"Yeah," she grunted and sighed as she rolled over away from him, stretching her long limbs out. "So I've been told." 

He watched her stretch, spine arching just enough to make his thoughts borderline criminal for five in the morning. She sighed again, flipping the pillow to the cooler side and slinging an arm across her eyes. 

"Why are you so dramatic?" He asked, swinging his legs off the bed.

"You've met my mother and my sister," Ripley answered. 

"Yeah," Bucky muttered, his fingers brushing over the forearm covering her eyes. "Rip?"

"What?" The tone said it all. It's five in the morning, fuck off. 

Bucky hesitated for a moment, his heart thudding too loudly for his own good. “I meant what I said,” he told her softly. “I’ve got you. Whatever you choose to do in the end.”

“I meant what I said, too.” She shifted, moving her arm to look at him. Her eyes were open now, clear in the dim light. “I’m sorry for taking the choice from you. That’s what’s been done to you for ninety years, and I was just one more asshole doing it.”

Bucky sighed, sinking onto the edge of the bed beside her. He reached out because, for some damn reason, he had to touch her more often than not. His fingers brushed her hair back and lingered gently against her cheekbone.

“I understand why you did it,” he said, voice low. “And yeah, I’m pissed. But I get it. Don’t do it again, Rip.”

“I don’t plan to,” she murmured, already burrowing back into the blankets, her voice muffled now by the pillow. “Don’t fuck your tie up today.”

He smiled to himself and got up. Dressed for the day. Managed the tie by himself, better than before. His phone was already going off, buzzing against the floor where he’d thrown it the night before. Claire, of course. He bent down, scooping it up with a sigh.

“If you don’t come answer your phone,” Ripley threatened, her voice muffled beneath the pillow, “I swear to God I’m launching it out the window.”

He glanced over at her, amused. She was still half-buried in blankets, only the top of her head and a wild halo of hair visible. He checked the screen—nothing urgent. Claire could wait.

His eyes lingered on Ripley’s form under the covers. “What’s your plan for today?” he asked, voice softer now.

“Bucky, it’s five-thirty in the morning.” Her head emerged from the depths, eyes narrowed and wild. “This is the second time I’ve managed to sleep for more than four hours at a time in over three months. Don’t ruin it with your early-bird shit.”

He chuckled, the sound low in his chest. “Just asking.”

“Ask again when the sun’s up,” she muttered, already disappearing back beneath the pillow like a grumpy groundhog.

Bucky padded into the bathroom, the quiet hum of the fan breaking the silence as he combed his hair back with practiced ease. Alpine sat like a gargoyle on the counter, tail flicking every time Bucky leaned in. The hot water steamed the mirror slightly, blurring the lines of the man looking back at him—one part soldier, one part statesman, and every inch a man trying to find footing in a life that still didn’t feel like it fit.

His phone buzzed three times in quick succession, where it sat charging again on the windowsill. Claire. He swiped it open with a thumb, scrolling through:

Claire: You’re scheduled to speak third, but if you want to make a splash, I’d recommend bumping up your comments to second. Let me know if you want me to prep a punchier closer… or if you want to go off-script and make C-SPAN sweat.

Heads up: your name came up (positively) in the Veterans Affairs roundtable. I’ll forward the transcript once it’s cleaned. FYI: You’re being floated as a potential subcommittee lead next session. Not official yet, but it’s circulating. You’ll want to consider who you’d like on staff.

Also, we need an answer for the plus one. I'm on standby to charm you all this evening if you need. 😉

Bucky sighed through his nose. He didn't hate Claire. She was efficient, sharp, and even funny when she wanted to be. But that emoji? That was the second time this week. It would have to be a discussion, he decided. 

Bucky glanced at the bed. Ripley was still sprawled under the covers, her hand tucked beneath her cheek.. Her breathing was slow, but not deep enough to be fully asleep. "Hey," he said gently, keeping his voice low. He leaned over, tugging the pillow off her face.

"James Buchanan Barnes." The words hissed out. He grinned. "Why are you—"

"Can't you admit that you missed me, hmm?" He teased. 

She cracked one eye open, but her smile, no matter how small, was warm and directed at him. “Go away. Go do whatever it is you do in the House of Representatives.”

He watched her for another second, like he might say something else—don’t vanish today, text me if you go dark, please show up tonight—but didn’t. Just brushed his knuckles down her arm and stood. “Don’t burn the house down,” he said over his shoulder.

“No promises,” she mumbled.

Downstairs, he tugged on his blazer, straightened the tie again, and hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. His phone buzzed one last time.

Claire: Bring your smile today, Barnes. The cameras love it.

He opened the door with a deep sigh and stepped into the D.C. morning, already bracing for the headlines. .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

While Bucky sat through the first set of meetings—nodding at the right moments, muttering half-hearted agreements, checking his phone more than he should—Ripley sat on the edge of the standalone tub, half-undressed and quiet.

The bathroom was filled with soft morning light, muted through the frosted glass. Her bare thigh stuck slightly to the cool porcelain as she leaned back, checking the fresh line of stitches along her side. They’d held. No sign of infection. But they still tugged when she breathed too deeply, a sharp little reminder that rest wasn’t the same as recovery.

She ran a thumb gently across the outer edge—testing, cataloguing. Not morbid curiosity. Just habit. Alpine perched on the bathroom counter like a silent sentinel, tail tucked around her paws, her pale blue eyes fixed on Ripley with a wide, worried look.

The meow she let out was soft. Concerned.

Ripley looked up at her, then down at the wound again. “Get used to it,” she murmured, half to the cat, half to herself. “This is what I do. For now, at least.”

Her brow creased as the words left her mouth for now. She didn’t like how uncertain that sounded.

She exhaled slowly and stood, reached for the oversized gray t-shirt Bucky had left behind—still carrying a faint trace of his cologne. Her body ached, but it was the good kind of sore. The kind that meant she’d survived.

She glanced at Alpine again, who now blinked at her slowly, unconvinced. Ripley smiled. “Don’t look at me like that. It's gonna be a minute before I take off." 

She dressed in her gym clothes—black leggings, sports bra, a loose tank knotted at the hip—and tugged her hair into a messy bun with a sharp yank that said don’t fuck with me. 

Checked in on the team again, because once wasn’t enough—not when her brain was doing its usual sabotage. The group chat was quiet this time; she didn't expect many of them would be up at 0730, not after the traveling they had done. 

The call from Wick came only a minute after she had sent her text.

“What is your major malfunction?” he said by way of greeting, voice still scratchy with sleep and pissed-off concern.

“I had a shit dream, Wick,” Ripley replied, already barefoot on the cold concrete of the garage as she flicked the lights on and grabbed a resistance band off the pegboard.

“About?” His voice gentled like it always did when she gave even half an inch into her mind. “Rippy?”

She sighed. “What do you think?” There was a pause. She could feel the frown through the phone. “You wanna come over and lift?” she offered, voice wry, like it was the most normal thing in the world to do post-nightmare.

“You took a knife to the side not even two weeks ago, why the fuck are you lifting?” he asked, exasperated. 

“I’ll go light,” she lied, stretching one arm across her chest.

“Define light,” he grumbled. “Please don’t tell me that’s code for 135.”

“Light for me,” she shot back. “Don’t be dramatic.”

Wick groaned. “Where’s Bucky? He could at least talk some sense into you.”

“He’s off schmoozing with politicians,” she muttered, wrapping the band around her hands and giving it a sharp pull. “Looking stupidly good in a suit, y'know, the usual.”

There was a beat of silence on Wick’s end. “…I can be there in fifteen.”

Ripley hung up with Wick and checked her phone. A new message blinked at the top of the screen.

Bucky: Alive?

She smirked faintly. Typical. Direct, and precisely two degrees softer than it would’ve been two months ago. 

Ripley: And kicking. Wick’s gonna come over and lift with me.

The three dots started, disappeared. Started again. She waited.

Bucky: You okay?

Her smirk faded. She stared at the screen, thumbs hovering, not typing. Not yet. Eventually she managed—

Ripley: No. But I will be.

Another pause. Not long.

Bucky: Need me to come back?

She swallowed. Her throat was tight, and she hated that it was.

Ripley: Aren’t you doing important shit?

It was meant to be a joke. It didn’t land that way.

Bucky: Not more important than you.

Ripley stared at that for a long moment, the words glowing back at her like they meant more than they should’ve. Like they meant everything.

Ripley: You know what you could do?

She hit send before she could second-guess it. Then bit her lip so hard it hurt.

“God, don’t be stupid, Rip,” she muttered, glaring at her screen like it might slap her.

Bucky: Name it. Ripley: Take me out tonight.

She inhaled sharply. There it was. Sent. Staring back at her. Her stomach dropped.

“Oh fuck,” she whispered. “No, no, no, no—fuck—” She jabbed at the screen like sheer force would recall the message from the ether. Tried to delete it. Undo it. Anything. “Fuuuuuuck,” she hissed, hurling her phone onto the bench like it had betrayed her personally.

Wick stepped into the garage, gym bag slung over his shoulder. He took one look at her face and raised an eyebrow. “Did you just accidentally launch nukes? What the hell did you do?”

Ripley made a helpless, strangled noise and rubbed both hands over her face. “I think I just asked Bucky on a date?”

“You think?” Wick cocked his head. "Honey, you either did or you didn't; it's pretty straightforward." 

“I—yeah—I panicked and sent it, and now it’s there, and I can’t unsend it, and—” she gestured wildly toward the phone, like it might detonate.

Wick slowly set his bag down, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Wait. Waitwaitwait. You—the Overlord of Tactical Control—spontaneously invited Barnes out for dinner?”

“Yes, Wickwire.”

He blinked, licked his lips. “Didn’t you guys already sleep together?”

“Yes, Wickwire,” she said again, biting out the words like gravel.

“Then why,” he asked, amused now, “is a date the thing that’s melting your brain?”

Ripley ran a hand down her face and groaned. “Because a date is like—hopeful, and hopeful is fucking terrifying.”

"Has he responded?"

"No, which makes it worse…." .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Bucky’s phone buzzed against the conference table just as someone from the Defense Appropriations Committee started droning about logistics funding. He ignored it the first time. The second buzz, though—he felt it in his chest.

Claire’s elbow brushed his. “You okay?” she whispered, leaning in too close. Her perfume was cloyingly sweet, like cotton candy; he didn't realize how used he had gotten to Ripley's, which was citrusy and fresh. 

“Fine,” he murmured, straightening in his seat, the picture of calm. His hand slid under the table, phone in his palm. One glance at the screen, and his composure cracked.

Ripley: Take me out tonight.

He blinked. Once. Twice. The words didn’t change. The world around him faded into bureaucratic white noise—papers shuffling, pens clicking, someone clearing their throat. His heart stuttered in his chest. While he still believed in old-fashioned values, especially after experiencing the new age of dating, he couldn't say he wasn't intrigued by the ice queen asking him to dinner. 

He set the phone face down on the table like it was about to explode and forced a slow breath through his nose.

“Congressman Barnes?” someone called from across the table.

He looked up sharply. “What?”

Claire jumped in. “He agrees with the proposal,” she said smoothly, covering for him.

“Right,” Bucky said, nodding once. “Exactly. That.”

The conversation resumed. He didn’t hear a word. His mind was stuck on the text. He tapped the phone again to make sure he hadn’t imagined it. Nope. Still there. 

He leaned back in his chair, one hand dragging down his face. Cool. Collected. That’s what he was supposed to be. The Winter Soldier who’d faced death a thousand times—completely derailed by one woman with a knack for bad timing and worse self-preservation instincts.

Claire leaned toward him again, smiling sweetly. “You seem distracted, Congressman.”

“Just thinking,” he replied, voice even.

“About?”

