Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She would follow Steve Rogers anywhere.

Since she was a child, she had clung to his side like glue, refusing to peel away. It started when she was young, possibly around ten, maybe even younger. The years went by, but everything remained the same. Steve was the kid who tried to get the bullies off her back in the back alleys after school. He’d gotten beaten to a pulp, though, left purple and bloody and barely recognizable. The boys were older and more experienced, and someone like Steve, who had fragile bones and a weak heart, stood no chance.

Still, he swung and attempted to dodge. She tried to help, but he lifted his hand, turned his shoulder, and smiled. “But I can do this all day.”

It lasted only an hour. They were stomping on his person harshly, the crack of bone echoing in her ears, entangled in her screaming. He would have been dead had not his friend shown up and put an end to it. With them gone, she’d fallen to her knees and tried cleaning his face with her handkerchief. Her tears blurred her vision. Her trembling fingers did nothing.

She accompanied them to the hospital, and as they waited in the waiting room, she got to know his name. Steve Rogers and his friend James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes. He was charming, even as a kid, and he had a nice smile that melted her heart.

Steve was discharged from the hospital a day later, having to take pills to ease the pain and for him to take it easy; he was fortunate not to break a rib. Since then, she hadn’t left their side, though there were times she felt like she was intruding on them. Often, when they would share jokes, she did not understand them, and she did not want to ask in case whatever they were laughing at ruined it. Deep in her heart, she knew she did not belong with them. They were a duo. Not a trio.

Still, she followed him, and they allowed her. She inserted herself in their hangouts, and they spoke with her gently and warmly. Bucky would wait in front of the women’s restroom, whilst Steve would be elsewhere, looking and gazing upon everything. Bucky would smile and lend out his arm for her. She would blush, grab it, and they would go. Their arm holding was only for a moment. Whenever a pretty girl would walk by or approach, he’d drop her hand as if she burned him, and she would stand there awkwardly as they flirted. Sometimes she and Steve would walk away and have Bucky come back later.

Sometimes Steve did the same thing, not because a pretty girl grabbed his attention, but because something else did, and she was left standing alone in a crowd of people looking in every direction in hope she would catch them. She never would.

She’d take the bus home with her fingers buried in her lap and her hair covering her face, dreading every moment, every stop, every voice behind her back, and the beating of her heart pumping out of her chest. Every day at seven pm, she had to be home. No later than a minute.

Her father would be home by eight, meaning she only had an hour to clean up all the beer cans, leftover dishes from last night’s dinner, and his laundry, including her own as well, and more. If she had been home right after leaving school, she would have had plenty of time, and the visible harness on her chest would only be half-tight.

It was human nature to be selfish, to wish for things they cannot have, and she wanted nothing more than companionship. With her mother long gone, the only person she had was her father. He was not a man of words, only action, and those actions caused her heartache with every step he took. She used Steve and Bucky; she wanted to be just like them, be a part of their inside jokes, be a shoulder for them to rely on, and for once, smile without faking and release everything she’d been building up for years.

She was halfway done with the dishes when her father’s truck pulled into the parking lot of their apartment complex. They lived on the seventh floor, and there was no elevator service. Her father was not a fast walker; she still had some time left, if that meant anything.

She hurried with the dishes, cleaning and drying them off with a towel as quickly as she could. She placed them back in the cabinets, cleaned the sink, and rushed her way to the dryer, hearing its ding! Just in time. Reaching for the laundry basket, she grabbed all of his clothes. She would have to go to school wearing used clothes once more, not that she wasn’t used to it by now.

Her father entered when she was folding his shirts. He slammed the door. She flinched. He was not in a good mood.

She made no effort to look at him. He made his way to the kitchen, grumbling under his breath about today’s work, swearing up a sailor’s speech. The fridge opened, cans slapped together, and the fridge slammed shut.

“Shouldn’t that be done by now?” He sneered behind her, sitting on his cushion chair and turning on the TV. It screeched in her ears. It was always so, so loud. “Can’t you do anything right?”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I'll do better."

“What was that?”

“I’m sorry,” she said louder, but not too loud. He couldn’t understand the difference between repeating words and disrespect. “I will do better.”

One of his beer cans fell to the ground, and she wasn’t surprised he was already done with it. She released the shirt she was folding and went to retrieve another one.

“Good girl,” he said. “Are you making dinner?”

Chicken, mashed potatoes, and steamed broccoli,” she informed him. “It’ll be done shortly.”

Years had gone by, and she would still follow Steve Rogers anywhere.

He kept her safe in high school. Well, tried to, at least. She liked that. She encouraged everything he did, including his hopes for wanting to serve in the military, and was a shoulder for his head to rest on when he couldn’t join. She’d share his tears, his grief, and his frustrations as if they were her own.

Steve sat on the other side of the glass table, shoulders slumped and not interested in the milkshake they were sharing. He took a few sips of it, and she drank most of it. “It’ll be okay, Steve,” she said, forcing a smile that she knew wouldn’t fix anything. “There are more ways to be a good man than to serve. You could, um, you could be—”

“—Be what?” He interrupted her. He had an annoyed look on his face, and she hoped he was annoyed with the situation and not at her. “I cannot be a police officer. I don’t think I can even be a crossing guard."

She frowned. “Serving your country doesn’t entirely mean having to join any kind of force. Isn’t being a good man enough? Shouldn’t it be?”

“It should,” he said, reaching for their shake and taking a sip. Running his hand through his blond hair, he looked down at his watch in his other hand. “I should go. Bucky wants me to go on a double date with him at Stark Expo."

He got up from his chair and flattened the wrinkles of his shirt. She must have made a face because he said, “You can come with, you know. The girls he invited are most likely going to be speaking with him rather than me.” He scratched the back of his head, and she blushed. “Girls don’t really like me."

"I like you." But what came out was "I don't want to intrude."

“You won’t be.” His smile was cute, generous even. “I want you to come.”

“Then, I will. What time is it?”

“Eight, I believe. See you there?”

“I’ll see you!”

She watched him leave.

She was fortunate her father was out of town for the weekend. On a business trip and wouldn’t come back until Monday. Three days of silence, three days to breathe. She wore her best dress to the expo, a simple baby blue gown that wouldn’t cause a second glance. Since graduating, she started work at an animal clinic, cleaning out kennels and keeping the animals’ company as they missed their owners. It paid somewhat well. Most of her money went on her share of the rent and her father’s drinking. Most of the money she had left was little, only enough to buy a few candies, shirts, and pants.

She never focused on her appearance because she couldn’t afford to, not when her money wasn’t her own, and she was mostly forced to stay indoors, taking care of a father who should’ve been taking care of her.

When she arrived at the Expo, it felt as if everyone was staring at her. No one was. No one batted an eye in her direction; no one complimented her braided hair nor her shirts. Nothing. She found Bucky and Steve with two girls she recognized from school, and all the insecurities of her youth were crawling back. They’d gotten more beautiful. She remained the same.

“Hey, you.” Bucky greeted her with a smile, the moonlight glittering against his brown eyes. He reached forward, giving her a side hug. “Steve told me he invited you.”

“I tried declining,” she mumbled against his chest.

He raised a brow. “Why would you do that? It was my mistake not inviting you. I can’t have my favorite girl not here.”

Her cheeks grew warm. This was the first time she was hearing that from his mouth. “Oh,” she said. “Thank you."

He brought her close to his chest once more, then let go. “You remember Tricia and Liz, right?"

“Y-yes,” she said, smiling at the two girls and cringing when she was given false ones. “Nice to see you guys."

Behind them, Steve made a face, and she almost laughed. Tricia and Liz didn’t acknowledge her as the night went on. She and Steve were at the sidelines, watching Howard Stark in awe. She tried her best to ignore the giggles from the girls and not focus on Bucky’s perfect smile or the fact that Steve was no longer at her side. She blinked. They were all gone.

She looked down at her hands and wondered if her presence truly lacked. Why did this continuously happen to her, and why, for once, couldn’t someone stay by her side for just once? She could go home—she should go home. She made her appearance; the night was over.

Despite her better judgment, she searched for them. The girls were gone, and Bucky and Steve were standing in front of a faceless soldier, having a moment, their words too soft to understand. She stood in the background in hope one of them would acknowledge she was there, but when she saw one walk past her without batting an eye, she went home.

She hadn’t seen Steve for a while after he managed to get into the military, and Bucky was being shipped off. She hadn’t been there when he left. She wasn’t told the date.

She learned to go back to her original routine without them: going to work, coming home to clean up the mess her father made, doing laundry, and making dinner. Each day, she wondered if they were thinking about her like she was about them.

When she first saw Steve again, he was a different person. He was taller than her and muscled, and his eyes had gotten somewhat bluer, but he was still the same boy she’d met so many years ago. “Oh,” she said. “Oh."

He scratched the back of his neck shyly, bending his head down as if embarrassed. “I figured that would be your reaction.”

“I, uh—I've seen posters. Of you, I mean. And heard the shows,” she said. “I never went. I didn’t really think…”

“That I was like this?

“No,” she said softly. “I don’t mean any offense, of course.”

He waved a hand. “Of course not. My ego isn’t fragile."

She didn’t know why she was here. At this compound, with a bunch of military people she had nothing in common with. Steve never made an effort to keep in contact with her. Why was she? It was all in her head. He was busy. Serving your country was taxing.

“Are you happy?” she questioned. Just over his shoulder, she saw the glimpse of a beautiful, brown-haired woman. Peggy Carter. She heard about her; of course, she had.

“Yes.” He nodded. “I am. Listen, I have to go. Can I meet you sometime tonight? That ice cream shop we used to go to?”

“Yes.” She tried her best to hide her beaming smile and blush. “Eight sounds good?”

“Sounds perfect.” He reached for her, embracing her body as if they were a perfect puzzle piece. She never wanted to let go, but she had to.

“See you tonight,” he said, walking over to Peggy. She watched him leave, and not once had he looked back.

It was a cold night.

Not even her wool coat or scarf kept her warm. The moon was ascending, and shops were beginning to close. When the worker stepped out of the ice cream shop, she gave her a sad smile and bid her goodnight.

Steve never came.

She stopped caring.

At least, attempted to stop caring.

The memories of Steve haunted her mind like ghosts, and she was angry at them for treating her as if she didn’t exist and at herself for shoving her way into his life. He owed her nothing.

Since the cold night at the ice cream parlor, she never came back to that compound. Steve never visited her apartment but sent her letters. Nothing. She’d been forgotten and finally rid of. She heard about Bucky’s tragic fate and cried for him. In the morning, those tears were gone. She’d never gotten an invite to a funeral.

On the day the news came of Steve’s crashing and the loss of Captain America, she wanted to believe she would mourn. That his passing would shatter her heart, and the tears would come rushing out like an angry waterfall. It never came.