He flicked his eyes toward her, brief, unreadable. “Dinner plans.”

She smiled, thinking it was about her. It wasn’t.

Under the table, his thumb hovered over the screen. He typed, deleted, typed again. Finally sent—

Bucky: Name the place.

Locked the phone, shoved it in his jacket, and tried to remember how to breathe. .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

“Oh God. Oh god. Oh god.” Ripley shoved the phone in Wick’s face, pacing behind the bench. “What do I do?”

Wick grunted through his next rep. “Go out with him, you already know what you’re getting on the backend.”

“What do I say?” she hissed, panic rising.

Wick racked the barbell with a clank and shot her a look. “Hey, real question, Rip. In what universe did I become either your gay best friend or a woman?”

“In every universe, Wickwire. Now—”

“Okay, okay,” he raised both hands in mock surrender, smirking as he stood. “Fine.” He swapped places with her, stripping two plates off the bar. “So paint me a picture...what do you actually want with this guy?”

She lay back on the bench with a sigh. “To make sure he survives another seventy years…”

Wick’s smile was small, but warm. “Can I make a suggestion you might actually listen to this time?”

Ripley grunted assent as she pressed the barbell. She hissed out a breath as her stitches pulled. "Drop the weight." She told him. "Take like ten off." 

He did so while continuing to talk. “Let him into our circle,” he said, steadying the bar when it tilted in her hands at his words. “Stop trying to protect him from everything. Let him choose, Rip. No more guarding him from the fire. Let him stand in it with you.”

She racked the bar and sat up, eyeing her waiting phone like it might bite. “So… is that like a yes to dinner….”

Wick groaned and tossed the towel over his shoulder. “God, you’re so fucking dumb sometimes.” He snatched the phone and dropped it in her lap. “At the rate we’re going, Rip, we’re already on somebody’s kill list. So, for the love of all of us still breathing, please just try to live a normal life tonight. Go on a date with the hundred-year-old super soldier. Fuck him senseless. Steal state secrets. I don’t care. Please live for something besides avenging Flea.”

She stared at him for a long moment as if he had slapped her, and swallowed hard. His voice cracked, just a little, as he said, “I loved him too. We all did.”

Her eyes filled with tears so fast she had to look away, throat tight and aching. “He was just a baby, Wick.”

Wick paused, jaw clenching and unclenching. “I know.” His voice was low, steady. He straddled the bench across from her, elbows braced on his knees. “I know, Rip. But we all knew what we were signing up for.”

She didn’t respond—just swiped at her cheek with the back of her wrist.

“We’ve got a good start,” Wick said. “We’re pushing the truth into the light. But it’s a marathon, not a sprint. And the people we’re up against?” He gave a humorless smile. “They’re smarter than us. Richer. Dirtier. We don’t win this by dying for each other. We win it by living for what’s left.”

Ripley sniffled, licking her lips, dry and cracked. “How do we just go back to that when he’s gone?”

Wick exhaled slowly and lifted his hands in a shrug. “I don’t know, babe.” He reached out and smacked the side of her quad. “But y’know what I do know?”

“What?” she mumbled.

“That you’re gonna look damn good in a little black dress on the arm of a century-old assassin.” He grinned, wide and crooked, and rose to his feet. “C’mon. You’re done working out. And you need to answer the poor bastard.”

“What do I even say?”

“You name a damn place for dinner, Ripley. It’s not rocket science. Go to 1789—you like that bougie spot.” He snatched her phone, punched in the passcode, scanned the thread, and rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, you two are fucking useless when it comes to this.” He tapped the restaurant name into Safari. “Is he in meetings?”

Ripley raised her hand and let it drop limply. “Probably.”

Wick’s grin turned wicked. “You should send me a nude.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I’ll take the picture.”

Ripley stared at him, horrified. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Wick gave her a mock-reproachful look. “Don’t give me that face. I know you’ve sent nudes before.”

“Well yeah, but…” She blinked, tilted her head like she was actually weighing it. “No. No, absolutely not.”

He held up his hands, deadpan. “Just trying to support your love life, babe.”

“By becoming an accomplice in my unsolicited boudoir shoot?”

“Exactly.”

She shoved his shoulder. “Go home, Wickwire.”

He smirked. “You’re welcome.” He studied her for a moment, then pulled her in for a tight hug. “I’m a phone call away, ghost lead. Whatever you need.”

She hugged him back, eyes stinging. Daniel Wickwire—her ride or die for fifteen years. Her brother in arms. Her teammate. Her best friend.

“I need you to stay alive, Danny.”

“I got you, babe.” He kissed her forehead, then stepped away, gym bag slung over his shoulder. “’Cause I got you, babe,” he sang at her, grinning. “C’mon, Rip.”

“No,” she smiled, waving him off.

She watched him climb into the truck and drive off into the bright morning sun, head tilted slightly, her smile lingering soft and fond.

Her phone buzzed. Bucky: 1789? I can't take you back in time, doll. Sorry.  .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Claire flicked her green eyes over Bucky's shoulder as they broke for recess, her lips twitching. "1789? Fancy place."

"Is it?" Bucky did a double-take over his shoulder at her before sliding his phone away. "Like suit and tie or?"

"I mean," Claire smiled affectionately. "I would wear this cute little blue dress I have." She tipped her head to the side, auburn hair moving with the motion. "And some cute heels. You're tall enough, I could do that."

Bucky turned and angled himself slightly away from her, the movement subtle but intentional. "So, no suit?"

"I like my dates to look the part," Claire said with a casual shrug. "All depends on the woman."

He paused, thoughtful. "I don’t know what she would wear for this."

Claire’s expression faltered for half a second, just long enough to register. Then the smile returned, bright and practiced. "Well, whatever it is, I’m sure she’ll look just fine..."

Bucky didn’t respond. His gaze drifted toward the chamber doors, the weight of something unsaid pressing behind his eyes. When he finally moved, it was with purpose, back to his seat, back to his work, back to the reason he was there. 

Claire watched him go, her smile fading just slightly. She tapped a manicured nail against her lips in thought, pulled out her phone, and typed quickly.

Claire: Where’s the congressman been staying? ————————--------------------------------------

“What about this one?” Ripley held up a navy-blue pantsuit to the FaceTime camera. Behind her, the walk-in closet looked like an F5 tornado had hit Nordstrom and lost.

Sarah Wilson stared at her, deadpan. “Are you going to vote on a school budget? What even is that?”

“It’s one of my suits—”

“No, Ripley. No. Jesus, no.” Sarah shoved Sam out of the frame where he’d just popped up, blocking him like a seasoned linebacker.

“What’s that?” Sam’s voice called offscreen.

“She’s showing me outfits,” Sarah replied, still glaring.

“For what?” 

“Dinner,” she added sweetly, her smile all teeth and mischief.

Sam finally reappeared, now holding a beer, squinting at the screen. “Nah, that looks like you got a court appearance or somethin’?”

Ripley huffed. “It’s a power look.”

“It’s a public defender, look,” Sarah countered, disgusted. “What about the dress you wore for Mardi Gras?”

“Which time?”

“You know which time,” Sarah smirked. “The feather boa one.”

Ripley groaned. “It’s probably covered in dust and regret...maybe tequila.”

“Who are you going to dinner with?” Sam leaned in, brow raised.

Ripley hesitated. “Rip,” Sarah drawled, narrowing her eyes. “Show him the damn dress.”

Ripley held up a slinky sheath of black fabric she had unearthed from the very depths of her closet.

Sam blinked. “That’s a skirt.”

“It’s a dress,” Sarah shot back without missing a beat. “She’s going on a date with Bucky,” she added casually.

Sam choked on his beer. “What?!” He spun, grabbing his phone like it personally offended him. “That little shit didn’t tell me he was going on a date with you.” He started typing furiously. “Hold that up again,” Sam ordered, squinting at the screen. 

“Try it on, Rip,” Sarah chimed in, overly sweet. “C’mon, you can’t bring Capitol Barbie to 1789. You gotta bring a Bond girl.”

Ripley groaned. “This is already a mistake.”

Sam glanced up from his phone, smirking. “Too late. He just texted back. He’s panicking.”

Ripley narrowed her eyes. “What’d he say? Why is he panicking? Does he even panic? Does he not wanna go? He doesn't have to go." 

Sarah threw her hands up, as if she were defusing a bomb. “Whoa, whoa, stand down, sugar. You’re spiraling.”

Sam rolled his eyes. "He wants to go, relax." He’s having a fashion-based anxiety attack. It's fine." 

“Now go shave your legs and put on that dress. It’s game time.” Sarah clapped her hands. "Ugh, I wish I were there to help you."

Ripley sighed and turned back to the dress hanging by the mirror. “You’re all deranged.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “But we’re your deranged. Let me know how it goes." He ended the video call. 

Ripley glanced at her phone and saw Bucky's text. 

Bucky: Why would you tell Sam?

Ripley: To be fair, Sarah was helping me pick a dress, and he was around Bucky: He's calling me now.  Ripley: Good luck. 

She let loose a sigh. Shower, hair, makeup. She could do this.

Alpine perched on the corner of the bed like a judgmental little cloud, tail flicking, blue eyes narrowed. Ripley stood in front of the full-length mirror in nothing but a black bra and underwear, holding the dress up to her body like she could will confidence into existence.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered. Alpine meowed pointedly. “That’s rich coming from someone who shits in a box.” Alpine meowed again. Louder. “I know it’s just dinner. I know it’s just Bucky.” Ripley pulled the dress on and started smoothing it down her sides, nodding slowly to her reflection. “Okay…okay…”

The door opened and closed downstairs. She froze. Footsteps, familiar and even, headed up.

"I'm almost dressed!" she called down, yanking the zipper halfway in a panic.

“I’ve seen you naked,” Bucky called back, his voice dry with a hint of a grin as he climbed the stairs.

Ripley scrambled to finish zipping, almost tripped over Alpine, and turned just as he reached the landing. He stopped in the doorway of the bedroom, one hand on the frame. His gaze swept over her—not in a leer, not in hunger—but like she’d just stepped out of a memory he hadn’t dared touch in months.

“Hi,” she said, brushing her hands down her hips, smoothing the skirt.

“Hi,” he said, eyes still tracking her like she might vanish.

Alpine let out a chirp and leapt off the bed, brushing past Bucky’s legs with all the subtlety of a matchmaking gremlin.

Ripley cleared her throat. “I’m almost ready.”

“You look ready to me,” he said, voice low. “I’m gonna—” he motioned vaguely at his suit and tie, the whole congressional getup. “Change out of the bureaucracy.”

He stepped back into the hallway, retreating toward the spare room where all his clothes had begun to accumulate. The door clicked shut behind him. For a second, he just stood there, hand braced on the edge of the dresser, jaw tight. He loosed the breath he’d been holding since she turned from the mirror.

That dress. Her in that dress.

He shook his head once, rolled his shoulders, and started loosening the tie.

“This isn’t a date, she didn't say date,” he reminded himself under his breath, as Alpine sauntered in behind him and hopped up onto the dresser with a soft thump. She blinked at him slowly. “What?” Bucky asked, peeling off his jacket. “I’m not lying. We’re just… two people, having dinner. That happens to be at one of the nicest restaurants in the city…" He changed quickly; he could hear the steady click of her heels going down the stairs. He combed his hair, sprayed on cologne, and tugged at his sports coat. "Good. Great." 

Alpine let out a soft chirp, flicked his tail once, and jumped down with the sort of smug grace that only cats and spies possess. Bucky watched him disappear into the hallway.

“Traitor,” he muttered, smoothing a wrinkle from his jacket. He checked himself in the mirror—again. Adjusted the collar and rolled his shoulders back.

He looked good. He knew he looked good. So why did he feel like he was about to jump out of a plane with no parachute? The sound of heels paused at the bottom of the stairs. Bucky exhaled and stepped out of the room.