Chapter Text

Her legs dangle over the rooftop, swinging up and down like a child on a swing. The cool breeze feels nice against her cheeks, pushing her hair behind her shoulders, and it feels almost nice to be alive on this beautiful, sunny Monday morning. Almost, she thinks, but not enough.

She peers down, looking at all the people walking on the bustling streets, either on their phones, walking forward, or standing there watching the scenery, waiting for time to go by. It looks pleasant. Not a single one of them notices her. She’s so high up in the air it’s nearly impossible for them to spot her, and if they do, they’ll think she’s a part of the building’s design - a statue of some sort.

There are a few children out there with goofy, wide, toothy smiles on their faces, and her mood worsens. While she does not particularly hate children, she’s not entirely fond of them. Children these days are growing more entitled, increasing their stupidity and ignorance, and getting more annoying with each passing generation. It is then that she wonders if there’s any hope for the future. A future that she’ll see with her own eyes and a new disguise.

Now is a good opportunity.

She jumps off the building.

The once gentle breeze turns harsh - like blades against her flesh, slapping her. There’s a loudness in her ears that sounds like someone is shouting, “What are you doing?! Get back up there!" But she isn’t entirely sure how she can get back on the rooftop when she’s descending in a hurry. It’s not as though she can summon wings on her back. Her life would be a lot more interesting if she could.

Her body lands with a SPLAT! tagged with a few annoying screams. Blood is smeared on the dirty pavement. Her limbs are twisted into awkward bends, and somehow, her head got twisted so that her chin is pressed against her back. She is still alive, just in immense pain. So many people are coming to her, gagging, screeching, crying, on their phones with the police, recording, and keeping their children away. All she can do is yell, “FUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCK!”

Steve is forgetting something.

Since waking up from the ice, he tries to remember everything and everyone. The teammates who fought at his side, Peggy Carter, Howard Stark, and Abraham Erskine, are pleasant memories with Bucky, but there is something he can’t remember, and it is driving him insane.

His fingernail claws against the wooden table, hand over his mouth in a deep frown. There’s a face blurred in his mind—a woman with beautiful hair and eyes and a smile that made him feel warmth, someone who was always close to him but not necessarily someone who was a part of him. His mother flashes into his mind. Immediately, he feels regret. No. It is not his mother. There is not a day alive that he doesn’t think about Sarah Rogers, her hugs, and her support - even on his worst day, he will never forget about her.

“Wow,” says a voice from behind him, “you good there, Capsicle?”

Tony appears with Pepper following him. The poor woman looks stressed. Stacks of papers press against her chest, blonde hair a slight mess from all the stress Tony must put her through, but deep in her eyes, Steve can see that she is happy and loved and enjoys what she does. “Hi, Steve,” she greets. “Bye, Steve.”

She plants a kiss on Tony’s forehead and then leaves the tower without looking back. Steve raises a brow. “Where is she going?”

Tony waves a hand as he takes the chair in front of him, sitting back and putting one boot on the dinner table. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Steve adds, moving his hand away from his mouth. He’s slightly disgusted. “We eat here.”

“I’ll clean it if it bothers you so bad,” Tony says.

“You don’t clean.”

“Precisely.”

Steve exhales deeply. “Pepper?”

“Oh, she has a few meetings to attend to,” Tony explains. There is an apple in his hand that Steve just notices. “Something about a fundraiser.”

“You’re not coming with her?”

“She prefers to do it alone.” Tony waves his hand a second time. Takes a bite out of his apple. “She thinks I boast too much. "Me," she says. Can you believe that?”

“Yes,” Steve responds immediately.

“Whatever. You’re just jealous of me, old man.”

Steve often wonders how he could be Howard’s son when the two are so different. It is a question he wants to ask, but he knows his relationship with Tony is barely hanging by a thread. He knows the younger man hasn’t fully forgiven him for keeping his parents’ murderer a secret, and Steve respects that. If roles were reversed, he wouldn’t be sure if he could have found forgiveness in his heart.

Tony quickly finishes his apple. He throws it over his shoulder, and it lands in the trash can. Steve is impressed. “So, what were you thinking about that got your panties in a twist? Girl problems, I imagine?”

Steve chuckles slightly. “No, uh, well. In a way.”

“Oh.” Tony removes his foot from the dinner table and leans forward, hand under his chin, interested. “There’s a girl who stole your heart? I think this is an Avengers-level threat. We need to find her and save her from you.”

“It’s not like that,” Steve mutters, though he isn’t too sure. He did go on a couple of dates before the serum, but they didn’t last. They wanted to get closer to Bucky and use him. Bucky caught wind of what they were doing and didn’t give them the time of day, publicly shaming them or acting as if they didn’t exist.

But they weren’t all like that. Some enjoyed their time with him. There was one girl who followed him everywhere. Why can’t he remember? He explains this to Tony, and Tony laughs at him.

“Oh, man.” Tony is laughing as if this is the funniest news he’s ever been given in his life. “Cap, I’m going to hold your hand when I say this: she clearly was not important to you if you can’t even remember her name.”

It didn’t work, she thinks, again. Why do I even bother anymore?

Her body is aching as she walks back to her apartment. Hands deep in the kangaroo pockets of her hoodie, her shoulders press against strangers as she walks down the street. As typical New Yorkers do, they lash out at her and stop midway when they recognize her. No doubt the video of her falling from a tall building has found its way online.

When her body healed, rather faster this time than normal, she had simply stood up, wiped the grime off her jeans, and casually walked away from the crowd of people. Shouts of confusion had rung in her ears; many believed this was a stage, and people would come out shouting they were pranked, or something along those lines. A dozen were crying, saying it was real and that God was punishing them.

I wonder if you’re going to see the video? She thinks, then shakes her head. He’s the same age as her, but he wasn’t granted enough time to adapt to this new era. She imagines he still has the same mindset as he did so many years ago, when they were hand in hand. The same man she followed everywhere, the same one she loved, the same one who turned his back on her when she was no longer needed. Was I ever wanted?

She stops in her tracks and stares at a man who’s sitting on a bench. He has blonde hair. Blue eyes. Skinny. She says, “Everything would be so much better if you were still presumed dead.” 

As she walks away, she hears the man say, “What the hell did I do?”

Chapter Text

She lives in a nice penthouse in Brooklyn, much different from the shaggy, beat-down apartment she lived in in her youth. Her place is covered with everything she likes - figurines of her favorite characters, posters of bands she listens to, both old and new, random plants and flowers she sometimes forgets to take care of, and books she’s read over and over.

Her penthouse is taken care of by an elderly woman named Emmie Lenil, whom she hired ages ago and who most likely has noticed that she hasn’t aged in the ten years they’ve known each other. Emmie has never said a word about it, though, so she pays it no mind. Why would she, especially when she pays her a hundred dollars per hour?

It is most definite she saw the video of her falling from a high-story building. She sees the discomfort in her brown eyes as she dusts off shelves, wipes the unused dinner table, and cleans the dishes. She says nothing and even bids her a good night as she leaves with over six hundred dollars in her pocket.

She has a lot of money. Of course she would. It’s the only blessing given to her after the incident decades ago.

Howard Stark had paid her under the table for all the things she’d done. Like a smart woman, she saved all of the money until it was millions, and only then did she decide to cut ties with him. Only those ties were never cut permanently. Boredom would consume her, and she’d find herself back with Howard, helping, creating, and fixing what he wanted. More money got into her pocket, to the point where she felt like one of those rich, gothic, ancient vampires in novels, only that her hair was not white, her eyes not apple-red, and she certainly had no fangs. Although that would be really cool to have.

Along with Howard, it was Peggy Carter who’d paid her as well, but in ways Howard didn’t, she’d pay her to have a talk and share a cup of coffee, and they would reminisce about Steve Rogers. Well, Pegger would. She’d sit there looking in the distance, wishing time would quickly go by.

She did not hate Peggy. She was a remarkable woman, everything she wasn’t, but she didn’t like being around someone who reminded her of that. Peggy was a drug, though; she could not get away from her, no matter how hard she tried. The years went by, and Peggy grew older. Wrinkled. Strays of gray, only speckles in her brown hair, turned into a full blanket of white.

While she still had the same face and body she had in her twenties, she never showed any signs of age.

It was Peggy who helped move her around when people began to notice. Peggy, who paid for her hotels, breakfast, clothes, drivers, and cottages in beautiful woods when she got too overwhelmed, and Peggy, who was there on the night of the incident that caused all of this.

She pushes thoughts of Peggy out of her mind and reaches for the remote on the silver glass table next to her couch. She channels surf with her legs spread before her, tired, pained, and slightly hungry. It’s only when she sees her face on the TV screen that she finally stops pressing the remote button. A reporter is talking about the video, talking about how a new social experiment is going, then turning to people who were at the scene, explaining what they saw.

“It was real, I tell you!” A bad man with wide blue eyes yells out. Next to him are women that she can only assume are his daughters. “We’re just walking, and she falls from out of nowhere!”

It cuts to two teenage boys. One of them is wearing a black sweater with a skull. She finds it cool. “ Her eyes just open, and she starts shouting curses. Then she moves like she wasn’t in pain. ”I was in pain, you fuck.“ And she just gets up, man, and walks away.”

“I’m pretty sure she touched my shoulder,” the other teenage boy says. There are braces in his mouth, and he looks like a dork who has never felt the touch of a female. “It was so crazy, man, I almost pissed my pants.”

The camera points to a woman with clear circular glasses dressed in a beige pantsuit. Judging from her face, she does not want to be there. “It’s just a stupid prank from those people you see on the internet,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You see a lot of them here - especially since the Battle of New York. The fact that you people are reporting this means you’re all a bunch of losers who can’t find an interesting scoop anymore. Get out of my face.”

She decides she likes the last woman and wishes she were her friend, but now wasn’t the time to think silly things like that. This is bad, she thinks, real, real bad, and real fucking annoying too.

Peggy Carter isn’t around to help her anymore. Not Howard, either. Definitely not SHIELD, not when they think she’s supposed to be dead.

Instead of thinking about what she could do to help her situation, she gets up and goes to bed.

-

Natasha is sitting in a café with one leg over the other when she gets a video from Sam. The steaming coffee is pressed against her red lips, but she’s drinking nothing when she clicks on the video, a video she thinks is going to be a waste of her time, Something he must’ve thought was funny and sent to her, as he does all the time.

But this isn’t one of the videos - it’s a woman falling from a building and a woman she knew when she was a child. She sets her coffee down slowly, puts both hands on her phone, and replays the video. Natasha pauses it when it shows the woman’s face - she did not imagine it.

It’s her.

Her heart skips a beat. Her chest tightens in a way she cannot describe. It’s a feeling she’s had on rare occasions, and she cannot explain why she has it now. Sam texts her.

Thoughts? It says.

Where did you get this? She replies.

He takes too long to reply. Much to her dislike. It’s spreading around like wildfire. I saw it when I was on a run with Steve earlier. Thought I’d show it to you. Thoughts?

She closes her eyes, exhales, and then responds, Did Steve see?

As much as she loves Steve, he is a fool. Natasha remembers the woman fondly, and she knows Steve remembers her too - he has to.

No, Sam responds. He was tying his shoes when it aired. Gone the moment he got up. Thoughts?

Don’t tell Steve about it.

Why?

Don’t tell Steve.

Natasha turns off her phone and shoves it in her back pocket. Her hands run down her face, sighing for the third time in a row.

-

The video is still going viral when she wakes up. Half the country now has seen her die and come back to life, and she cannot help but find that funny. The debates, the worry, and the videos mocking her fall, claims of it being fake, are all incredibly funny, but it is still a problem. If half of America saw the video, then that surely means Steve has seen it.

Bucky too.

She tries to forget about Bucky. She knows he wasn’t himself then, but even to this day, she feels his hands wrapped around her throat, his eyes burning into hers as the life began to sink out of her system. By then, she’d already gotten used to dying, just not from Bucky. Not by the man who would hold her hand when they crossed the street, not the boy who would wait near the women’s restroom just so she wouldn’t have to go find them, not him who called her “doll” and other lovely names that made her heart bloom with warmth.

Instinctively, she places her hands around her throat. She squeezes her eyes shut, murmurs a few words under her breath, and gets out of bed. From what she knew, Bucky had been given a new chance—an Avenger now, living in the tower, completely oblivious that she was still alive. She wonders if he thinks about her, if he remembers who he targeted.

-

Bucky’s having a hard morning.

Quite literally. His back aches from sleeping on the floor. Tony had given him a room in the tower with everything he needed - nice feather pillows, warm blankets, desks, and drawers to put all of his stuff (or lack of stuff).

His bed remains the same as when he first entered his bedroom. Neatly made and tucked, probably by Steve, who wanted him to feel welcomed, but Bucky didn’t feel welcomed. Not after what he did to Tony’s parents, to all those in the past who died by his hand. How could he sleep on a bed, nice and warm, mind full of sleep, when the families he broke were miserable and never given answers? How could Bucky be in this tower and pretend he fit in with all of them, that he was a hero?

His mind is a sickness. He is a sickness.

Nightmares plague his mind. No amount of tea, therapy, comfort, or reassurance can help him.

He dreamt of his childhood friend - and he isn’t sure if it was a dream or something that had actually happened. He’s nervous, nervous enough that he feels like vomiting into the nearest trash can.

Her eyes were full of fear. Arms and legs that’d been beneath him, scrambling to escape, reaching over a fallen vase so she could hit his head with it, only to fail when he smashed his fist into her chest. How could he do that?

How could he have done that and not have the gall to remember?

Someone knocks on his door. He hurries off the floor, throws his blanket on his bed, and combs his metal fingers through his long hair. Bucky checks his rugged appearance through the body mirror and thinks he looks fine enough, and opens the door, where Steve stands outside. In his hands is a photo they’d taken when they were young, before the serum, before the enlistment.

In the photo are Bucky, Steve, and their friend.

“We need to talk,” Steve murmurs, speaking as if he finally remembers something. “There’s something I need to show you.”

Chapter Text

Bucky recalls the first time he met her - back in an alleyway on the way home from school, Steve had been at his side, shoulder brushed against shoulder. Bucky had been explaining something he overheard in the hallway until he noticed the spot next to him was empty, and he’d been talking to himself for a while now. A deep sigh was released from his mouth, slightly annoyed. It had been the third time that week that Steve abruptly disappeared mid-conversation.

You could’ve at least said something, you punk.

With hands deep in his pockets, Bucky’s eyes glazed over the crowd of schoolmates heading home, women holding shopping bags and babies, and men in business suits with large glasses covering most of their faces and cigars in the corner of their mouths. Not a single one of them was Steve. Slowly, he started to become worried.

A yelp came out from one of the alleyways - then a squeal, followed by a “Stop! You’re hurting him!”

Found him.

His eyes met hers. Confusion, fear, and worry clouded her eyes. Her hands were cupped in front of her blouse, and her hair strands were popping out of her ponytail from her panicked state. In front of her stood three boys stomping on Steve’s frail body as if there was no tomorrow. Bucky quickly recognized the leader - Hudson Moore, a punk who walked through their school with his chin held high, wild eyes, and hair that made him look like he was on drugs, though he must have thought he was cool, and wore his clothes loosely.

Bucky wasn’t intimidated by people like that. He grabbed Hudson by the back of his neck, then his collar, and yanked him to the ground. With three swift kicks to the chest, then at the groin, he muttered dryly, “Should I continue?”

“When will you mind your business?” Hudson spat, but he’d gotten up and run off anyway, followed by his two cowardly friends.

With one hand extended, Bucky helped Steve get to his feet. He punched him in the shoulder without holding back his strength, grimaced when Steve hissed, then patted the dust off his friend’s shoulders and parts of his chest. “You’re going to start fights, then have me as backup, at least,” he murmured.

“I was trying to help,” Steve slurred out, spit falling from his mouth.

“Sure you were,” Bucky mumbled, feeling more like a parent rather than a best friend. He didn’t mind, though. He looked over at the girl, and a gentle smile grew on his lips. Before he realized it, he pushed some of her hair away from her face and behind her ear. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

Her cheeks turned a deep shade of red; he found it cute. Her jaw dropped slightly. She cleared her throat loudly, almost forcibly.

“I – yes.” She nodded a few times. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“Do you live around here?”

“Yes,” she repeated.

“I’ll walk you home,” he said. “If you feel comfortable with that?”

“Oh,” she whispered, the blush on her cheeks remaining intact. “Oh, yes. Okay. That’s fine.”

After dropping her off at her apartment complex, after making sure she entered safely, he took Steve to the hospital for what seemed like the millionth time that month. He imagined the nurses were sick of seeing his friend’s face.

Bucky hadn’t thought he’d see her again after that day’s event, but soon, he began seeing her face every day, and he had always looked forward to it.

-

A week has passed since she made the mistake of falling down a building - in daylight, at least. She does not regret jumping off. Dying is a drug, and she is addicted, and she wants it to be permanent one day. She cannot imagine living longer than one hundred years, then a thousand, and more.

If anyone were to find out, then she would be experimented on and placed in a cold cell where bodies have died over and over, the souls of those who’d been tormented in the past, her roommates. And that sounds so boring and unoriginal; she could not want it any less.

In that week, she has not left her penthouse. Has not drunk or eaten because in the decades she’s been alive, there has never been a point in doing so - her body no longer needs nutrients to function properly. That means her kitchen is empty and has been empty since she bought it, which is another telling to Emmie Lennil that she’s not a regular being. It’s not as though she should care, though - yes, Emmie Lennil, a woman who has lived in New York all her life, should be used to weird things happening. After all, gods and aliens exist, and New York is a prime target for all things weird. A god has tried to take over the city, leaving it destroyed for weeks, breaking apart families and inspiring new heroes, and now there is a kid in a red suit shooting webs from his fingertips, swinging from building to building. A team of heroes is in the heart of the city, with some of her old friends in said team, and she is only a few blocks away. And there is that video that they must have seen.

She wonders if they’ll approach her. Will they casually knock on her door, and she’ll offer them tap water only, though she has no cup to give them, or will they burst in with their weapons, hands, and a hammer pointed straight at her, demanding questions she has no answers for? If an Avenger does come, she thinks, then it better be Thor.

But she does not worry because she no longer cares. Whatever happens will happen, and there isn’t anything she can do about it. She is cursed. She is blessed. She is angered, sad, and tormented, and she wants her heart to stop beating and for Emmie to find her on the golden floor of this ridiculous penthouse. Only because it’ll be funny for an old woman to screech - like those horribly acted actresses in old, indie films where they clearly want the fame of a celebrity but not the talent.

She has lived for so long that she feels like she’s growing mad, insane, dumb, and stupid. Stories are repeating themselves, becoming more and more idiotic by the day; movies are the same with only different actors; and the world - quite literally - is becoming more dangerous with outer beings thinking Earth is worthy to conquer. We’re not, fools. Go somewhere else. Venus, maybe.

She thinks about going to England, maybe Germany, or even Japan. No one will know her there, and she knows other languages well enough to get her around at least. It’ll be easier to hide and keep her head low, and there are so many ways to die, and that will only cause more problems, all because of that video. Someone could be nearby, they spot her, they record her, and there will be more problems.

What would Peggy do? she wonders, then shakes her head. Peggy would have made sure that the video wouldn’t have reached the internet, and she’d scold her like she was a child, and Peggy was her parent wanting the best for her.

For a second, she wonders how Peggy Carter is doing in heaven and if she’s happy in the clouds with her friends and if she is with Howard enjoying a cup of tea or whatever it was they did together, and if maybe, just maybe, if she got rid of this affliction, she could be up there with them.

-

It happens sooner than she realized.

She is lying in bed with her arms tucked under her head, not sleeping because sleeping is for the weak, and she never feels tired anymore. Footsteps are echoing in the kitchen. The sound of cupboards opening and closing, a few murmurs - at least four people are in her home, and they are voices she heard in the past and on TV.

She gets up slowly, her bare feet touching the soft carpet. She is not quiet when she slams her bedroom door open and casually walks down the hall. A panicked breath is heard, and she rolls her eyes, turns the corner to her living room, and spots three men in suits and a redheaded woman who looks familiar. Not because she’s seen her on TV a million times or nearly ran into her in the Battle of New York, but from somewhere else so many years ago. She cannot be bothered to recall it now.

Not one of them is Thor. What the fuck.

“Can I help you?” she mutters.

Steve says her name in a soft breath, mesmerized, then whispers, “It's nice to see you."

Chapter Text

It was infrequent for her to hang out with Bucky without Steve, but it wasn’t something she minded – Bucky was nice, warm, and easy to talk to, even if sometimes words would get stuck in her throat, making her say things out of order and often, most of the time actually, made no sense. Bucky somehow understood whatever she said. Whether he genuinely did it to be nice was beyond her, but she enjoyed it nonetheless.

         It was shortly after graduation when she spotted Bucky coming from the elevator, brown hair neatly combed back, a slightly shaven face, and beautiful hands cupped behind his back. He wore a leather jacket, slacks, and beaten-down shoes he refused to get rid of. “Unless I can no longer put my feet in them, I’m going to continue wearing them,” he’d say when questioned about it.

         A smile had grown on her lips, a hand raised, stopping mid-air when she realized where they were - in the hall of her apartment complex, only doors away from where she lived with her father –her father that recently lost his job and was taking every inch of his frustration out on her because, somehow, it was her fault he lost it. “You make too much noise at night; that’s why I overslept!” he’d shout. “You never cook for me anymore, so I have to cook when I get hungry late at night.”