Ripley stood in the living room, one hand adjusting an earring, the other nervously fussing with the strap of her little black dress. When she turned and looked up at him—eyes wide, lips slightly parted—Bucky forgot how to swallow.

“Wow,” he said before he could stop himself.

Ripley smiled, her lips a rich red velvet color. “You clean up alright, Barnes.”

He tried to play it cool, but his voice still cracked a little: “You ready?”

She gave him a once-over and breathed deeply. “You wore cologne?”

“You wore heels.”

Ripley smirked. “Touché.”

The fire flickered to life, orange and yellow flames dancing across his face. Bucky nudged a log into place, waited for it to catch. The dry pop and hiss of the wood filled the silence. He’d cut the overhead lights. Lit some candles she had kicking around from god knows when. The scent of something woodsy and warm hung in the air.

“Don’t touch,” he warned Alpine as the kitten crept closer toward the hearth, her little body low to the ground like she knew damn well she was pushing it. He pushed the fire screen back into place and rose, stretching his back as he looked around.

He paused, narrowed his eyes. Maybe unintentionally romantic. Too late now.

He heard her on the stairs before he saw her—bare feet on the hardwood, soft padding that made the floor creak just slightly. She stepped into the room, running her fingers through damp hair, her posture loose, comfortable in a way that made his stomach twist.

“I should get the chimney cleaned,” she said with a furrowed brow, glancing toward the fire. “Last time was when we—I moved in.” 

"You cut your hair…" he realized suddenly, watching the curling ends brush her collarbone with a little twist in his stomach. She flicked her gaze over to him, her bare foot rubbing the kitten's belly idly. "When?" 

"Unintentionally," she replied dryly, yanking her foot back before Alpine could sink her claws in. She moved further into the room, noting the candles and appreciating the absence of harsh overhead lights. She took a breath, considered him. "You really wanna know?"

Bucky sniffed softly and guessed, "Someone grabbed it?" She nodded, his stomach twisted hard. "Who?"

"Doesn't matter," Ripley murmured, and lifted her bare shoulders. 

“Food should be here soon,” he told her, a casual, safe topic. She nodded, already turning toward the TV. She grabbed the remote and tuned it right into the Bruins game, as if it were muscle memory. He walked over to the kitchen, into the darkness.

“What’d you do today?” he asked, leaning a little on the kitchen counter.

Ripley looked back over her shoulder as she walked to the fridge. “Bucky, you don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“The ‘how was your day, dear’ thing.” She handed him a fresh beer and retrieved her glass of wine. “We’re not… whatever that is.”

Bucky leaned against the counter, watching her in her flannel pajama pants and that thin—way too thin—tank top. He cocked his head slightly, eyes tracing her without shame. “What if I actually care?”

She gave a small, wry smile. “Do you? Or are you just worried I'll ruin your campaign?”

“I’m always worried about you, Rip,” he said, as if it were a fact, as if she could ask any source and she would receive the same answer. And somehow, that made her believe him even more.

Ripley took a long sip of wine, the words catching in her throat before she pushed them out. “I visited Flea today.”

His beer paused, halfway to his mouth. His expression didn’t falter, but something behind his eyes dimmed—like a candle flickering lower to survive a draft.

“It was a well-attended funeral,” he said softly, his voice gentler than before—the voice he saved for her. Her eyes met his, something flickering there. “I was there,” he added, answering the unspoken. "Sam and Torres, too." 

Her throat tightened. She nodded once. “Thank you.”

“Every time I come to town, I visit him,” Bucky sighed, quiet and unassuming. “It’s the least I can do.” She studied him over the rim of her glass, brows furrowed down. His crystal blue eyes cut to her.

Bucky swallowed. He hadn’t planned on asking, but the opportunity was there. “Did you get the answers you needed?” His fingers peeled at the beer label. “Wherever you were.” 

“Iran,” she replied, and leaned beside him on the island, facing the living room and the TV, close enough that he could smell the jasmine in her body wash. “Austria, Sweden.”

“That’s—“ Bucky turned his head to look at her, thoroughly confused. “None of those places make sense.” 

She snorted softly. “You’re tellin' me.”

“The guy,” Bucky said quietly, “who turned up in Allentown…”

“That was us,” Ripley replied, no hesitation.

He nodded, eyes fixed on the middle distance like he was trying to solve a puzzle he already knew the answer to. She was answering him and really answering him. And he was smart enough not to look a gift horse in the mouth. She shifted—barely—but enough that her shoulder brushed his. A quiet touch. Intentional. The way they always had. A quiet support. 

“Is it over?” he asked, voice so low she had to lean in to catch it.

She licked her lips, swallowed. “Not by a long shot.” Her eyes dropped to her hands. “But all the players are on this side of the Atlantic now. Except for one. But they’re not at the top of my list.”

Bucky turned slightly, bracing one forearm on the counter. “Remember what I said—” his voice was softer now, steady. “This whole revenge thing—”

“I know,” she muttered, almost too quickly. “It’ll burn me alive and take everyone I love with me.” Her gaze met his, fire behind it. “But there’s no corner of this earth I won’t go to for the people I love. You know that.”

“Just don’t burn the world down while you do it, Rip,” he said. “Be subtle. Be smart. If you’re gonna do it, just—”

“Gift wrap them and hand them to the CIA?”

“It’s an option,” he deadpanned, just as the doorbell rang. Their gazes remained locked, and the doorbell rang a second time. 

"Check the door before you open it,” she said softly, already turning away.

He wanted to sneer at her, maybe pull a face behind her back just for the satisfaction—but he couldn’t fault her. Not really. Not with everything they’d seen.

He grabbed his wallet from his jacket and slid out enough cash for dinner plus a tip. Paused at the peephole. Just a sad-looking teenage boy, acne and all, gripping an oversized paper bag like it held national secrets.

He opened the door. Ripley lingered back in the hallway, far enough to be nothing more than a curvy silhouette in the firelight, holding a glass of wine—but apparently still sufficient enough to short-circuit a hormone-drenched teenage brain.

The poor kid’s eyes locked right on her.

Bucky fielded the kid’s stammered greeting with a sympathetic smile and an extra two bucks for the emotional damage. He shut the door behind him, locked it, and turned back with a sigh.

“What?” Ripley asked, already shooting him a scowl, she set her wine glass on the coffee table, and crossed back toward him.

“Is it chilly tonight?” Bucky asked, deadpan, with a deliberate glance at her too-thin white tank top.

“You’ve seen me naked, remember?” she replied coolly, and reached out to take the bag from his hands. Her fingers brushed his—just for a second. “It shouldn’t matter.”

She walked away before he could reply. He stood there for a beat longer, tipping his head back toward the ceiling like maybe—maybe—somewhere in the cosmos, a deity would send him a miracle. Or a backbone made of steel. 

“Here,” Ripley gestured to the coffee table. “We’ll do a living room picnic.”

“Living room picnic,” Bucky repeated, setting down her bottle of wine and another beer for himself.

“Don’t say it like that,” she muttered, already unpacking the bag and tossing a packet of chopsticks at him. He caught them easily. “I bet you don’t even have a fucking kitchen table in New York.”

“I have a stool at the counter,” he said, starting to open containers, divvying up the food like they always had—muscle memory. Like no time had passed at all.

She paused, looked at him with a little smile. “That’s sad, Bucky.”

“New York’s not really home for me anymore,” he admitted, voice softer now.

“Don’t.” She lifted her wine glass like a shield. “Don’t guilt-trip me. I don’t need that tonight. My mom already gave me the deluxe version yesterday—I don't need it from—.”

“From the guy you walked out on?” he said it too evenly, like he’d practiced restraint all afternoon, and it finally cracked.

Her eyes narrowed. “Is this your version of not wanting to fight?”

“Just making conversation.”

“Well,” she scowled darkly at him, “pick another topic.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense. It was tired. Familiar. Like an old coat with frayed edges, you couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away. She tore open a crab rangoon and offered him half. 

Choose peace. 

That's what he told himself as he took it. They sat side by side, the fire snapping away, the sharp shrkks of hockey skates on TV. And when she dipped her chopsticks into his lo mein for her customary sampling, he didn't argue. Instead, he took a chunk of sesame chicken and sighed contentedly. 

Her bare shoulder brushed his bare tricep, and stayed. He plopped a snap pea onto her container. Her lips twitched. "You need to eat something green." She told him 

"I did, I think there's green onion in the rangoon." Bucky shoved another mouthful of lo mein into his mouth and all but beamed at her 

Soft Bucky 

Ripley's heart seized so hard she could've been having a heart attack, and she wouldn't have cared. 

"So the gala," she began cautiously. 

"In three days," he dropped a piece of broccoli into her container, she sighed, and ate it anyway. "Black tie."

"Of course."

"You'll be the first date I've brought to one of these things, so try not to fight anyone." He placed a chunk of chicken into her container next 

"I know what you're doing," she told him, shifting a little, her arm lying on the couch cushions behind his shoulders as if to hug him. 

He winged his brows up. "Do you?"

"I don't need the extra food, Bucky, I'm fine." She pushed her meal away, content—not stuffed 

"You've lost weight," he muttered quietly. "I don't like it. You were perfect the way you were."

She let out a soft, bitter chuckle. "Been fighting gaining weight my entire life, and all I needed was a 107-year-old man to tell me I was perfect..."

Bucky turned his head to argue with her, but stopped because she was right there facing him, close enough that their breath mingled. "It's your body." He forced the words out, watching her eyes dip to his mouth. "I just want to know it's for the right reason and not you skipping meals—"

Her gaze lifted, steady and because it was concern from him—maybe because it was him in general—she smiled a little as reassuringly as she could. "I always lose weight in the field." She said gently, "I'll be back to normal once life…goes to what it was."

"You think it ever can be what it was?" He asked, taking a sip of his beer. He wasn't sure if he meant them or not.

Ripley's brows furrowed, and she stared into space for a moment. "I don't think we're ever meant to go back to the places we were," she took a long drink of her wine, pursed her lips. "I think we learn from it, and we move to a new foundation with the knowledge we have now."

Bucky nodded slowly, blue eyes tracing over her face. "What book did you read that out of?"

"It was the Hancock Lumber commercial,” she answered wryly, nodding toward the TV. Her gaze flicked down. “And stop feeding Alpine that shit.” She gestured to the meat-on-a-stick he’d been sneaking to the kitten curled in his lap.

Bucky held up his hands, caught in the act. Alpine licked her lips smugly from where she lay belly up in his lap, her little tummy round and full. 

Ripley stood, gathering her leftovers, stacking the containers in that methodical way she always did—like cleaning up gave her a sense of control. She took the silence in the kitchen like a breath—like she needed one. The space, the distance. God, he was too close.

She was turning into a moth. And he was the porch light.

Bucky watched her go.

Watched the sway of her hips in those soft flannel pants. Watched the way her shoulders tensed just slightly—like she was holding her breath and didn’t even know it. Like she’d pressed pause on herself the second she stood up.

He gave her the moment. Let her have it.

He turned to handle the rest—boxed up what was left of dinner, capped the wine. When he was done, he flicked off the kitchen light, the fire throwing shadows up the walls as he made his way back to the couch.

She was curled into the corner like muscle memory—knees tucked, wine glass abandoned on the end table, TV still playing the third period. Her eyes were half-lidded, blinking slowly, the weight of the day pressing down now that she wasn’t moving. Like sitting still was permission to feel tired, finally.

Without a word, he grabbed the throw blanket off the back of the couch, tossed it over her—casually, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t half because she looked delicious sitting there in that thin tank top, and half because she was definitely cold.

She flinched a little as it landed, blinked up at him, dazed. “I didn’t ask for that.”