         Even though she walked on her toes when her father slept on his bed or on the couch, even though she cooked meals for three people and not two, even though she did everything she could to make sure she wouldn’t disturb him, somehow it was always her fault.

         “What are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice louder than she intended to be. Rushing forward, she placed her hands on his broad shoulders without realizing it, attempting to push him back in the elevator. “You can’t - you can’t be here.”

         “Woah, woah.” Hands firmly, softly pressed on her shoulders, Bucky pushed her back, a worried - slightly freaked out - look on his beautiful features. He’d never seen her this way before: too quiet, too awkward to reveal other emotions. “What’s this about?”

         “You can’t be here,” she repeated, her voice practically in a whimper. If her father were to find her with a boy - much less one whose hands were on her, a cute one, a nice one - then she would be killed. Quite literally. “Bucky, you can’t… You can’t - ”

         “ – Okay,” he interrupted softly, bringing his hands down to hers. His touch was tender, almost intimate if she dared be delusional enough. Bucky looked at her differently, with a twitch of his dark brown eye, a quiver of the right corner of his lip, and tense yet so relaxed shoulders. “Okay. Come in the lounge with me? Go out for ice cream?”

         With a quick glance over her shoulder, she made sure there was no one around. The coast was clear. She nodded slowly, staring at her feet. “Okay.”

         As Bucky pressed the button to the first floor, embarrassment flourished through her - what had she just done? Since the day in the alleyway, she made sure to hide this part of herself, this weakness that plagued her soul. This wicked ghost possessing her to cry, sob, and tremble at the slightest touch and moment. In front of Bucky and Steve, she wanted to appear strong. There was nothing wrong with what she just did, but she couldn’t be the first one to speak about it. To speak would be to explain, and what was there to explain? That her father was a father who hated her, who reminded him constantly of the wife that bore her and left shortly afterwards, who cleared out their apartment somehow, cleaning it spotlessly as if she was never there, leaving only a baby girl behind, and how that baby girl was a replica of that woman?

         He’d feel pity for her, and that pity would be the only thread binding their friendship together. She couldn’t afford that to happen, but she also couldn’t allow her insecurities to run wild and mess things up. She wanted to be Bucky’s friend, companion, or something to him.

         “Where’s Steve?” she questioned, cringing at herself.

         “With his mother,” he responded, glancing down at her. “In the hospital. She’s been sick.”

         “Oh,” she breathed. “I’m sorry. You know, you can be with him instead.”

         “I was,” he replied. “But he wanted to be alone with her. I thought I would spend the rest of the day with you, if you’ll have me.”

         “Of course,” she responded, nodding slowly. Clearing her throat. “You wanted to get ice cream?”

         “Yeah. It’s been on my mind for a while now.” He shrugged casually as they stepped out of the elevator, out of the doors for which he held the door open for her, and walked on the street side while she was close to the lines of shops and people. “I couldn’t go with Steve because sweets make him gassy somehow.”

         “You didn’t have a date?”

         Since knowing Bucky, there was always a girl on his arm. He wasn’t a player by any means; some of his relationships were long and nourishing throughout high school, but he didn’t stay single for long. Unlike her and Steve. Often, she and the small boy were considered a couple - mocked by Hudson and awed by some of the teachers. Steve would shut it down, claiming they were just friends, not knowing he broke her heart each time. I want to be more than that.

         Bucky shook his head, then looked at her with such a smug smile that it made her heart flutter and cheeks turn into the shade of the stop sign they just passed. What was this feeling in her chest? Bucky was cute, a gentleman, but he wasn’t the one she had her eyes on. “Isn’t this a date?”

         “What?!” Her gasps were so loud they caused some of the people to look at them weirdly. She cleared her throat as Bucky began to laugh, but the embarrassment was still ripe. “Don’t joke like that, Bucky.”

         “Sorry, sorry,” he continued to laugh. “If I knew you were going to react like that, I would have done it a lot sooner.”

        “You’re a jerk,” she said, but she shared his laughter again. “Let’s go to that one place we went to before graduation.”

         “You’re willing to go to the place Hudson works at?”

         No, she wasn’t, but it was the only place that popped into her mind. She lived in Brooklyn all her life and the only places she knew was her apartment, her now old high school, the milkshake shop and the ice cream parlor where Hudson Moore worked at.

         “We’re the customers,” she murmured. “Aren’t the customers always correct?"

         “We are.” He matched her smug smile, hooked his arms with hers. “Let’s make sure he has a shitty shift.”

-

“You married Hudson?”

Of course the second thing that comes out of Steve’s mouth is stupid. Her husband died a long time ago, back in the early 2000s, shortly after being diagnosed with cancer. She remembers the day as if it was yesterday, feels the grief for the millionth time, and pushes it out of her mind.

         She knows Steve is nervous - as is she. There must be so many questions going through that foolish, yet smart, brain of his. Such as: Am I cursed? Why are my friends here with me when they should have been dead a long time ago? Why does the girl that always chased after me in the 70s have the same appearance as before I fell in the ice?

         Behind him are Bucky, Falcon, and Black Widow, and she wonders once more if this is really needed. She’s an immortal, not a threat against two super soldiers, a trained assassin, and a man that can easily hurt her if he wanted to. In the corner of her eye she catches movement from the clear windows and sees a red foot barely recognizable. It hovers. There’s slight smoke. Iron Man.

         They were ready for her to jump out of the window should she dare escape. Howard’s son would fly after her, swoop her, and then she would be invited to go in their black van, only that she can’t say no, and if she does, a cloth will be placed in front of her mouth, and she’ll be asleep until they reach their destination.

         But she is not intimidated. If she, unfortunately, survived the Battle of New York, then this is nothing to her.

         A mockery, it feels, to be in the same place as Steve after sharing one during the battle. She ran past him, made eye contact while he wore that ridiculous blue Captain America armor and helmet, and he did nothing. Sure, yeah, a bottle was going on, but what about reaching out afterwards? Was that lunch at the Shawarma Palace more important, or was she just so unimportant in his life he didn’t recognize her?

         Fuck you, too.

         But she cannot stop her heart from beating out of her chest. He’s in front of her, an inch away from her, lips parted open, blue eyes sparkling under the lights above, and it feels so natural – finally, after so many years separated, they were together again. And Bucky. The three of them in her penthouse, together again. This feels right. This feels wrong. This feels so wrong, and wicked, and dangerous. So much so she wants to kick Steve in the groin and vomit on his shoulders, then stab him using one of Black Widow’s knives on her hips and cry, cry, cry.

         Bucky is staring at her. The world stops. Bucky is staring at her intently. Steve speaks, but the words don’t land in her ears because Bucky is staring at her, and all she does is stand there feeling those gloved hands wrapped around her throat, his deep voice speaking in Russian, something she did not understand at the time, and she feels blood rushing out of her nostrils, eyes, ears, and then her stomach and heart. Where she lies on the floor without a beating heart, watching him leave the room without once glancing over his shoulder, not knowing this was the girl he took care of when she ran away from her father, that took her to the ice cream parlor, that held her hand across the street, that let her cry on his shoulder when Steve said something that hurt her, and how she’d been so jealous of Peggy Carter post-ice.

         She is so angry, bitter, and petty with Steve, but there is something in her heart that drives her wild when it comes to Bucky. Bucky - her Bucky, her protector, her beloved Bucky that had his mind taken away from him, abused, demolished, and built up as a weapon. She wants to run to him, throw her arms around his shoulders, and tell him that she forgives what he did to her so many years ago, but she doesn’t, and that makes her only more angry at herself and him.

         “Does that matter?” She breaks the silence. “Does that really fucking matter?”

         “I guess not,” Steve says. Behind him, Sam Wilson and Natasha Romanoff exchange a glance. “You must know why we’re here.”

         “Because I jumped off a building?” she questions. “What, is that illegal here or some shit?”

         “No,” Natasha speaks up. Something in her voice rings familiar, and it bothers her she can’t remember. It’s Steve’s fault. Everything that annoys her is rightfully (even though it’s really not) his fault. “People don’t fall off and survive.”

         She raises a brow. “Oh, but you do, don’t you. Don’t you make poses while leaping from rooftop to rooftop, chasing after the little bad wolf? Is this not America, the land of the free and whatever I want?”

         Sam sucks in a breath. “You can stall all you want, but you know how this ends.”

         “Stall?” she echoes, tilting her head. “If I were stalling, I’d be telling you that video was fake - that some fool is out to get me, or that I’m not who you think I am. I could lie and say I’m her granddaughter that looks a lot like her. Does this sound like stalling to you?”

         “Yes,” Sam says bluntly.

         “Well. Fuck you, too, then.”

         “Let’s refrain from using bad language,” Steve interrupts, waving his hand slightly. “We just have a couple of questions we need to ask.”

         “Ask then?” she says.

         “It’s more complicated than that,” Sam adds.

         “How?”

         “In your situation - ”

         “My situation?” She cuts in. “What, people just don’t die and come back alive again? No way. I thought it was normal.”

         Sam closes his eyes, but the laugh is rumbling in his throat, and it’s genuine laughter. “You think you’re funny.”

         “I’ve had lots of years to practice my humor.” Her knees crack as she wedges between a silent Bucky and Natasha, accidentally touches Natasha’s back, and flops on her couch. “You know; you can just ask Fury to look into old SHEILD files. I’m in there.”

         Natasha’s brows twitch, but she is not convinced - of course she’s not. Why would the organization that pulled her astray from her former keep things from her? After all, they’d only just fixed themselves after recent events. “Why would SHIELD have files on you?”

         “Maybe I’m just awesome?” Now she’s stalling. Hidden behind her, sandwiched between her back and the couch, is a gun she took from Natasha. “Why does a murderer kill? Why does a cannibal eat and eat and eat? Why do we steal? Why do we lie, poison, and fuck? So many questions and so many answers we’ll never be given. Who knows?”

         Steve closes his eyes; he is growing tired, as are the other two. Bucky is looking away now. She wants to ask if Bucky remembers what he did, demand an explanation, then tell Steve what happened and watch as it dawns on him that his best friend is a monster who hurts everyone around him. It’ll be funny, she thinks, so funny and so cruel.

         “This doesn’t have to end up in a fight,” he murmurs. His shield is ready. She knows he’ll harm her if it comes to it, of course she knows, she expected it the moment she heard those cupboards opening.

         “Not for me, it doesn’t. Can’t say the same for you, though,” she says. “But don’t worry. I’m not a fighter. You can tell whats-his-face to go home, and the losers in the hall the same. But can I do one thing first?”

         “What’s that?” Sam asks.