“Didn’t have to.” He took the spot beside her, not too close—but not far enough either.

Ripley blinked again. Her head tipped. Just a little further back until it rested against the back cushion, cheek smushed into the blanket he’d just given her.

Nap time. Just like that.

Bucky didn’t say a word. Just looked at her for a long moment—watching the lines of her face ease, her chest rise slow and steady. He let the fire crackle. Let the Bruins game roll on. Let her rest. He pulled out his phone, checking the texts from Claire and responding to Sam. She shifted in her sleep, and he figured she would fall toward the arm of the couch, but instead, she landed on him, gently, as if her body understood to ease into him. 

Alpine jumped up beside Ripley, pawed into the blanket cocoon around the woman, and stared at Bucky with her pretty blue eyes. "I guess I'll stay here for a little bit." He muttered and hesitantly dropped his arm around Ripley's covered form. She let out a deep, from the soul sigh, and snuggled into him. 

Arlington National Cemetery

The cemetery was silent except for the wind. It moved slow through the rows of white stone, catching the edges of flags and the hem of her coat. Ripley stood with her hands buried deep in her pockets, chin tucked into her collar, breath fogging in the cold. Her boots sank slightly into the wet earth.

She hadn’t been here yet. Omega had still been buried in chaos when Flea had been buried. The world had moved on without them.

But she hadn’t.

Now she stood in the late afternoon sun, the city bustling behind her, and stared down at a stone she hated.

Corporal Steven Nicholas Fleanick United States Army Beloved Friend & Brother December 7th 1999–July 10th 2025

Ripley crouched slowly, knees stiff in the cold, and pulled coins from her pocket and set a dime on the top of his headstone beside five others. She could almost guarantee she knew precisely who had left them. Her fingers lingered on the polished stone.

“I miss you,” she said, voice cracking as it hit the open air. “Y’know that?”

She sat cross-legged on the damp grass leaned back against the stone like they used to sit back to back in the field.

“Why didn’t you check your fucking car, Flea?” she asked, louder this time. “You were the gear guy. The checklist guy. You caught everything. So why not that?”

The wind stirred. Her throat tightened.

“You would’ve loved Iran,” she muttered, wiping her face with her sleeve. “We crossed another name off the list. Big one. You should’ve been there.”

She gave a rough laugh, tears still tracking silently. “I even missed you singing Madonna before missions. You know how unhinged that is? You always tortured us with ‘Like a Prayer', and now I’d give anything to hear it again.”

Her voice caught at the end. She didn’t fight it. She went quiet for a while. Just sat there. Breathing. Remembering. Letting it ache.

The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was too full. Too much left. Like the pressure right before a storm.

Eventually her eyes drifted to the base of the stone, where someone had left a bouquet—white carnations, fresh. Tied together with a ribbon. Wick, probably. Or Bennett. She hadn’t asked.

She reached out, brushing her fingers against the edge of the stone.

“I’ll come back next week,” she murmured. “Drag the others, too. We’re going to be home for a while, 'till we figure this shit our."

She pressed a kiss to her gloved fingers and tapped it gently to the engraved name.

“I love you, Fixit.”

The words disappeared into the wind like smoke. The coin glinted faintly in the sunlight.

She played “Like a Prayer” on her phone—low and soft, like a lullaby for the dead. Then, after one more shuddering breath, she stood.

The walk back through Arlington felt longer than it was—her boots quiet against the stones, her hands still stuffed into her pockets. Her phone buzzed as she passed the gates. She pulled it out with stiff fingers.

Bucky Barnes: Gone again? Ripley: Out and about 

As she reached the sidewalk, she texted Wick:

Ripley: You already visit Flea? Wick: No. Tomorrow. Why?

She frowned, stopped walking, turned back toward the headstones, far away now, but she knew exactly what row. 

She texted Bennett.

Ripley: You leave flowers for Flea? Bennett: I left a beer, and a dime, why? Ripley: No reason.

She got into the Bronco and sat for a moment, staring at the cemetery. Someday she would end up there, and she hoped, as she turned the car on, that someone would visit her and play her favorite song.  ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky stared down at her response while Alpine wound her way through his legs. So, not gone. He sat with that for a moment, thumb hovering over his screen. What was he supposed to do with that?

“What do you want for dinner?” he asked the kitten. She meowed.

“Chinese does sound good,” he replied.

He glanced at his watch. He’d give her two hours to get home. It was only three o'clock anyway. He showered. Changed into clothes that felt more like him. Put on a movie in the background. He opened the fridge—and stopped short.

Food. Real food. The kind she didn’t buy unless she planned to be around for more than a day. His beer, too. Cold and familiar. He hesitated before reaching for a bottle. Groceries meant longevity. It hit him in the chest—quiet, heavy. She didn’t just stop by. She stocked the fridge. That meant something.

His crystal blue eyes drifted around the kitchen and living room, a new throw blanket, new wall hangings, an empty vase waiting for flowers—his gaze lingered on the half cracked door in the hallway through the archway of the living room. 

“It’s rude to snoop,” he told Alpine. "But we're doing it." The cat blinked slowly up at him. He opened the beer, took a long pull, and walked to the closet with purposeful steps.

He opened the door. Flipped on the light. Jackets, normal enough, but behind and under those. Tough boxes stacked on each other, cardboard boxes of old Army uniforms. 

He pursed his lips and opened the first one that came to hand.

Medals.

His brows furrowed. He crouched down intrigued, setting the beer beside him.

Army Commendation Medal. Army Achievement Medal. A Distinguished Service Cross.

He pulled out his phone to search for their meanings. He recognized them, but not enough to name the deeds done to receive them. 

The more he searched, snapping photos for the search engine to ID, the more his head tipped to the side. These weren't run of the mill medals. They were elite-tier warfighter. That was the kind of record that got people recruited for things she never talked about.

He reached deeper. A Purple Heart.

His fingers stilled. He lifted it out slowly.

Not for the first time, he wondered who Ripley really was.

His thumb brushed over the patches he drew out, Velcro backed. A Ranger tab, other patches that he had no idea what they meant, an infrared USA flag patch—Under those and the medals were photos, printed off on standard photo paper, curling at the edges. 

She looked so damn young. Carefree in her desert fatigues. Always in the center of the group. Wick was in a lot of them—grinning, flipping off the camera, throwing an arm over her shoulder.

He dug deeper.

Photos from childhood. A pigtailed Ripley on a plastic trike, holding a toy phone to her ear, a toothless grin taking up half her face.

He smiled faintly. Shook his head.

Then—at the bottom—a newer photo.

Bucky blinked.

It was them. Haley’s wedding.

She was in that long black dress. Hair curled. Eyes soft and bright. The wedding photographer had caught the moment mid-dance—her hand on his shoulder, her smile tilted up toward him like he was the only man in the room.

And him? Bucky licked his lips and sighed. He looked at her like she was the rarest gemstone in the room—and he hadn’t even known it showed. He stared at it for a long time. Longer than he meant to. "This is gonna hurt." He muttered to himself.

Bucky set aside the photo and looked at the other boxes.

A shadowbox with a folded flag. An old pair of hockey skates—he stared at those a beat longer. Not overly surprised. He knew she loved watching games, always had a comment about the crease or a bad call. But seeing the scuffed boots, worn laces tied together like they’d been tossed over a shoulder once upon a time—that landed differently. 

He dug deeper and scoffed when his hand hit the familiar shape of a paperback. He pulled it free, eyebrows lifting.

The cover was aggressively… passionate. A burly man in a kilt, chest bared to the wind, holding a flushed woman in a half-undone dress like he’d just pulled her out of a bodice-ripping brawl.

The Highlander’s Duchess.

He flipped it open and found an inscription on the inside cover, faded but legible.

Dear Roo,

I saw this and figured it might make you laugh, but maybe on some downtime in Afghanistan you can read it.

I love you from this world into the next.

Mama

December 2012

He stared at it for a second, thumb resting on the page. The spine was wrecked—creased and soft, like it had been read a dozen times, probably more. Dog-eared pages. Notes in the margins. Torn bits of gum wrappers used as bookmarks.

She’d read this on every deployment. Carried it like a tether to home. He exhaled through his nose, smile pulling crooked. “You soft-ass, closet romantic.”

The garage door rattled.

He froze. “Fuck.”

He scrambled up too fast, cracked his head on the low shelf above the boxes, and bit down a swear between clenched teeth. Still rubbing the sore spot, he shoved the book back into the crate and slammed the closet door shut just as Ripley opened the kitchen door from the garage.

He spun around like he hadn’t just been elbows-deep in her entire emotional history. Alpine trotted past his feet with a chirp like a traitor, and he tried very hard to look normal.

Ripley set her bag down. Keys in the dish. Shoes off. Jacket hung on the hook.

He had her routine memorized. Every quiet, practiced move. She didn’t look at him right away—just moved through the house. she glanced up, brown eyes sharp as ever.

“What did you do?” she asked, low and measured.

Bucky froze mid-sip of beer, bottle paused just shy of his lips. His expression was neutral—too neutral. A little too still. Like a guy trying to pass a lie detector test with sheer willpower.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, calm. Controlled. But his eyes flicked—just once—toward the hall closet. Ripley caught it. Alpine, traitor that she was, meowed once and trotted right over to the closet door like she had evidence to submit.

Ripley didn’t move. Just stared at him. One brow arched.

He took a drink like it might buy him time. “I… fed the cat,” he added.

Alpine sneezed.

Ripley studied him for a long moment, weight shifting onto one hip like she was deciding whether to throw a punch or a lifeline. “I have a question for you,” she said.

“Yes.” No hesitation.

“You don’t even know the question.”

His lips twitched into a near smile. “Still yes.”

She huffed a short breath, almost a laugh, and opened the cupboard. From it, she pulled down a wine glass and the bottle of Riesling she’d picked up on the way home—one of the few things that hadn’t changed. She uncorked it calmly, poured with precision, like she needed the ritual.

“Is it safe to say that we can’t go back to the way things were before—” she swirled the glass, her free hand gesturing vaguely, “—everything went to fucking shit.”

That pulled him forward. Bucky crossed the room slowly, brows furrowed, focused on her like she’d dropped a live grenade and was daring him to pick it up.

“In what sense of ‘the way things were’?” he asked, even doing the air quotes. He was trying to keep it light, but his eyes had already gone serious.

Ripley took a slow sip, held the glass against her chest like a shield. Her fingers curled around the stem. “I hurt you,” she said quietly, the words soaking into the space between them like water into dry earth. “And I will never be able to apologize enough for that.”

That stopped him cold. His shoulders eased down just slightly. The anger—or whatever was left of it—didn’t flare up. It didn’t need to. The pain had already done its work. Bucky tilted his head. His voice, when it came, was careful. Not cold. Just cautious.

“Are you apologizing?” 

Ripley cut her gaze to him, jaw tightening like she was bracing for impact. “I apologize for the way it was done,” she said—steady, but not unfeeling. “But not that I did it. I was trying to protect you.”

Bucky blinked. His jaw ticked—just once—but he didn’t move. “By disappearing?” he asked, voice low, rough around the edges. “By leaving me behind to come up with all sorts of scenarios—all of those were you dead in them, by the way, in case you were curious.”

Her shoulders rose slightly. Not in defense—more like restraint. “I didn’t know how else to keep you safe,” she said. “If they’d known how much you meant to me, they would’ve used it. They were already looking. I needed you far away from all of it.”

He stepped in, slow and deliberate, stopping just short of touching her. “You didn’t give me the choice.”

“And if I had?” she countered, chin lifting. “Would you have stayed away?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked. His eyes searched hers. “Can I be honest, Rip?”

She gave a small, almost bitter smile and gestured with her wine glass. “You can always be honest with me, Bucky.”