         “Oh, this.” She pulls the gun from her back and shoots herself in the head.

Chapter Text

A sharp, irritating pang pricks the left side of her face the moment she wakes. A low groan rumbles from her throat as she lifts herself upright, strands of hair clinging to her sweat-licked cheeks, but her movement halts immediately. Thick leather straps tie around her torso, trapping her to the bed’s side bars. Her knees and ankles are tied together.

          Whoever tied her clearly does not want her to leave or kill herself again.

          Kinky.

          For the first time in a while, she feels hungry. She can go for a cheeseburger with lettuce, tomato, ketchup, mustard, and only a few pickles with a side of fries and ranch for the sauce. Her mouth waters thinking about all the kinds of food she could fit in her mouth, and she thinks - is this what hunger feels like? It’s been so long since she felt it. She doesn’t like it. Her stomach feels odd, churned, empty of anything.

          Only a few minutes later, her throat gets dry and she’s gagging on nothing -she needs water desperately. Heavily dehydrated to the point she’s going to pass out, but she doesn’t, and she simply lies there in agony, crying with no voice until it’s gone. She’s back to her kind of normal. What the hell was that?

          Her eyes dart around the room, looking at anything that can tell her where she is. There’s an artificial plant in the corner, a painting of a random waterfall hung on the wall to her left, a window showing bits of New York’s scenery, an annoying clock going tick-tock, and a wooden door that’s locked. It looks like a hospital room, but hospital rooms don’t have pictures of Tony Stark wearing SpongeBob swim trunks in a hot tub with sunglasses larger than his face hung on the wall in front of her.

          I need a knife so I can kill myself again.

          The door opens slowly. Steve pops his head in, breathes a sigh of relief, and enters. He moves with hesitance, fingers awkwardly playing together in front of his lap. Dressed out of his armor, Steve wears a white button-up shirt with the first three buttons unbuttoned, blue jeans, and dress shoes. She expects more of the Avengers to come in, but no one does.

          His blue eyes gloss over her injury. “Already healed.”

          “Yeah,” she murmurs. “It does that. Where are your friends?”

          “They thought it was best you and I talk alone.”

          “Oh, look at you being a good lapdog. Finally obeying orders, huh?”

          “I’ve always obeyed orders.”

          "No, you didn't." You were a good man, not a good soldier.

          Steve closes his eyes and sighs. He says her name in a gentle whisper. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

          “I’m not fighting with you. I’m responding. If you can give me a knife, I can cut off my tongue, so I don't have to fight with you. Don’t worry. It’ll regenerate.”

          “Is that how you come back alive?” he questions. “By regenerating?”

          “In a sense, yeah. If I cut off a limb. If not, it’s like waking up from a nap, only that I have a headache that lasts for three minutes.” Though I never feel hungry when I wake up. Or thirsty. God, I want a cheeseburger so bad.

          "How did you know you were able to regenerate?"

         "I beheaded myself."

         "Who was the one who found you?"

         "Peggy."

         "She must've been shocked."

         "She'd gotten used to it already." She rolls her eyes. "By then, I've died over a hundred times."

         "She never mentioned that when I visited her," he murmurs. 

         "She was always lucid with me." A lie. She never visited Peggy, hadn't bothered to go to her funeral due to her jealously. "A shame she wasn't with you."

          Steve ignores her insult. “I’m sorry.” But he’s not apologizing for that. “I’m sorry for neglecting our friendship.”

          “We were never friends to begin with,” she says dryly. “I just followed you around.”

          “That’s not true.”

          “Do you know anything about me?”

          “Yes.”

          “What’s my favorite color?”

          Steve’s silent. That’s the only answer she needs. "That’s what I thought.”

          “A color doesn’t define our relationship.”

          “No, but your answer did. Am I going to be studied?”

          He shakes his hand. “No.”

          “Then what?” She questions with a long sigh, exhausted by this conversation already. She longs for her bed, a long shower, and a distance between her and Steve. This was not how she expected their reunion to be, but this was her own making. Besides, it isn’t as if Steve’s making an effort either. “Steve, just tell me.”

          “Fury thinks it’s best you go into hiding,” he says slowly, speaking as if he isn’t sure this is the best idea. He knows this situation is weird - of course, it’s weird, not weirder than aliens and God, but weird. “Whether or not you want to share why you’re like this isn’t important - from what he said, anyway - but the public eye can’t see you.”

          “I suppose the villain will see, find me, and experiment and kill me?” she finishes for him.

         “Yes.”

          “Well,” she says bluntly, “that’s already happened before. Think your Widow might know, but I’ve been in the Red Room where they drained my blood out of me. I don’t know what they did with it. Maybe put it into those tiny glass bottles and make some kind of serum. Obviously, that failed. I think so, anyway.”

          “Nat never said anything about this.”

          “She might have been a kid when it happened.” She shrugs so casually. Discomfort runs up her spine. It’s uncomfortable being tied up like this. “Has there been any news about it?”

          “From what Nat said, the Red Room had been destroyed years ago.”

          “How unfortunate.”

          “You’ve changed,” he says. “A lot.”

          “Maturing has done me wonders.”

          “You’re speaking like you’re a villain.”

          “I speak because I’m old and I want to die, Steve.”

          “You can use your gift to help people.”

          “Helping people by staying alive, but I need to hide. Which is it, Steve?”

         “This is hard for me, you know.”

          “And it’s not for me?” She snaps, her voice growing louder. “You were gone - you and Bucky. I was here. I was here all alone with no fucking friends and a father who hated me. He kicked me out after you supposedly died. I was homeless. That caused - ”

          She stops herself as the memories come back. Hands touching her. So many hands. Shouts echoing in her ears. The first time, she died. “Just get out.”

          “I’m sorry.” Sincerity is in his voice, along with guilt and sorrow. “God. I’m a fool. I didn’t - I didn’t think about what - ”

          “Get out,” she repeats, but her voice isn’t harsh. It’s quiet. She stares at Tony Stark in SpongeBob swim trunks, trying her best to get rid of the memories plaguing her mind. People who are not there are touching her skin in places she doesn’t want to be touched; her body is no longer her own; she is lost; she is here; she is nowhere; and she wants Peggy Carter by her side, not this fool.

          She wants her husband back. Sweet Hudson, who took care of her even when he was old and gray, who worshipped the ground she walked on, kissed her fingers, and died of cancer and a weak heart, said he’d be waiting for her when it was her time to pass, but her time wouldn’t come because whatever deity out there clearly wants her to be miserable, and she is doing nothing to make herself better.

          She wants Bucky, her protector, back. She wants the way she saw Steve back. She wants to feel happy, she wants to feel warm, but she cannot because she can’t let herself be. “Get out,” she whispers.

          “I’m sorry,” Steve whispers back and leaves.

Steve Rogers knows he’s a fool.

The moment he saw her dead body lying on that couch, he swore to himself that he wouldn’t allow her to do that again – because she’s his friend, the girl that followed him everywhere in the 70s, that held his arm tightly late at night, shared her milkshakes with him, and was the biggest Captain America fan when everyone thought he was a joke.

          He had been the one to carry her body back to the tower. Covered in a while blanket, hidden from curious bystanders and the one who placed her on the bed, fought against Fury wanting to tie her up and ultimately lost, the one combed her hair in the days that she slept, wondering how this could’ve happened to her, hating himself more than anything that he never looked her up, and for not realizing that he saw her in the Battle of New York.

          Steve is not afraid of corpses – he’s seen it all, another thing in his life that’s normal. Seeing her with blood oozing out of her skull pops into his mind each time he blinks. Soon it’ll appear in his dreams. He imagines it’ll be the same with Bucky. His friend hasn’t spoken a word, not in the fancy penthouse, not on the way back, and not in the tower – he wonders if this was too much for him, or if he had done something he isn’t sharing with him.

          Natasha is the first to stand up when he returns. “How did it go?”

          “Not so well,” sighs Steve, defeated.

          Tony leans against the wall with folded arms. “Told you it should’ve been me who went first.”

          “And why would it be you?” Sam questions with a raised brow. Steve glances around the group. Everyone is present, aside from Thor.

          “Um?” Tony tilts his head to the side, glasses falling loose on the bridge of his nose. “Because she knows me?”

          “Really, sir?” Vision speaks from his spot next to Wanda.

          “Now’s not the time for jokes, Tony,” says Rhodey.

          “She used to babysit me when I was a kid.” Tony rolls his eyes, scoffing. “Even when my father grew older, she stayed the same.”

          “So you knew she was alive all this time?” Steve knows he isn’t one to talk – not when she’d been right, that he never looked her up since waking up. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

          “Um, maybe because I wasn’t aware you two had been friends?” Tony sarcastically questions, humor in his voice. He finds this situation hilarious, while Steve feels like he’s having a crisis. “I’m serious, cap. Dad only told me she was a baby sister. A nanny who never went outside. I wasn’t aware that she’d been a secret founder of SHIELD.”

          Natasha opens her mouth as if she wants to share something, but only says, “If what you’re saying is true, then you should be one of the to speak to her. Get her to say how she became like this.”

Chapter Text

Tony hadn’t been in his double digits when he first saw her come through the door wearing a large winter coat despite it being one of the hottest days of the summer. He was sitting on the couch, his mother close to him with a book in her lap. It wasn’t uncommon for his father to bring home random strangers after work - most of the time they were just drinking buddies that never spared an eye for Tony; other times they were people he worked with and were only nice to him for presentation. He didn’t care for a lot of people who came to his house.     

        Especially the babysitters.

        Tony wasn’t at the age anymore to be watched over by a bunch of women with nothing better to do. He could tag along with his parents, and he’d just sit in the corner like a good little boy, read his book, draw out of boredom, look out the window, or just sit there utterly still as long as it was being out of the house and being with the parents he loved so much.

        He would act out - pretend he was a ravenous child - to scare off all the people his mother hired. It’d work for a couple of months and therapy, then it would revert to day one. Things had been fine for now. They were planning to go to England soon, bringing Tony along with them, but only then did a woman come inside and ruin his plans.

        He threw glares across the room, but she didn’t seem to care - staring at his father with a blank on her face, uninterested in what came out of his mouth, and immediately walking into the kitchen.

        “Who’s she?” Tony questioned the moment she was gone.

        His father closed his eyes and sighed roughly, something he always did when he thought Tony said what was deemed an annoying question, an act he apparently did on purpose. “Maria,” he said lowly, “if you will.”

        “Honey,” his mother began. He didn’t need to hear whatever was next - he already knew. “Something came up, and you can’t come with us. So, your father brought his friend to watch over you.”

        “His friend?” Tony echoed, shooting a look to the kitchen where his father and the woman were whisper-arguing. “Doesn’t look like it.”

        Maria Stark coughed uncomfortably. “They have issues, but we all do.”

        “Whatever you say, Mom.”

        After his parents left, Tony had done everything he could to make this woman’s life miserable - he didn’t eat his food, but the woman only raised a brow at him, called him stupid, and ate his meal in front of him. He wasn’t given a second plate to make up for it, just a glass of water, and was told that it would fill his stomach for tonight. The morning he threw wet toilet paper at her when she was sleeping, she didn’t wake up from her sleep and wasn’t fazed when she woke up. In the afternoon, he tore up the living room, broke some paintings his mother liked, and scattered popcorn and glitter everywhere. The woman entered the room and simply said, “Destroy the house all you want. It’s not going to be who gets in trouble.”

        A week later, Tony had given up. The woman was still here, and his house was in shambles because of him. Late at night, the moon rose high in the air, casting a beautiful lilac canvas across the clear sparkling water of his pool, scowling over the recently mowed grass, and at him, where he sat on the rooftop with legs brought to chest, tears flowing from the corner of his eyes, lost in the thought that he was unwanted by his parents. He had everything, but he was nothing.

        “You look like shit.”

        The woman appeared through the door, awkwardly crawling outside. In her hands were two sodas that his mother didn’t want him drinking. "It’s too unhealthy," she said. "It’ll make your brain sag."

        She sat next to him, keeping enough distance between them for someone else to sit in between. She handed him one of the cans. “Drink. Looks like you need it.”

        “I’m too young to drink alcohol.” He rolled his eyes.

        “It’s not alcohol, you dimwit.”

        “I’m telling my mother you’re insulting me.”

        “Do it, loser.”

        “You just did it again!” He practically shouted. He never had anyone talk to him like this before - not the babysitters that he made rip out their hair and scream in ways no human could, not when he purposely damaged his father’s study each time he mentioned Captain America, nor when he hid his mother’s phone so she would be forced to talk to him. Who did this woman think she was?

       Rolling her eyes, she opened her soda. She took a long gulp, then lay down on the roof with one arm under her head. The same uninterested look she had on her face a couple of days before was back. “You think I want to be here?”

       “Yes. Everyone loves my dad.”

       “I don’t,” she grumbled, a look of disgust crossing her features, just as a cloud bloomed over the moon, casting a dark shadow over them. “I hate your father. A real dirtbag.”

       “That’s the first time I heard anyone say that about him.” Tony was now interested, cupping the cold soda in his hands as he leaned back. He put himself in the same position as her, immediately getting uncomfortable.

       “Gossip a lot about your father, do you?”

       “Not really. No one really talks to me.”

       “Well. I’ll talk to you,” she said, though it sounded like she didn’t want to. “Only if you don’t say stupid shit.”

       “Why do you hate my dad?”

       “I don’t need a reason to hate.” She sounded so bitter and miserable that it made Tony think she was secretly a crackhead in disguise as his father’s friend. He couldn’t imagine Howard being friends with someone like her; the two had nothing in common. He wore fine clothing, and she wore clothes that his parents wore when they were young.

       “Do you hate me?”

       “If you continue asking me questions, then I might,” she answered, rolling her eyes. She took another sip of her soda, as did Tony. It tasted good, artificial cherry popping on his tongue. “No, I don’t hate you. I just don’t like dealing with children.”

       “Then why are you here?” There was a chance he might get hit if he continued asking unwanted questions. He could tell from the way her fingers and eyebrow twitched.

       “Money,” she replied.

       “He must be paying you a lot.”

       “Sure is.”

       “How much?”

       “Two hundred an hour.”

       “Oh.”

       “Yeah.”

       “You’ve been here for one week.”

       “Sure have."

       “You must like your new money.”

       “Sure do.”

       Tony nodded a couple of times. “Does Dad talk about me?”

       “No. He mostly talks about Captain America.”

       “Of course he does.” He didn’t mean to let the bitterness bounce off his tongue. “I mean - ”

       “I don’t really like Captain America either.” She finally looked at him. “Secret's safe with me, kid.”

Tony hadn’t seen the woman again until he was fourteen. Howard didn’t trust him alone, despite Maria saying he was old enough to take care of himself - there was a lot of easy-to-access police aid and lots of furniture to protect him should something happen, but Howard was not convinced. One phone call and a shout later, someone rang the doorbell, and the woman he sat on the rooftop with was back.

          She didn’t appear any different from years ago, while his parents already showed a difference. He noticed it immediately when she stepped inside. Howard spoke to her casually, pretending this was their first time meeting - it made Tony more infuriated than confused. I'm not a baby, Mom. I'm not stupid, either.

          When his parents left, the two had sat on the couch waiting for the other to speak.

          “Want to get a cheeseburger?” he spoke first.

          “Sure,” she said, and the two went off to get cheeseburgers.

          He knew. She knew. There was nothing that needed to be said.

She came in and out of his life as he grew up, pretending to have a different name, and the more he pretended to be a fool in front of his parents, the less he cared who she truly was. It was very odd, though. He saw her more than he did Howard – she was the face he saw whenever there was a school event, she was the eyes he locked into when he was presenting an award, and she was the one who went to his graduation.

          He stopped seeing her shortly after his parents died. She had gone missing, as if she were dead too. There was no number to contact, no family emergency. All the names and supposed backgrounds didn’t help in the search. He stopped trying the second year after Howard and Maria’s death. He hadn’t thought much about her since becoming Iron Man, joining the Avengers, and marrying Pepper.

          Not until he watched the video.

She’s out of the binds the moment he enters the room.

          Her eyes catch under the ceiling lights, sparkling. Suddenly, he’s a child again. The woman’s face is the same as when he first saw it, no signs of age, weariness, or the wound she had in the video. Her hair’s combed the same, dressed in the same style when he was a teenager, the identical uninterested look on her face screaming she doesn’t want to be here.

          She stands in the middle of the room. She looks him up and down, the face she’s staring at is not his own. “Oh, wow. You’ve grown.”

          “Clearly,” he replies, closing the door behind him. He’s not nervous as he should be – not like Steve, who can barely hide his troubled features. There are a lot of things he wants to ask her, but so many truths he’s unwilling to hear. “Are you having a lovely morning?”

          “Oh, yeah. The best.”

          “Take a seat. We’re going to be here awhile.” He sits on one of the chairs just as she sits on the edge of the bed. “Bad talk with Steve?”

          “Did he look like a child frowning when he left?”

          “Yes.”

          “There’s your answer.”

          “Noted,” he says. “You’d think he’d know social cues by now.”

          “You’d think,” she mutters. She stares at him. “I don’t like how you’re showing gray hair.”

          “I dye it to mock you,” he jokingly replies, putting one leg over the other. “I imagine that I look like my father?”

          “No. Nobody’s uglier than him.”

          “Thank you for remembering him fondly.”

          “You’re welcome,” she says. Her eyes meet everything in the room, telling him she’s feeling as awkward as he is. “Tony, be real with me. What’s going to happen now?”

          “The others want to know why you can’t die,” he answers her. “They don’t think you’re a threat, considering you’re one of SHIELD’s founders. They’re only concerned about why you’re not dead. Especially after the report we read. Well, Natasha and I read.”

          “What did the report say?” she questions.

          He doesn’t blink. “You know what it says.”

          “I want to hear you say it.”

          “That the Winter Soldier killed you.”

          “He did. But that’s not my first death.”

          Tony blinks. He’s only read her file once. It’s one paragraph describing how the Winter Soldier believed her to be Peggy Carter, but nothing describes a second death. “What was it?”

          “I choked on a mango.”

          Tony blinks again, then smiles. “You must have been in so much pain.”

          “I was. My body was rotting in your father’s office for days. Many believed he just took a shit in there.”

          “It’d be very helpful if you explain what happened.”

          “It’d be very helpful if you let me go home.”

          “So do I. Perhaps together?”

          “We can go get cheeseburgers,” she says. “God, I could really go for one right now.”

          Tony doesn’t think it’s a bad idea. The only problem is getting her out of the tower without being spotted by his team members. This is the last room in a dead-end hall, and the others sit around the corner waiting for him to come back with good news. New, they’re never going to hear because he’s not going to spill out her secrets. He isn’t an interrogator, and there’s nothing wrong with her – not physically, anyway – and how her “gift” isn’t going to New York for the millionth time. There are a lot of weird people with odd abilities out there. They are only wasting time.

       “Let’s go get some then.”

Tony has no idea how he got her out of the tower. The two are now sitting in a Burger King wearing large sunglasses, big hats covering their faces, and looking like straight bums. His phone and watch are blaring, but he only puts them on silent and stuffs the burger in his mouth. Fries after. Swallowed by a smoothie.

          In front of him is the woman on her seventh burger, all paid by him. She’s eating like a madwoman, chewing down as much food as she can, right down her throat. Each time she finishes a meal, the more stares she gets. He keeps an eye on everyone. No one has their phones out. They’ll be fine. For now.

          “You eat like a pig,” he mutters under his breath, a single brow raised. “Man, I so regret this.”

          “It’s too late,” she says, barely heard with a full mouth. “You know I can die eating too much, right?” Those weren’t the exact words she said, but that’s what she means.   

          “You’re not going to traumatize me,” he replies.

          She finishes her food, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She acts like a disobedient animal with the way she eats, but Tony isn’t sophisticated, so he doesn’t judge. He orders another round of cheese, four of them in total, two to split. When they arrive, he puts his burger in the air. “Cheers?”

          “Cheers,” she repeats. The look on her face is relieved, nourished, shining. More of her youth shows. Tony wonders what must have been going through Steve’s mind when they were younger. “I don’t suppose you can hide me forever?”

          “I can,” he replies. “The others won’t like it, though.”

          “Aren’t you the leader?”

          “That would be Steve.”

          “The one that nearly broke your team?”

          Tony knows what she’s doing because it would be the same thing he’d do if roles were reversed. He says her name. “I can’t hide you, unfortunately. It’d be more annoying doing than just facing.”

          “Shit. You’re right. It would.”

          “What happened between you and Steve back there?”

          She’s dramatic when she tells them what happened. His jaw drops to his chest. “No way. Who can be that stupid?”

          “You tell me, Tony.”

          He pinches the bridge of his nose in disbelief. He knows Steve is a righteous man with a heart of gold, but even good men are fools when it comes to women, and he is the biggest fool of them all. To be reunited with a long-lost friend only to say the wrong things. “Our Steve sure is questionable,” he says. “Bucky. Do you – do you think he remembers?”

          “I think so,” she responds. “Has to. You see the way he acted with me?”

          “I did.” He nods a few times. It was like watching a young boy trying to confess his crush to a much older woman. Awkward and painful. “Do you feel safe near him?”

          “I don’t know.”

          That’s all Tony needs to hear. “I have a house nobody knows about. I can hide you there.”