He nodded, considering. “You’re shit at apologizing.”

She rolled her eyes, snorted. A humorless smile ghosted across her mouth. “Okay—” she took a long sip of wine, then set the glass aside. “Is that what we’re doing? You wanna fight?”

Bucky rolled his eyes, turned away from her as he dug his fingers angrily into his hair. "Why does everything have to be a fucking fight with you, Ripley? I've got seventy fucking years of it why the fuck would I wanna fight you?"

She shrugged. “Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”

His eyes snapped to hers. “You know what would make me feel better?”

She didn’t blink. “What?”

His voice dropped. Low. Quiet. Measured. “Laying you down on the floor and fucking the fight right out of you.” The words hit the space between them like a slap. Ripley inclined her chin—that regal gesture that always made him want her more. Bucky’s jaw clenched. “But that’s not gonna fix it, is it?” He whispered.

"Can we all," she began slowly. "Just agree that I'm a lost cause and you shouldn't waste your time on someone who's damaged beyond repair."

"If people, you included, had believed that about me I wouldn't be standing here trying to stop you from going down the road you're on. I’m not the enemy, Rip,” Bucky said, his voice low, eyes softening as he stepped closer. He didn’t touch her—that would’ve wrecked them both.

Her eyes welled with tears so fast she had to look at the ceiling. Her throat worked to swallow the lump. “I know.”

“Baby, I don’t think you do,” he whispered.

The word shattered something. That baby—the softness of it. The memory of him whispering it into her shoulder while he fucked her, or before their last goodbye. The first tear slipped, rolling back into her hairline.

“Let’s table this for now—”

Her laugh came short and brusque. “God, that is such a political thing to say.”

His smile cracked wide and real, and he chuckled. “It is, isn’t it?” He nudged her wine glass toward her. “Come on. Let’s order some food, relax—and from here on out—”He did touch her then. Two fingers under her chin, tipping her face toward his, gentle but firm. "It’s not you against everyone else. You’ve got people on your side. Let them be on your side.”

She wrinkled her nose a little, but nodded. It was a start. “Okay,” she murmured, taking her wine glass again.

“Promise?” Bucky lifted his beer, angling it toward her in a half-toast. His voice was quieter now, steadier. “I know you don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he added, thumb tracing the label. “But this one—”

“I promise,” she said, meeting his eyes. Holding. Not flinching. A long breath. “I promise, Bucky.” She tapped her glass gently to his bottle. It clicked soft and sure between them—more vow than toast.

Bucky nodded and slid the paper Chinese menu across the counter like it was muscle memory. “Still sesame chicken, crab rangoons, and egg rolls?” he asked quietly, glancing up at her.

Ripley arched a brow. “Is yours still chicken lo mein, spare ribs, and… mystery meat on a stick?”

Bucky grinned. “I’m almost one hundred percent sure it’s beef on a stick.” 

She smiled into her wine glass. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” She pushed off the counter. “Grab my card outta my bag—I’m gonna shower.”

He waited until she was halfway down the hallway, her shadow slipping toward the staircase. “Oh—Rip.”

She paused. Turned. One brow lifted in question. Bucky leaned against the counter, phone already in hand. “You remember those dates you owe me from Haley’s wedding?”

“Yeah…?”

“Mayor’s Gala. This Friday.” He smiled, lazy and loaded, dialing before she could argue. “I’m cashing in.”

Ripley blinked, surprised—but didn’t fight it.

“Hi,” Bucky said into the phone, already grinning wider. “I’d like to place an order for delivery—”

Ripley shook her head as she turned away, the hallway light catching the faintest smile tugging at her mouth. “A gala,” she muttered to herself, toeing open the bathroom door. “What the hell am I supposed to wear to a goddamn gala?”

The water hissed on, echoing softly against tile and thought. But even with his parting shot, even with the argument still crackling in the air like static— She stood still for a beat, one hand on the edge of the shower door.

His alarm buzzed low against the nightstand. Bucky groaned, rolled over, barely awake, and reached to silence it. The bed was warm. The body next to him—warmer still. His hand moved without thinking, like it had every right to. It was muscle memory—his body remembering what his heart had never unlearned. His palm curved over her hip, thumb brushing the waistband of her pants, gliding up across her ribs. He found the soft rise of her breast and cupped it instinctively. His thumb dragged over thin fabric, grazing her nipple.

Ripley shifted. Not away. Toward him. A quiet, breathy noise slipped from her throat as she leaned back into him. Her hips tilted subtly, body seeking his like it had done a hundred times in dreams.

He went still. Not breathing. Not moving. Fully awake. She leaned back into him. His hand stilled. Heat flushed through him, cruel and immediate. He shouldn’t. God, he shouldn’t. But he’d never wanted anything more than this stupid, reckless closeness. Just this.

“Buck,” she murmured, barely audible, lips brushing the pillow. “Missed this.”

Every cell in his body screamed to answer her, but the only thing he moved was his breath. His heart hammered so hard it felt like it might break through his ribs. Bucky swallowed hard, eyes wide open now, staring into the ceiling like it held all the answers. His hand stayed exactly where it was—her choice, not his—and every inch of him came online with a hunger he hadn’t let himself feel in months.

Alpine sat at the end of the bed, tail curled like a judgmental little comma, blue eyes locked on him with unsettling awareness. Bucky groaned softly, dragging his hand back, away from her, and rolling onto his back, the tent in his sweatpants both undeniable and infuriating. He glared at the cat as if it were her fault.

“Don’t give me that look,” he muttered. “You’re the one who curled up on her ass like we’re in a Hallmark movie.”

Alpine blinked slowly. Unmoved.

He looked down at himself again. “God, what am I doing?” He rubbed his hands over his face.

“What are you doing?” came Ripley’s voice, low and gravelly from the pillows.

He nearly jumped. “Jesus—”

She groaned, flopping an arm over her eyes, wincing as her wound pulled. “What time is it?”

“Five.”

“In the morning?” she asked, like that was somehow a personal insult.

“I’ve got meetings on the Hill.”

She peeled one eye open, hair half over her face. “Is that code? Like you’re going to hook up with Sam or stage a coup?”

“Both,” he deadpanned. “But I’ve gotta wear a tie for one of them.”

"I bet it's for the hook up," Ripley gave a humorless snort and flopped onto her back again, wincing slightly. “God, you weren’t this funny when we were sleeping together.”

“Yeah, well, I was occupied,” he said,

She smiled—just barely. “Yeah, well. Worth it, right?”

The air between them thickened. Too easy. Too dangerous. He didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Alpine sneezed delicately and hopped off the bed, as if even he knew better than to stay for the fallout.

“Are you coming back later?” she asked softly.

He paused in the doorway, back still to her. “Depends.” His metal hand tightened on the door frame.

“On what?”

His voice was quiet. “On if you want me to.”

“Mi casa, es su casa.” She said it casually. Too casually.

Bucky didn’t respond, just shook his head and left the room.

She shoved the covers off, still covered with sweat and dried blood, and winced as her feet hit the cold floor. He was moving around in the other room—drawers sliding, the closet opening and shutting, the faint rustle of pants being zipped up. Organized. Efficient. Distant.

She limped into the bathroom, flipped the light on, and froze. A horror show stared back. Hair matted, dried blood streaking her ribs. Eyes too big for her face. She looked like a ghost of the woman who had left him behind.

“Jesus,” she muttered, cranking the shower as hot as it would go and walking in without waiting. Steam rose instantly, fogging the mirror as she turned under the spray and twisted slightly to see the stitches along her ribs. Tidy. Even. Clean.

“Fuckers better at it than me,” she muttered darkly, one hand bracing on the tile. She leaned forward, letting the water scald down her back, jaw clenched.

She hadn’t asked for help. She hadn’t wanted it. But that was the cruelest part—want had nothing to do with need. The memory of his arm around her burned hotter than the water. She lay her forehead on the tile and squeezed her eyes shut.

She had missed him. His body. His voice. Him. All of him.

Every step she’d taken away from Georgetown had been another cut—slow, deliberate, self-inflicted. Every mission, every mile had carried a trace of him, buried under blood and vengeance.

The last time she saw him, she hadn’t even said she loved him. Not the way people were supposed to. No, she’d said: I decided the second I chose to love you… and walked away like it meant strength instead of cowardice.

She shut off the water and wrapped her hair in a towel. Her hands were trembling when she grabbed another to wrap her body. Twice, she dropped it that day.

He’d never said he loved her. Probably didn’t. She told herself that every day.

She stepped into the bedroom—naked, damp, unbothered. Bucky was in front of the mirror, trying to knot his tie, the crisp edges of his suit jacket already perfect.

“Do you mind?” she asked, dragging the towel from her hair to wrap her body instead. His gaze flicked to her, lingered for a moment.

“Not the first time I’ve seen you naked, Rip,” he said lightly, but his jaw tightened. He turned toward the mirror. Not to look. Not really. But her reflection caught him anyway—skin damp, back bare, the scar just below her ribs red and healing. His mouth went dry. He looked away.

She grunted and walked past him into the closet, pulling on dark-wash jeans and a black long-sleeve V-neck. When she returned, he was still struggling with the tie, as if it had personally insulted him.

“Turn toward me,” she said.

He did. She stepped close, tugged the knot loose, and started over. Her fingers brushed his throat, and he nearly flinched. Not from fear—from memory. Her hands used to mean safety. Now they just made him wonder when she’d vanish again.

“You should learn to do a Windsor,” she murmured, her focus on the fabric. “It’ll look good on camera.”

His blue gaze stayed fixed on her face—the small scar at the bridge of her nose, the crescent-shaped one on her eyebrow. The details he’d memorized before she vanished.

One hundred and forty-three days since he’d seen her like this—alive, close, real.

Her eyes flicked up to his, lingering there, dropping briefly to his mouth. She stepped away, grabbing a pair of socks from the dresser. “Do you need the Bronco?” she asked, tone too casual.

“No,” he said softly, clearing his throat. “I have a car coming.”

Her brows lifted slightly. “Campaign’s going well.”

He heard the unspoken part: I’ve been watching.

The room fell into a loaded quiet, the kind that came after explosions. He looked at her reflection one last time, the towel still clinging to her hair. His jaw flexed, but he said nothing. He turned, pocketed his phone, and left.

As the front door shut behind him, Ripley exhaled—slow, shaky, and full of everything she’d been pretending not to feel.

"I'm a lost cause," she told the little white kitten who was trying to climb her pant leg. She bent down and scooped Alpine into her hands. "Let's get you some breakfast."

Bucky climbed into the back of the black SUV, tugging the door shut with more force than necessary. The leather seat was cold against his palm. His tie felt too tight. His heart wouldn’t settle.

Claire’s texts were already stacked like dominoes on his screen, lighting it up one after another.

“Senator Hanover confirmed.” “Room change to 217A.” “Capitol Police need your updated ID.” “Need ETA.”

He blinked at them like they were written in a different language. The phone buzzed again.

Ripley.

He froze.

His thumb hovered for half a second too long before he tapped the notification open.

Ripley: If my being at the house makes you uncomfortable, I can go to Langley and crash at Club Med.

His chest went tight.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his mouth.

“Sir?” the driver asked, glancing in the rearview.

“I’m fine, Jim.” Liar. “Thanks.”

His fingers hovered over the screen. So many things he could say. So many things she hadn’t asked for. He could tell her no. Could say you don’t get to disappear and then ask me to be comfortable. He could remind her that the house is hers and she doesn’t need to ask. He could call her. Hear her voice. Hear what guilt sounds like in real time.

Instead, he typed one word.

Stay

No punctuation. No signature. Just that.

Because he didn’t want her gone. Not again.

Because even when it wrecked him, he still wanted her close. The message was sent with a soft whoosh that felt louder than it should.