          She’s silent for a couple of moments, in a debate with herself – as if she wonders what she did to get this opportunity, if this was only a favor because of his deceased father, or if she’s truly in wonder why anyone would be nice to her.

Tony knows the reason he’s doing this, and it’s not a good reason, and he hates himself.

          For not being over it.

          He killed my mom.

          “What do you say?” Tony asks, sticking out his hand.

          She places her hand in his. “Yes.”

Chapter Text

Bucky sees Tony and his childhood leave the tower, and he says nothing. Bucky sees the team panic, argue, and comment on why they sent Tony, of all people, to question her. Bucky sees the nonchalance on Steve’s face and says nothing because he can’t afford to get angry right now.

         Because he remembers everything.

         His dream of attacking her isn’t based on the madness of his mind but a memory of something he’d done years ago. It flashes, then leaves and returns. He clenches his fist over and over again, but he cannot stop the memories from resurging. Bucky sits on the couch, elbows pressed against his knees. He’s watching Steve go through a scrapbook made by their mutual friend, found in her penthouse. Shortly after she killed herself, SHEILD members raided her house in search of anything. It was disrespectful. It’s disgusting, he thought, very disgusting.

         In the scrapbook lay pictures of the three of them together at the shops they’d gone to together and moments shared in high school and at the Expo center, but most of them are just Bucky and her. Not her and Steve. Just her and Bucky.

         A tired sigh leaves the lines of his mouth. He gets off the couch and says, “They went out to eat. I saw them walk over to Wendy’s.”

         “And you’re just now saying something?” Sam asks with crossed arms. It annoys him a little bit. He respects and likes Sam, even though he doesn’t always agree with him. A part of him is just pettiness, how he didn’t move his seat up months ago.

         “It’s wrong,” says Bucky. “We did this whole thing wrong. We shouldn’t have gone to her house the way we did. We shouldn’t have made her - we shouldn't have done what we did.”

         “If my memory serves me correctly, you were a deer in headlights,” Natasha responds with furrowed brows. She leans against the gray wall, pretending to have some cool look on her face, unbothered that the immortal woman managed to get away with Tony Stark. There’s more to what she’s letting on, but Bucky already knows the answer - she knows her too and is just as conflicted as he is. Chances are, if Natasha had been the one to go in after Steve, then they’d be exactly where his friend and Tony are.

         Bucky feels the frustration boil in his blood. He places his hands on his hips. “She’s my friend.” His voice is harsh. “Well. Was. I guess. I don’t know. But we’re the Avengers. We attack threats. Aliens. For fuck’s sake, what does she mean by anything to us? All because she jumped off a rooftop and probably traumatized a bunch of children on the internet?”

         One of SHIELD’s secret founders, a genius in her own right, a woman who does age, who lives in a luxury penthouse miles away from the rundown apartment she used to live in, Bucky cannot be prouder of the woman she is. That’s his friend. His gaze locks on the scrapbook in Steve’s hand. Before he can realize what he’s doing, he snatches it away.

         “I don’t understand,” he mumbles under his breath. Runs a gloved hand through his long hair. “I don’t understand.”

         “Bucky - ” Steve starts to speak, but stops when Bucky raises a hand and mutters, “Don’t.”

         Bucky’s very aware he has no authority in the team - he’s the outsider, he’s Steve’s friend, he’s a good man trapped in a tormented soul, a super soldier that doesn’t get tired, but he is tired. So much so, every day he feels the weight of his life drowning him. These constant nightmares and the things he’s done are repetitive and annoying. He sees the face of his friend every day: bloody, toothless, nose-broken, and lifeless underneath him.

         He sees everything about her. He always has since the day he met her.

         Her eyes were sparkling despite being scared by Hudson. Hair combed so neatly it made him think she was a celebrity. Smile so bright it made his soul shimmer with glitter, and his heartbeat in a way nobody could compare. Everything back then was so simple; teenage Bucky pined over her as she yearned for Steve’s hand all through to adulthood, even now. Seeing her at the penthouse made him feel alive, less tired, and nourished.

         And now she’s gone because Tony took her away. A conversation isn’t needed because everyone knows how stubborn Tony Stark is, especially when it comes to people he cares about.

         “We just,” he breathes the words in, terrified of saying the wrong thing, frightened that he can never become the man he wants to be, fearing she might never forgive him, “we just need to let her go.”

         “It’s not that simple,” Steve murmurs, his blue eyes glued to his shoes. There’s shame in his voice. “While she didn’t do anything wrong, Fury wants her. Apparently, they’ve been searching for her a while now.”

         “Not good enough if she’s been in New York all this time,” Wanda comments. Silent this whole time, Bucky forgot she’s there. One leg is on top of the other, sitting in one of the highchairs near Vision. Brown hair in braids, dressed in casual clothing. She shares a look with Bucky, telling him she’s read his mind. “I agree. With Bucky. She’s not harming anything. She wants nothing to do with SHEILD, and so we should have nothing to do with her.”

         Visions shift in his chair. “I do have to agree. While immortal, and that is very questionable, I’m curious as to why she’s done nothing wrong.”

         “An immortal could do a lot of things,” Sam explains. His eyes dart off the walls as he thinks about all the possibilities. “Create an uprising. A secret empire of criminals. Oh, create a virus for a zombie apocalypse.”

         “A zombie apocalypse,” Natasha says, staring at Sam like he lost his mind, but the smile’s there, and she’s chuckling. “My god. You’ve been watching a lot of movies.”

         “You can never be too careful these days,” he defends himself. “A zombie apocalypse is bound to happen, and I’m more ready than ever.”

         “What, you got a secret bunker we should be concerned about?” Wanda tilts her head.

         "Of course!" Sam’s cheerful voice rang out; a goofy smile splattered on his lips. “It’s got everything.”

         As the team began to immerse themselves in this odd conversation, Steve took advantage and made his way to Bucky. “You know,” he whispers, “she’s my friend too.”

         “What did you do in there?” He crosses his arms over his chest.

         Steve frowns. “Say the wrong things.”

         “Of course you did.”

         “We have to wait for Fury to get here,” Steve mutters, scratching the back of his head. "We just - ”

         Steve’s words died on his lips as the tower erupted in an explosion.

Chapter Text

A sniper shot hits her head the moment she enters the car.

         Her blood’s smeared all over Tony's car seats and bits of his person. She’s already blacked out before she can see his reaction. When she opens her eyes again, she stands in a giant pool of water, under a cloudy blue sky. She’s not alone in the water. Black spots shaped almost like humans are below. Crocodiles, both small and large, keep their distance. Hippos with their offspring are nearby, and then there is a shadowed man making his way towards her.

         A gentle breeze soothes her skin. The water feels nice on her flesh, a feeling of home. Her eyes wander around the familiar vast water, and she feels all the stress release. A smile’s on her lips. She closes her eyes and bathes in the water, feeling the cool water soak her flesh - it feels as though she’s being reborn again.

          “You’re here again,” someone says. The shadowed man.

          “I am,” she replies, but doesn’t open her eyes.

         Only sometimes, she stands in the underworld’s gateway when she dies. Most commonly, her vision goes blank for a second, then she’s back to life - only when her head suffers trauma does she come here, to meet a man she isn’t familiar with. The water gets warm.

          Everything about him is a shadow. His outline doesn’t ring a bell in her head. His voice was a sound her ears had never heard. But there’s something about the way he carries himself that draws him to her. “I’m back,” she says. “Am I going to stay here permanently?”

          “No,” he says. 

          “Will I ever stay?”

         “No.”

         “Well, fuck,” she mutters. “How fucking stupid.”

          “It appears so.”

          A crocodile brushes past her. It hisses, bares its meat-tearing teeth, but it doesn’t do anything, and she’s a forbidden meat that doesn’t belong with the dead but not with the living either. “What’s wrong with me?”

          “You know why.”

          “No, I don’t,” she snaps. The water gets hotter. Even though the man has no face, she knows he’s angered. Every emotion he feels causes the water temperature to change. Boiling when angered. Cold when saddened. Warm for neutral. He can be anything. A deity. Charon, perhaps? Only that he isn’t a ferryman, and he wants no coin.

          “You died in the water,” he says. “You will forever be in it.”

          “I don’t feel the water,” she replies. “I only feel hands.”

          “Water can feel you the same way fingers graze you,” the man replies. He speaks softly. She knows his voice. It’s driving her mad. Who is he? And why is it only he who meets her in the underworld? “Remember.”

          But she doesn’t want to remember. Remembering means memories permanently stay in your mind. Memories are never good. They’re evil demons that feed on your mind until you are broken and numb. “No,” she murmurs. “I won’t. I can’t.”

          “Then I cannot help you,” he says.

          “Who are you?” she asks. She gets up from the water, feeling the water drip between her breasts. Her hair’s soaked, moist, and glued to her skin. No longer does she feel clean. She’s tainted. Tarnished. The water gets frigid. “Please, just tell me. Who knows when I’ll see you again?”

          “You will see me when I want to see you,” he says. “Until you remember.”

          “Enough of this bullshit,” she snarls. “I’m not some shitty chosen one. Who are you? God?”

         “No.”

          “Then who?”

          “You know.”

          She rolls her eyes, already over this conversation. She chews on her bottom lip as frustration boils. Even in death, she can’t catch a break. It’s almost funny. It’s almost pathetic. “Please,” she whispers in such a pathetic tone. Something catches in her throat, blocking her from speaking properly. For the first time in ages, she feels the tears run down her face. She drops to her knees. “Please, just tell me.”

          The water’s as cold as the Arctic Ocean. Her naked body shakes and goes numb, stiff, and broken. He touches her cheek, but she feels no touch. “You just have to remember.”

Tony’s having a hard time.

          She lies dead next to him. Not in a beautiful way either. Her mouth’s wide open. Tongue sticking out like a dog in a deep sleep. His foot’s crammed on the pedal, and his hands steer the wheel dramatically. Three black cars speed after him, shooting. He calls the others, but no one answers. Losers.

          It’s a situation he can easily get out of. His suit’s always underneath him, ready to be worn. However, if he gets out of the car, then she stays with it, and who knows what’ll happen to her body. The car can cartoonishly explode. Her corpse will be burned, her limbs blown off elsewhere. Tony wonders what her regeneration will look like, but he pushes the unnecessary thought out of his mind.

          He can’t hold her either. It’s quite literally dead weight.

          He calls the team one more time when a bullet shoots from the left side mirror. No answer. He curses.

          “Now would be a good time to come back alive,” he grumbles, but of course, she remains dead in the passenger seat. Tony takes the chance of carrying her.

          He unbuckles his seatbelt. Awkwardly, he leans down and unbuckles her as more and more bullets shoot through the car. They’re getting more and more impatient. Tony can’t tell if they’re after him or her, but he can’t take any chances.