He locked the phone, set it on the seat beside him, and stared out the tinted window. D.C. blurred past—brick and limestone, steel and glass. He barely saw any of it. His mind was back in the Georgetown hallway, the smell of blood and her sweat still vivid in his memory.

He’d never wanted to be a ghost more than in that moment. To move through the wall, the pain, the space between them, and just hold her without the weight of everything unsaid.

He’d walked away instead. Because showing up didn’t mean he knew what the hell to do now.

She’d been gone for months. And she didn’t just leave—she erased herself. No phone calls. No coordinates. Just silence.

“Rough night, sir?” Jim asked, friendly but cautious.

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, loosening his collar. “You could say that.”

He looked down at his hands. Flesh and metal. He remembered when both had touched her last night—one trembling, the other steady. He remembered the sound she made when his hand slid across her ribs that morning. Remembered the feel of her breast under his palm before he came to his senses. The way she leaned back into him. Like her body didn’t hold a grudge even when her mind should.

He pressed the heel of his palm into his forehead. He couldn’t go back to how things were. But he didn’t want a world where she wasn’t part of it either.

The SUV slowed, turning toward the Capitol.

“Couple protestors out front again,” Jim said casually. “Something about Sokovia, surveillance reform—same guys as last week.”

“Of course,” Bucky muttered.

He didn’t know how to be both: the man who helped carry the weight of a country, and the man who’d carry Ripley out of a warzone if she’d just let him.

He didn’t know how to be safe when the only woman who ever made him feel whole was also the one who disappeared without a goodbye.

The SUV came to a stop. Claire was already waiting on the curb, tablet in hand, brows furrowed. Bucky looked down at his phone one more time.

No reply.

He slid the phone into his pocket and opened the door.

Time to smile. Time to shake hands and talk policy like he wasn’t still carrying a woman’s blood under his fingernails and her voice in his bones. Time to be someone the world could trust—even if he couldn’t trust himself to let her go.

The meetings took up his entire morning. By lunchtime, Bucky was two steps from putting his fist through the drywall outside the conference room. He didn’t speak once during the elevator ride back down. He just yanked off his tie and loosened the top button of his dress shirt like it might help him breathe.

The second he stepped out onto the sidewalk, he pulled out his phone and hit the name he always did when the silence got too loud.

Sam picked up on the second ring. “Please tell me you didn’t punch a lobbyist.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away.

“That bad, huh?” Sam paused. “You at least get through your three‑minute smile quota?”

“Barely.” Bucky exhaled hard, turning the corner toward the reflecting pool. “It’s not the job.”

“Well, that’s terrifying,” Sam said. “So what is it? You’re quieter than normal. Like scary quiet.”

Bucky’s pace slowed. His voice dropped like a confession. “She’s back.”

Dead silence on the other end of the line.

“All of them?” Sam asked, voice suddenly sober.

“I don’t know.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “But she is.”

“Shit.”

Bucky sat down hard on the steps. “She was just there. Granted, she had a gun to my head when I walked in—”

Sam sighed. “You okay?”

“No,” Bucky said flatly.

“You want her gone?”

He didn’t answer.

“Bucky.”

“I want her safe,” he said finally, voice tight. “I want to be mad. I want to yell. I want to hold her so tight she can’t leave again, and I wanna run at the same time because I know she will.”

“Yeah,” Sam said quietly. “I warned you, man.”

“I don’t know how to do this, Sam,” Bucky admitted quietly, his blue gaze tracking everyone who walked by, anyone who looked his way. "What do I do?"

He could hear Sam's sigh and knew the look all too well. "Buck. You gotta figure out what you want from her first—lay it all out—cards on the table. Because if you sleep with her again—if you opened yourself up again—the next time she has to leave, I dunno if you can go through that again, man."

Bucky sighed heavily and rubbed his hand over his face. "I hate that you're right."

"Buck," Sam said gently. "It's okay if you still love her—just maybe get around to saying it this time." --------------------------------------------------------------------------

"—-Junior Congressman Barnes cast the final vote today—"

Ripley stood in the kitchen, hip cocked against the island, MacBook open as she placed a grocery delivery. Her brown eyes flicked briefly to the TV, where the news was going. Her lips tightened.

There was a camera shot of him, his hair combed back, perfectly in place, with that disgustingly good-looking trimmed stubble. He didn't look out of place, but he didn't look comfortable either. She had pictured Bucky as a lot of things, but a politician wasn't one of them. Alpine sat staring at her from a barstool, her blue eyes slowly blinking.

"I ordered you a mouse toy," Ripley told the cat as she added more items to her cart. "It's purple. You're welcome." She looked over the rest of her list. Normal things for normal people. "Does he still eat Lucky Charms?" She asked the cat. Alpine stared at her and mewed. "Yeah, you're right." She added it to the cart and double-checked that she had milk in the cart as well. "Okay," she stepped back after placing the order, and looked around the house.

She thought back to when she had bought it. Everything had gone to shit right afterwards, and everything she had managed to do since then was in between missions and going dark. She rubbed her lower lip with her thumb, half in thought, her brown eyes trailing over the kitchen and living room. Still slightly sparse. Some paintings wouldn't kill her; something that said, 'Hey, I live here.'

She sighed and wondered not for the first time since turning her key in the lock, if coming back to Georgetown—to him—had been the best move. Her gaze shifted to the kitten now trying to climb up her sleeve. "You have claws you know," Ripley winced as the little fish hooks dug in, and scooped the kitten up, holding her close to her bosom. "You'd better be careful." She told the cat. "I don't think we could survive if anything happened to you….I'd have to go fucking John Wick on someone."

Ripley shut her MacBook, walked over to the closet beneath the stairs, and opened it. Her old life sat in boxes, footlockers, and whatever else she could cram it into. She reached past it all for her SIG, her holster, and her jacket. "I'm gonna need you," she talked over her shoulder to Alpine, who had relocated to the blue velvet armchair in the living room. "To hold down the fort for a few hours."

Alpine curled into a neat little ball, blue eyes squinting at Ripley. The woman smiled softly, shrugged her soft shell jacket on, slid her cross-body purse over it, and left. --------------------------------------------------------------------------

She grunted as she manhandled the cardboard box containing a cat tree into the back of the Bronco. "Get in there," she groaned, pushing hard enough that she winced at her stitches. "You stupid mother—" It finally slid into place among the other bags and purchases she had made. Almost six months' worth of retail therapy stared back at her.

"This was excessive," she muttered to herself. Regardless, she headed home, unloaded. Had timed it perfectly for her Instacart delivery. She hung wall decor, nothing too crazy, black and white nature scenes. A framed print of a quote from Pride and Prejudice. She stared at the cat tree in the box. "I don't have the patience to put that together for you today," she told Alpine, who was crawling into a paper bag, attacking the purple mouse Ripley had tossed at her.

Everything was put away, everything was clean, everything felt normal.

Her phone buzzed, a calendar reminder.

Visit Flea.

The flicker of the TV was the only light in the apartment in the early morning gray of Brooklyn. Bucky sat on the floor beside the couch still sweaty from the run he had gone on, Alpine curled up in his lap, her purr steady against his palm as he scratched behind one snowy ear. The late-night news anchor was droning on, voice polished and emotionless.

“—in a surprising turn, Dr. Greg Hamilton, a biomedical researcher who had been missing for nearly six months, was returned safely to his family in Allentown, Pennsylvania earlier this morning.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked. Just a clean little package with a neat bow tied around it. Bucky exhaled through his nose, slow. He glanced down at Alpine, who blinked up at him with soft, unbothered blue eyes.

“Authorities are calling the recovery ‘a miracle.’ Hamilton said he's glad to be home, and intends to keep his family close to him. He has refused to comment on who his rescuers were. ”

He muted the TV. “Miracle,” he muttered. “Sure.”

His gaze flicked to the coffee table where the burner had sat quiet since two missed calls. Alpine climbed up his chest like she could sense it—headbutted his chin, kneaded his hoodie with tiny, determined paws. Bucky let her, leaned back against the couch with a quiet sigh, and let his eyes drift closed.

He didn’t need the news to tell him what really happened. What the story really told him—what no headline could spell out—

Ripley Todd was back on U.S. soil, and she had brought her war with her.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

The private jet was a far cry from the cargo planes and Quinjet jumps he was used to. Smooth leather seats. Complimentary espresso. No parachutes. He didn’t like it. Bucky leaned forward, peering into the mesh front of the soft cat carrier at his feet. Alpine was curled up in a drugged little loaf, snoring softly thanks to the vet’s travel sedative. Lucky bastard.

Claire DuPont—green-eyed, auburn-haired, and too sharp for her own good—sat down across from him with an iPad in one hand and a coffee in the other. Her blazer was unwrinkled. Her energy? Unflappable.

“We should go over the speech one last time,” she said in that perfectly measured voice that always made him feel like a high school delinquent in the principal’s office.

Bucky sighed and stared out the window at the clouds. “Okay.”

Claire tapped the screen. “The second paragraph—where you say you’re going to ‘hunt down those who’ve wronged the people close to you’—it’s a little… loaded.”

He turned his head slowly to meet her eyes. “But I am.”

“I don’t doubt that, Mr. Barnes,” she said, folding her hands neatly over the tablet. “But voters don’t need to picture you doing it with a rifle and a grudge.”

A beat.

“They should,” he said flatly. “That’s the honest version.”

Claire offered a tight smile—the kind people used when they were screaming internally. “And I am deeply grateful for your honesty. But we’re running for Congress, not casting a revenge flick.”

“Then maybe we’re doing it wrong,” Bucky muttered.

Claire didn’t blink. “Let’s try ’hold the powerful accountable’ instead. It polls better than ‘hunt down.’”

He made a low sound in his throat and glanced down at Alpine, who blinked groggily in solidarity.

“Fine,” he muttered. 

"The Mayor of New York is hosting a gala next week,” Claire continued, not looking up from her tablet. Her Apple Pencil twirled lazily between two perfectly manicured fingers. “You have yet to RSVP.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His gaze had drifted to the burner phone peeking out from the half-zipped pocket of his backpack, tucked just under Alpine’s collapsible water dish like it didn’t matter.

Like it hadn’t buzzed once and then gone silent for two weeks.

“I’ll go,” he said finally.

Claire perked up like a teacher whose most difficult student just volunteered to read aloud. “Excellent. And your plus-one?”

He hesitated.

Claire tapped the screen, not missing a beat. “You know voters love a candidate with a personal life. It’s humanizing. Grounding. Makes you look less like a trauma-laced, semi-feral ex–super soldier and more like someone who, you know, enjoys a nice Chardonnay and a slow dance, a little arm candy.”

He arched a brow. “Arm candy, huh?”

Her smile was pure PR. “Someone who smiles well in photos and won’t stab a donor mid-conversation.”

“I’ll ask someone,” he lied smoothly, already knowing damn well there was only one person he wanted on his arm—and she didn’t even know he was flying into D.C. And on top of that she would be one to stab a donor mid-conversation.

Or maybe she did know he was flying to D.C. Maybe that missed call meant more than a breadcrumb trail across intel hubs and drone scans. Maybe it meant something closer to home.

He swallowed and zipped the bag up again. “No promises though.”

Claire tapped her iPad a few more times, then glanced up at him over the rim of her glasses. “If you’re struggling to find a plus-one, I could always go with you.”

Bucky stilled.

She smiled—polished and practiced. “It’s not unheard of. Staffers and candidates. Voters like familiarity. And I clean up well.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at her with the kind of expression that had once made enemies forget how to breathe. Finally, he said, “Claire.”

“Yes?” she said, tucking her hair behind one ear, already smug.

“Thank you but no .”

Her smile faltered, but only for a second. “Of course,” she said lightly. “Just thought I’d offer. Image and all.”