          The car swerves to the right. Outside, he catches glimpses of women and children running. Men with their mouths hung open and teenagers with their phones out. Other cars get out of the way, but some of them aren’t quick enough, and they hit their cars with his. He makes a mental note to find them and get their cars fixed later - no need for another Avenger incident. Not after Germany. After the Accords fell apart.

          Tony grabs her blood-soaked shirt and hoists her out of the car. Forgive me, Pepper. It’s not what it looks like. His arms wrap around her as his suit comes on his person.

          He swerves in the air, one arm around her waist. He quickly puts her in the position of a wounded damsel in distress, crying on his shoulder, so it doesn’t look like he’s carrying a dead body.

          “Let’s do this,” he whispers to himself and Jarvis.

          There are three cars in total. One van, two black Mercedes. What a bunch of tools.

          His intel tells him there are numerous men inside the van wearing heavy black leather, rifles pressed tightly on their chests, faces covered. If they were after Tony, then there wouldn’t be as many men. No, they were after her. His narrowed.

          Bullets shoot at him, but they bounce right off his armor.

          They’re in the middle of the busiest street. So many people are still out and about that he can’t afford to take out any civilians, but he can’t afford to distract them anymore. Those bullets can touch anyone, anything.

         “Oh, well,” Tony mutters under his breath. “I’m sure they’ll understand.”

          But they won’t.

          Tony extends his arm and spreads his fingers. The first blast hits the van. It flies out, hits other cars, and rolls down the street so dramatically that Tony almost rolls his eyes.

          He adjusts the grip on her. He spots an empty rooftop and risks dropping her off. The men get out of the van.

          “Sir,” Jarvis says in his ear, “you may want to duck.”

          “Why?”

          “They have a bazooka.”

          “Are you shitting me?” Jarvis is not shitting on him. One of the men, a heavy-set fellow, goes on his knees and aims straight at him. He misses barely; the missile shoots right into the sky and explodes. These guys mean business. Guess I’ll have to get serious, too.

          “Tony,” Steve coughs in the comms, “you there?”

          “Geez, Cap,” he replies. He lands on the ground. “You sound like a smoker. The drag of life finally got to you, huh?”

          “Tony,” Steve coughs again. “Tony, the tower. We’re under attack.”

          “So am I.” Tony grabs a man’s fists, twists them, and throws him to his friends like a bowling ball. The heavyset man aims his bazooka at him, but Tony manages to get to him, yanks the weapon out of his sweaty hands, and threatens to shoot them all. “Join the club.”

          The men surrounding them wear the same gear - all black and leather, daggers around their waists, ammo and guns - but there’s a weird symbol on their chests. One he doesn’t recognize. It’s not Hydra. Not anyone from Natasha’s past.

He has no idea who these people are, and he doubts his friend does either. She would have told him.

          It’s a while before Steve replies, “What’s going on in your end?”

          “A bunch of weirdos attacked me,” he replies. The bazooka only had one missile, so it’s useless. Dropping from his hands, he attacks the nearby man. “Steve, are the men attacking the tower dressed in all black, with a symbol on their chest?”

          “Yes.” From the sound Steve’s making, his nose is clogged up with smoke, and he’s fighting. The sound of his shield pierces Tony’s ears. Natasha’s shouting in the background, Sam’s barking orders. “I don’t know these people.”

          “Once again, join the club.”

          He feels like he’s back in high school, and a bunch of wannabe bullies are jumping him. These men are not trained. This is a distraction, he realizes. He has made a mistake. He blasts the men off of him.

          There’s a helicopter on the roof he dropped her off. A man’s staring at him. Even from down here, Tony sees his crooked smile radiating confidence. The man has her over his shoulder and enters the chopper just as the men pile on Tony.

          He feels sick to his stomach, confusion brewing in his belly.

          The man has the same face as Steve Rogers.

Chapter Text

Smoke fills Natasha’s nostrils, a feeling all too familiar. Heat blazes underneath her clothes - a simple white blouse, silver jewelry wrapped around her throat, and gray sweats. Usually, she dressed professionally for meetings. Often in her gear. At the thought of reuniting with her, she had thought she’d go through the more casual route.

Her red hair is glued to her porcelain skin as she pinches her nose to keep her from inhaling smoke, mouth only partially open. People enter the collapsing tower. Fire, smoke, the metallic bitterness on her tongue, sweat, and men are all around her. Gunshots. Dodging behind broken tables and chairs, a flash of Wanda’s powers in the corner of her eye, and Vision’s words of command. Steve’s ordering something in the comms, but Natasha feels herself drifting away to that fateful day in Montana.

It'd been a sunny Monday morning - the sun over the horizon, glazing over mahogany suburban rooftops of houses lived in by happy families.

As she ran down the street, barefoot and bruised, exhausted, memories of Ohio flashed through her mind. She wondered about Yelena, grieved for Melina, and barely thought about Alexei, their home, the neighbors she had grown to adore, and the whistle. Blisters and blood carved the soles of her feet, her legs begging her to stop running, but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Natasha couldn’t go back.

With blood underneath her fingernails, on her shirt, in her soul, and in her mind, everywhere and nowhere, Natasha had been able to escape a mission and run for freedom - a very foolish attempt given she was a teenager and very much groomed and very much liked this life. It was a drug, and she was immune to it, and this was some wicked sense of withdrawal.

A car came into view, a black Camaro. They’d already found her, and she had very little time.

She made a run to the forest. Branches slapped her shoulders, creating more blood marks and a wound she’d bandage later. Natasha tripped over a fallen lap and busted her chin, bits of her lip chipping. She got up, did not look back, and continued to run until the car’s engine couldn’t be heard along with their shouts. She found a little crevice and felt safe enough to wash her face with dirty water, a space to finally catch her breath.

“Man, the fuck happened to you?”

The voice spooked her more than it should’ve. Natasha swung her head around, grabbed the knife on her hip, and pointed it at a woman leaning against an oak tree. The woman’s shirt was unbuttoned, pant sleeves rolled to her knees. There was a bottle of wine in her hands. Empty bottles around her feet. Her face was scrunched up, her nose wrinkled, and she was heavily intoxicated. 

Natasha’s eyes darted around the forest. She’d never seen this woman before. “Why are you out here?” she questioned.

“Answer my question first and I’ll answer yours,” the woman said. Well, that was what Natasha thought she said. Her words were too heavily slurred.

“Out for a stroll,” answered Natasha.

“Right, right.” She used her bottle to point at her. “What’s the blood? Huh? Are you in the mafia?”

“You can say that.” Keep your mouth shut.

“Well,” the woman slurred. “That’s dumb.”

“Do you live around here?”

“Probably.”

“Can you take me there?”

The woman stared at her blankly. “Sure.”

“Then take me there.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” the woman said, but got up and walked down the creak.

Natasha followed her. It was easy to take advantage of drunken fools, easy to manipulate vulnerable minds. The woman led her to a nice collage and fed her disgusting porridge, laughed about the three little bears and Goldilocks, watched Natasha eat, then fell asleep on the couch. That night, Natasha made sure every door and window was locked.

In the morning, the now sober woman regarded Natasha with disdain but didn’t bat an eye at why a teenage girl was in her cottage, nor did she ask about her history. “If you’re going to be here, make yourself useful.”

And so Natasha did. She cleaned around the house, worked on the woman’s garden, watched TV, and read books. Helped pack the woman’s belongings and traveled with her out of Montana, and drove all the way to California for whatever reason, and lived in a nice apartment with a good view of Los Angeles, and did the same thing she did at the cottage in the apartment.

For months, the two spoke little to each other, but kept each other alive. Natasha had to stop the woman from getting drunk too much; the woman had to wake Natasha from her nightmares, but they were content. Never asked questions. Never spoke of the past.

Natasha, naively, believed this would be the rest of her life until the apartment doors were busted open and Widows walked in. Before she knew it, the woman lay dead on the white floor, and Natasha was dragged back into the Red Room.

Now, as she twists the arm of some man and pushes him to the fire, she thinks of what could’ve been if they had stayed together. Surely the woman would talk about her shared time with Steve and Bucky, and Natasha, having never met them and never having a life in SHIELD, would be awed.

Steve guards her with his shield as more bullets come. She wonders if the woman, a secret founder of SHIELD, had put two and two together and informed SHIELD about Natasha. It’s unlikely, but she hopes that’s the case.

As her eyes slowly open, she first realizes she’s chained again. She fights off the urge to roll her eyes. Cold air kisses her skin. She glances around her surroundings, but there’s nothing familiar – the walls are made of steel, gray and silver. She hears the sound of rushing water, but everything’s dry, so she can’t come up with clues about where she might be.

The door opens. Steve steps in, but it’s not her Steve. No, her Steve would never look so confident walking into a room without checking for any possible threats to her. He holds a foldable chair in his right hand. Placing it in front of her, he sits down and puts one leg over the other like he’s a scolding teacher and she a delinquent student.

“Can I help you?” she questions.“You can,” he answers. His voice is the same as her Steve's, but there’s something different about it that she can’t place, and it pisses her off. “We’ve been watching you for quite some time, you should know. Ever since you’re little – oh, what was it, accident?”“Shut up,” she hisses softly.But he doesn’t. “Is that what you call it? Right?”“I told you to shut up.”

“I’ll speak if I want to,” Fake Steve replies with the click of his tongue. She feels

water on her skin. “Have you tried remembering? Maybe you can tell me what you are.”
It’s the same thing the shadowed man told her, but there’s something to remember – she knows what happened. “I don’t know more about what happened to me than you do.”

“That’s not the answer I wanted,” he murmurs. He grabs her by the throat; water goes in her mouth and eyes. “I’ll help you remember.”

Chapter Text

Hi, all.

I owe you an apology. This fic's horribly written and not well taken care of. For that, to all who took the time to bookmark and read through the chapters, I cannot be more thankful. And incredibly guilt-ridden. Unfortunately, I will not be continuing this fic because of that. I'm not certain where I can take the story, from where it's at, especially, to make sense, and not something that happened out of nowhere. I want a story that makes you laugh, cry, and enjoy.

And so, I'll be rewriting it entirely. I'm not sure when it'll come out, or if it'll even have the same name, but if you would like to give it a read when it releases, then thank you. Once again, I'm sorry.

Chapter Text

Hey, all.

The new fic is out under a new name, Memories of Black. It's a lot different compared to the original, just to let all of you know. It does have a few similarities, such as the reader not being able to die, but that's about it, lol.

Admittedly, I like to write horror/thriller short stories, so the fic is going with that route. If it's not your cup of tea, I understand, and I thank you for giving me your time of day. Nothing too graphic, but it does have a lot of angst, fluff if you squint hard enough, and the same, kind of, message the original fic was trying to say.

I've published two chapters as a special treat and a thank you. Most likely, I'll be deleting this fic together after a couple days. Thank you once again. <3