He turned back toward the window, voice flat. “Appreciate the offer. Still no.”

She nodded, tapping her stylus again, expression unreadable. “Understood.”

But Alpine, curled up in the carrier beside him, flicked an ear like damn, girl, read the room.

Claire moved on, efficient. “Your D.C. itinerary has been updated. You’ll be at the Capitol Building three times this week—closed-door subcommittee hearings, and two press availabilities.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose.

“Your temporary office will be in Foggy Bottom. Clean, secure, and within ten minutes of the Hill.” Claire swiped to a new page. “I’ve scheduled a meet-and-greet with Senator Fisher. His team wants to talk about your veterans’ bill.”

“Great,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Just what I want. More handshakes.”

“You’re good at them,” Claire said without a trace of sarcasm. “You’re polling well in blue-collar districts, especially since you added the PTSD treatment funding to your platform.”

“People like knowing I’ve been through hell?”

“They like knowing you survived it,” she said crisply. she glanced at the cat carrier, she added, “And that you now travel with a kitten. Humanizes you.”

He looked over at Alpine, dead asleep, limbs flopped dramatically over the blanket in her carrier.

“She’s got more charisma than I do,” he muttered.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Claire said mildly, and made another note on her iPad. "You should make it a point to go to dinner somewhere. With someone—show your fun side."

"I do have a personal agenda in D.C. as well," Bucky reminded her. "I'd like to see some old friends."

"Of course. The hotel--"

"I'm not staying a hotel," he said smoothly. "I'll be staying in Georgetown."

Claire’s stylus froze mid-note. Just for a second. Then she recovered with the kind of grace that only came from dealing with senators, CEOs, and men who thought they knew better. “I see,” she said lightly, glancing at her tablet like it might offer clarification. “That wasn’t on the itinerary.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be.” Bucky leaned back in his seat, tone cool. “But it’s where I’m staying.”

“Do you need me to notify security? Set up a sweep?”

“No. It’s trust me it's already secure.” He didn’t elaborate further, didn't need to, it wasn't the first time he had stayed at the Georgetown house while Ripley had been gone.

Claire’s eyes flicked to the cat carrier again. Alpine yawned, stretched one paw out dramatically, curled back into sleep like none of this concerned her.

"I don't see why you can't stay at the hotel with the rest of us…"

Bucky watched the window, voice quiet. “It’s personal.”

There was a pause. Not long. But long enough for the weight of it to settle.

Claire nodded, tapping once more on her iPad. “Very well. I’ll adjust your D.C. schedule accordingly.”

She didn’t ask who lived in Georgetown.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

The late January wind had teeth—sharper than Bucky remembered— he stepped out of the car with a suitcase in one hand, a backpack slung over his shoulder, and a kitten softly snoring inside the carrier. Her Georgetown house stood quiet and dark, not a single light to greet him. No porch glow. No sound. Just the cold bite of a winter night.

He slid the key into the lock slowly. The door creaked open with the same familiar weight and silence. No chirp from the alarm. His brows furrowed. The last time he had used the house he had armed it, he always armed it.

He shut the door softly behind him, every one of his senses firing. Then reached behind his back and drew the pistol tucked into his waistband. He’d started carrying again. Not for politics. For instinct.

Bucky moved down the hallway in measured steps, pulse steady. The living room yawned open to his right, still cloaked in shadow.

The cold press of a muzzle met his temple.

He reacted instantly—grabbed the gun, the arm attached with it, twisted, shoved—

Stopped.

Because he felt her.

Smelled her perfume.

“Jesus Christ!” Ripley snarled, yanking her Sig down and out of his face. “I could’ve fucking shot you!”

“I could’ve fucking killed you!” he barked back, releasing her like she’d burned him. “What the hell were you thinking?!”

“What was I thinking?” she snapped, breath still catching. “What were you doing creeping in like that?! You’re in my house—” 

"You just show up outta the blue after months of nothing—" Bucky hissed. She stared up at him in the dark nostrils flaring. They were pressed together still, muscles coiled. Breath short. Alpine let out a slow, offended meow from inside the carrier, as if scolding both of them for the noise.

Ripley’s head snapped toward the sound. “What the hell is that?”

Bucky lowered his gun away from her, pushed hers away from his face with a look like thunder. “That’s Alpine.”

“Alpine,” Ripley echoed, eyes flicking to the carrier set by his suitcase. “Right. Okay. I need—” She held up one hand, bracing it against the bookshelf like it was the only thing keeping her upright. “Just—give me a sec—” She set her SIG on the bookcase.

He stepped forward instinctively, hand reaching for her without thinking. His fingers met her soft shirt, damp just below her breast She flinched—but didn’t pull away.

“Rip?” His voice dropped. Gentle now. Confused. Alarmed. His hand slipped a little lower, and that’s when he felt it.

The stickiness. Warm and wet. Blood.

His heart punched into his ribs. “Jesus. You’re hurt.” 

“It wasn’t you, relax, tiger,” she muttered, shouldering off the doorframe with a wince. "You're not that good anymore." 

Bucky ignored that, and flicked the light on. The scene sharpened instantly: a smeared trail of blood from the garage entrance to the living room rug. Not gushing, but steady. Bad enough to make his stomach knot.

“Let the cat out,” she added over her shoulder, already moving. Slow, limping slightly.

He watched her cross the room like it was any other night. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d seen her in months. Like she hadn’t just pulled a gun on him. Like she wasn’t bleeding all over the goddamn hardwood floors.

She made it to the couch and sat down hard, exhaling. A towel was already laid out beneath her. Her first aid kit sat open on the coffee table, next to a headlamp, a bottle of tequila, and red-soaked gauze.

“Rip,” he said carefully, setting Alpine free from the carrier. “What the hell happened?”

She shrugged, like that explained the blood. “You know how it goes.” Ripley laid back on the couch like it was just another day, took a shot of tequila, flicked on her headlamp, and grabbed her first aid kit with one hand while keeping pressure on her side with the other.

Bucky stormed across the room, already yanking off his suit jacket. “No, no, no. Ripley.” His voice was low and sharp, more steel than silk.

She didn’t even glance at him, her fingers trembling as she retrieved the suture needle from her kit. “I’ve got it.”

“The hell you do,” he snapped, standing beside her lying form on the couch. “You’re bleeding all over the furniture.”

“I’m on a towel,” she replied like that was somehow better.

“You’re on drugs,” Bucky loosened his tie, loosened the first few buttons of his shirt. "You can't see straight."

“Tequila isn't a drug.” She winced as she tried to sit up straighter, but Bucky was already reaching for the hem of her shirt. "And I can see just fine."

“Lift it," He ordered. "Or I will."

Ripley snorted softly, and said lowly, “If you buy me dinner first.”

He gave her a look flat enough to kill weeds, but the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. “Rip.”

She exhaled hard through her nose and lifted the hem, revealing a jagged gouge along her right rib cage. The stitching was rushed—mid-job, maybe, before he walked in and nearly got shot for his trouble. “I’m fine,” she muttered, more out of muscle memory than truth.

Her head tipped back against the pillow, breath ragged, pain curling the edges of her voice. “You grew out your hair,” she said quietly, head cocking to one side. “And your beard.”

He stared at her for a beat, caught in a quiet loop of disbelief and awe, like the rest of the room had ceased to exist. His voice cracked down the middle. “Jesus, I missed you.”

“Yeah?” she rasped, eyes glassy from the hurt—or maybe just the weight of it all. “That’s nice to hear.”

Bucky rolled up his sleeves, took the headlamp from her, and slipped it on without a word. The beam lit her side in harsh white as he knelt beside her. She watched him through half-lidded eyes, too tired to be coy.

“You got beefy,” she murmured. “You been workin’ out?”

“What is it Omega always says?” he replied, voice dry as he examined the mess she’d made of herself. “Hide your feelings in your muscles.”

She gave a breathy, pained laugh. “Is that what you’ve been doing?” It had meant to come out as a joke, as a way to poke fun at the shit show of a time they had both had.

His jaw ticked. He didn’t answer. He moved her right arm over her head, grabbed a fresh gauze pad and pressed down—hard. Her body arched against it with a strangled groan, head falling back against the couch cushion, throat working through the pain.

“I deserve that,” she ground out, voice cracking. “I fucking deserve that.”

Bucky didn’t reply. He just reached for the suture kit, hands steady, breath quiet. His eyes lingered on her face longer than they needed to. Bucky laid his wide palm across her forehead, fingers brushing damp hair back, clearing sweat from her brow.

“Rip.”

“Mmm?”

“How long’s it been like this?” he asked, quieter now—like the hush before a bomb drops.

She licked her lips, eyes fluttering open to half-mast. “What day is it?”

“Technically? Wednesday.”

Her head rolled slightly against the couch. “Sunday…”

Bucky’s face didn’t move, but something in him snapped. Not loud. Not visible. Just quiet devastation. He looked down at the wound again, jaw clenched. “You’ve been bleeding since Sunday?”

“Technically?" She asked. 

He closed his eyes for a second. Just one. And got back to work. She passed out on the second stitch. Alpine, unbothered as ever, clawed her way up onto the couch and promptly curled up on Ripley’s stomach, purring like it was her divine assignment to heal this human.

Bucky glanced at her, at them—his hands still moving, still stitching.

“Alpine,” he said softly, “meet your future mother.” He paused, tying off the thread with practiced ease. His voice dropped to a murmur. “If she doesn't kill herself first." 

He looked down at Ripley—finally able to study her without her sharp gaze cutting back. She’d lost weight. Her hair looked shorter, but he couldn't tell for sure. His eyes skimmed her torso, half-exposed and scattered with fresh bruises, the kind you don’t get on accident.

His mouth tightened.

“All right,” he muttered, sliding his arms beneath her like it was nothing. Alpine blinked up at him from her perch, wide-eyed and unbothered. “You going for a free ride?” he asked quietly.

The kitten let out a soft mrrp but didn’t move. He lifted them both anyway—Ripley slack in his arms, Alpine curled against her like a fuzzy barnacle—and carried them upstairs, his body moving on muscle memory.

The bedroom was dark, but it smelled like her. He breathed it in and didn’t let himself think too hard as he laid her gently on the bed. Bucky padded into the bathroom, found a washcloth under the sink, and ran it under warm water. No soap. Just enough to clean her up without waking her—or dunking her in the damn tub.

He came back and knelt beside the bed, gentle as he wiped the blood from her side, the grit from her arms, the dried sweat from her collarbone. He worked in silence until it felt like too much.

“As far as reunions go,” he muttered to no one in particular, voice rough, “this isn’t what I had in mind.”

Alpine blinked at him from the pillows, tail flicking once.

He sighed and tossed the cloth into the laundry hamper, shaking his head. “Of course you picked now to come back.” 

He undressed, found the old pair of sweatpants he’d left in her drawer the last time he’d been in D.C. and pulled them on. Barefoot, he padded downstairs.

He finally set the damn alarm panel. Put out Alpine’s food and water, tucked the travel litter box beside the door. He checked on Ripley again—she hadn’t moved—and eased down beside her on the mattress, careful not to jostle her.

His eyes shut the moment his head hit the pillow.

And for the first time in months, Bucky Barnes slept.

“I am the one I’ve been waiting for.”

-Halestorm

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The world was dark. No moon. Just the whisper of desert sand and the soft whir of a drone overhead. They moved like ghosts through the midnight gloom of Iran—four figures, silent and sharp-edged.

Bennett crouched at the edge of a rusting connex box, glanced over his shoulder at Wick, and held up two fingers. Ripley and Boone peeled off as one, crossing to the next cover—a rusted-out truck that reeked of piss and sun-baked oil. Boone made a quiet noise of disgust.

Ripley cut him a look sharp enough to draw blood.

Their trail had led from the U.S.A. to a Swedish bank and security deposit box and where offshore accounts pointed to the now-dead director of Sablepoint—the facility that had gone up in flames.

The CIA, FBI and S.W.O.R.D. had gotten into a pissing match over who’d claim the teams left behind. Omega wasn’t anywhere to be found when it came time to pick sides. And even then, Steven Fleanick was dead. Now there were only three that remained.

Ripley moved forward, M4 tight to her shoulder, posture low and lethal. She paused at the door of a squat cinderblock building, waited for Flea to get into position, then nodded once. She kicked in the door.

“I want him alive,” she snapped, already stepping into the dark as Boone, Wick and Bennett flowed in behind her. There was a scuffle in the other room, a loud thud, a cry. 

Bennett and Wick hauled a dirt-grimed man into the main room, dumping him hard into his knees near a cracked concrete pillar. Ripley didn’t even look up—she was rifling through a cluttered workstation, loose documents and grimy tools scattered like breadcrumbs to something worse.

“Who do you work for?” she asked, calm, sliding her rifle behind her back with one fluid motion.

“Fuck you,” the man spat, voice ragged.

Ripley grinned, teeth white against the streaks of black grease paint on her face. “American,” she noted, amused. “What’s an American doing holed up in an abandoned terror cell in Iran?”

“You think you scare me?” he huffed a laugh. Blood ran sluggishly from his temple where Bennett had clipped him with the butt of his rifle. “You’re nothing compared to what's coming.”

Wick raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bold statement, Cotton,” he drawled. “Let’s see how that works out for you.”

Boone posted by the door, his quiet green eyes surveying the scene let the corner of his mouth tip a little in a wry smile. 

“Doctor Greg Hamilton,” Ripley said casually, drifting across the room, her gloved fingers skating along rusted tools and handwritten notes. “Graduated top of your class at Johns Hopkins. Married your high school sweetheart, Cheryl. Three beautiful children—Andrew, Abigail, and Alicia. You were really feeling the A’s, huh?”

She crossed to him slowly and knelt, her tone unreadable. Two fingers lifted his chin, brown eyes boring into him—flat and cold. “Ages five, three, and two months and three days,” she continued softly.

“All attending Little Caterpillars Daycare in Allentown, Pennsylvania. Cheryl works as an administrative assistant for Victoria Delaney. Delaney & Associates. Four bed, three bath, two story colonial, blue siding…1332 Maelstrom Road. White picket fence, kids toys in the yard….Homey..” She waited for a moment, letting him absorb. “Am I missing anything?”

The silence that followed was thick.

"Dog’s name is Hank. Original,” she said, standing slowly and walking away. “Your wife drives a Chevy Equinox. Pennsylvania plates. Your oldest daughter takes ballet at Swan’s Dance Studio every Wednesday at six. She’s a snowflake this year, right? Nutcracker’s coming right up.”

Greg’s breath stuttered. Fear coiled low and slick in his gut, oily and nauseating.

“Who are you?” he rasped.

Ripley turned back with a soft, almost pitying smile. She crouched in front of him again and removed her helmet one-handed, setting it gently on the dusty floor. “Someone who wants answers,” she said, “in exchange for your family’s life.”

“You’re insane, you think you can do this your way and not get fucked in the end?”

“No, not insane,” Ripley murmured, drawing her Sig from the thigh holster without fanfare. “I’m highly motivated.” She rested the muzzle against his jaw and tilted his face up until their eyes locked. “The person you work for wired $2.6 million into your offshore Swedish account the day before my team was ambushed in a shithole called Caucasus, Georgia. Your name was in Hal Levison’s journal. He’s dead, by the way, in case you missed that news.”

Greg’s eyes widened.

“And more importantly," she went on, licking her full lips. "On the day my teammate was murdered an additional 2.2 million found it's way into your pocket. Now, you hurt someone I love very, very much,” she whispered, a flicker of memory catching behind her eyes—Bucky airborne, blood in the dirt, the sound of creatures screaming. She steadied her breathing. "And whoever you worked for killed my teammate, so yeah Greg, we're doing this my way." 

She sniffed once, ran her tongue over her teeth before she spoke. "Now I don’t want to hurt your kids, Greg.” A beat. “But I will.”

“Jesus Christ, Reaper,” Wick muttered under his breath, sharing a loaded look with Bennett over her head.

“You’re Reaper?” Greg breathed, blinking like the name alone might strike him down.

Ripley arched a brow, icy amusement. “Do I have a reputation that precedes me?”

Greg’s face twisted. “If I tell you anything they'll kill me.”

“If you tell me nothing,” Ripley said flatly, “I’ll kill your family.” She let it hang there, calm and unshaken. Then added, almost kindly: “And you can spend the rest of your miserable life knowing you could’ve prevented that.”

Greg blinked, sweat beading beneath the grime on his forehead. His voice, when it came, was tight. “You don’t understand… it’s not just her. There’s others. She’s just the one they sent to keep us in line.”

Ripley didn’t flinch. “Then give me a name.”

He shook his head. “I give you a name, they’ll know. I give you her name, I’m dead before morning. And so are you.”

Wick scoffed. “You think she hasn’t heard that one before?”

Ripley rolled her eyes . "Give me a name Greg . All I need is my next target and the heats off you….off your first born."

Greg looked at Ripley, really looked. Her jaw was set, her eyes unreadable, calm as still water but with something coiled behind them. He looked away first. “We all answer to someone who called himself the Power Broker,” he said finally, voice low. “I don’t know his real name. No one does.”

Ripley tilted her head. “Power Broker.”

Greg nodded, almost frantic now. “The Power Broker controls Europe whether people know it or not. And he has people working for him. People who know shit. Government, private sector, defense contractors, even Avengers—real dirty leverage.”

“And you work for him?” Ripley asked.

“I worked for Levison,” Greg snapped. “But half of Sablepoint’s funding came from this guys shell companies. We were just supposed to be building prototypes. I didn’t know what they were doing in Georgia or—or Romania. I swear.” Ripley stared at him, slowly stood, thumb brushing the safety on her Sig. “They're building something,” he added quickly. “Something big. The ones in Romania? That was a test site."

She paused. "You've given me a nickname, Greg, what good is that to me?"

"Oleg Novogradov, he was part of it."

"Yeah, well, he's dead too." She said airily.

"Markov," Greg twisted as Ripley walked behind him, racking her slide "There's a woman. Markov!"

"Where?"

"D.C. I dunno where!"

"First name?"

"It—it started with an 'I'."

“You just bought your daughter another round of the Nutcracker,” she said, turning toward the others. “Bag him." -----------------------------------------------------------------------------

She kept her word.

Greg Hamilton was dumped on his front lawn at 2:43 a.m. minimal injuries—bagged, zip-tied, and hogtied. Ripley rang the doorbell and didn’t wait for Cheryl to answer. She was already sliding into the black SUV before the porch light flared.

Inside, she pulled out the burner phone, thumbed the screen.

0245.

She stared at it for a beat. Hovered her thumb over Bucky's named before she slipped it back into the pouch on her plate carrier and leaned her head against the window.

From the driver’s seat, Bennett glanced at her in the rear view. “Where you wanna go, Rip?”

She didn’t open her eyes. “We split up again,” she murmured. “I’ll head back to Georgetown. Start shaking the trees in D.C.”

“I’ll reach out to Oz and Tango,” Wick said. “See what they can turn up.”

Silence settled. The soft hum of tires on asphalt. The drone of the heater Wick broke the silence with a quiet, hesitant: “Rip?”

She opened one eye. “Yeah, Danny?”

Wick's voice was soft. “You… you weren’t really gonna hurt his kids. Right? I mean, not for real.”

Ripley stared at the roof of the vehicle, silent.

“Of course not, Wick,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

And for just a moment, she wondered if she believed herself. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------

She opened the door to the Georgetown house. The air was stale but clean. Silent. The way a place gets when no one lives there, but someone still checks the locks. She moved automatically—disable the alarm (Bucky’s doing), check the windows, clear the garage. The Bronco was still there. The fridge was empty. No dishes in the sink.

But upstairs—She walked into her bedroom and stopped cold.

The bed was made, but his pillow was dented—just slightly. The scent hit her then: sandalwood, soap, something warm and clean that didn’t belong to blood or desert or smoke.

It was him. He’d been here. Recently.

Her knees nearly gave.

She didn’t call his name. Didn’t search the house. Just sat on the edge of the bed, slowly peeled her jacket off, and pressed her face into the pillow.

She didn’t cry. Not yet. She rose, shedding her clothes in a trail that led to the shower. Her soap, shampoo, conditioner—all sat untouched. Her eyes shifted, in the corner of the recessed shelf was a travel size bottle of his body wash, all but gone.

Clean towels sat where she always kept them. She turned the water on as hot as it could go, and stepped in, hissing at the pain, and closed her eyes forcing herself to relax into it. 

When she did, she hissed—low and sharp—as hot water collided with the half-healed cut along her lower back and the countless bruises blooming across her thighs and back. Her hands braced against the tile as she forced herself to stand still, forced her shoulders to drop, jaw to unclench, muscles to stop anticipating another fight.

Her eyes stared blankly ahead, past the tile, past the fog. Past everything.

Weeks of dirt, sweat, and blood pooled at her feet, swirling down the drain like sins she couldn’t name. Her body—still strong, still built like a fighter—had lost its softness. The curves were there, but leaner now, sharpened by long missions, and too many nights without sleep. The kind of weight loss that came not from discipline, but from survival.

She let out a breath. Slow. Controlled. Tried to coax her central nervous system out of the permanent red zone it had lived in since Hal Levison’s murder.

She could still see his house—still smell the scorched electronics, the rot under the floorboards. She and Bennett and Wick had torn it apart, looking for anything. And they’d found it. The journal. The keys. The breadcrumbs.

And then they followed them.

Sweden had been sterile and cold, an offshore account buried in layers of encryption and frost.

Austria had been worse.

Oleg Novogradov, their so-called lead, had been dead before they made it up the hotel stairs. Suicide by hanging. Intentional. Prepped. He’d left no note—but his briefcase was unlocked and full of answers. Not enough to stop the train, but just enough to keep chasing it.

Austria had led to Iran.

And Iran…

She dragged the loofah across her shoulder with more force than necessary, scrubbing through the greasepaint and dirt, over the raised scab near her clavicle, down her ribcage where more bruises sat in various shades of healing.

Iran had been a bloodstained Hail Mary. A shot in the dark that should’ve led nowhere.

And instead, it gave them Greg Hamilton. It gave her a name.

Markov. Female. Unknown first name. Last known affiliation—defense intelligence—SablePoint. High-clearance access.

So Ripley Todd was back in Virginia.

Back in the house she shared with him, even if they’d never said that out loud. Back in the shower she’d once dragged him into laughing, what seemed like years and a lifetime ago. Back in the city that would burn if Markov was what Greg claimed she was.

Ripley exhaled again, longer this time. Let her head fall forward under the stream. Water traced the curve of her spine.

The soap stung in the cracks along her knuckles. She rinsed, eyes still fixed on nothing.

There were no clean hands in this war. No heroes left in Omega. Just a list. Just ghosts. Just names waiting to be crossed off. 

Crossed off so that she could live a normal fucking life again. But that couldn't happen yet. 

Not until Markov bled for what she had done to Flea. 

Not until the ledger was balanced.

Not until she saw him again. And told him… what? That she missed him? That she’d tried calling? That she still carried the sound of his voice like a sidearm? 

She rinsed the soap away. Let the water cool before shutting it off. Toweled off without thinking. Barefoot and damp, she walked back to the bed. And this time, when she lay down in the sheets cool against her naked skin, she didn’t just smell him.