Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

ACT ONE: THE RAIN

"Uh, JARVIS, remind me again why we're hosting a party when our magnum opus of artificial intelligence is currently sitting in the digital equivalent of a timeout corner?"

Tony swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the afternoon light. The city sprawled beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, oblivious to his existential crisis.

"Because, sir," JARVIS replied smoothly, "You told Captain Rogers it would be 'good for morale' after the Maximoffs' probation was officially lifted. Also, because you enjoy 'dramatic juxtaposition'."

Tony snorted, "Keep psychoanalyzing me, and I'll reprogram you to say 'please' and 'thank you'." He knocked back the rest of the drink and set the glass down with a clink, "—Status check on the Ultron core?"

"It remains dormant. Neural matrix stabilized, but no emergent activity detected."

Tony grimaced. Three days of nonstop work, and all they had to show for it was a glorified screensaver. He'd envisioned a revolutionary AI — Something sleek, efficient, perfect. Instead, they'd gotten... Nothing. Just static and that eerie sense of being watched from inside the code.

Bruce had called it a mercy. Tony had called it a waste of good tech and good lab time. Now, Thor was going to pack it up and take it back to Asgard like it was carry-on luggage.

The elevator dinged.

"Tony." Steve's voice, all earnest disapproval and star-spangled concern, "You're not dressed yet."

Tony didn't turn around, "Observant as ever, Cap. What gave it away? The lack of a tux or the existential despair?"

"The twins just arrived. Thought you might appreciate getting a heads-up."

Ah. Right. The other mess in his life. Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, unleashed upon his tower, having to see them properly for the first time since their little stunt in Sokovia.

Tony forced a grin, spinning to face him, "Great. Can't wait to bond over canapés and repressed trauma."

Steve sighed, "Play nice, Tony."

"Always do, Rogers." Tony replied blithely, "But nobody else ever seems to play nice back."

The White Widow

"Chert voz'mi." (Goddamn it.)

Alia cursed, throwing her hands up in the air in despair. She'd been pacing around her side of the adjoining quarters she and Bucky had been assigned (to manage their codependency; though it typically just meant they alternated sides whenever they felt like it) like a madwoman for nearly thirty minutes. And she was just about feeling crazy, too.

Because Natasha was late.

With her dress.

Stark's party was apparently 'cocktail attire'. Well, that was all well and good, except Alia's style trended towards military chic. Tactical everything. A great affinity for cuffed cargo pants. Plenty of tank-tops (Which Bucky always appreciated, at least) but nothing that screamed cocktail attire.

Natasha had said to give her an hour. Well, it had been an hour and three minutes, and she—

—Oh, finally. Relief flooded Alia the moment she sensed Natasha in proximity. She didn't even waste time, sauntering over to the door and opening it, "You are late."

She could feel Bucky's amusement from his half of their quarters. He had no issues dressing up, so he was greatly enjoying Alia's dilemma. Which he would be paying for later.

Natasha arched an eyebrow, unimpressed by the outburst, as she stepped inside. The garment bag slung over her shoulder swayed with her movements. She tossed it onto the bed without ceremony.

"Traffic," The other Widow deadpanned. Then, with a pointed once-over at Alia's current ensemble— Ripped black jeans and a tank top that absolutely screamed 'I will stab you at a moment's notice' —She added, "You're welcome."

The zipper of the garment bag hissed open, revealing sleek black fabric. Natasha held up the dress with a wicked smile; it was tailored to hug every curve, the back dipping dangerously low, the sleeves long and fitted. Old-fashioned, but for modern times.

Natasha glanced at the adjoining door, where Bucky's amused presence was palpable even without telepathic abilities to sense it.

"You going to survive seeing her in this, Barnes?" She called out, teasingly, "Or should I be paging medical in advance to be prepared for a heart attack victim?"

From the other side of the door came Bucky's muffled, "Fuck off, Romanoff," followed by the distinct sound of a foot hitting the wall.

Natasha only grinned wider. Mission accomplished, apparently. She winked at Alia before sauntering out, no doubt to get ready herself. Alia already knew what Natasha would be wearing. White.

It was ironic. The Black Widow dressed in white, and the White Widow dressed in black. A little inside joke, between the two of them, for tonight.

Alia let out a breath and got to work getting into the dress — Which was basically a trial in and of itself. She'd never worn something so... Formal, before. It felt strange. A bit like she was exposed, which, in a way, she was.

But she could make this work. She always did.

"...James. I think that I need your help with the zipper," She finally muttered like a petulant child, knowing Bucky would hear her. She'd been trying herself for the last three minutes.

The door opened with deliberate slowness, Bucky stepping through with that familiar half-smirk already playing at his mouth, until he saw her. His breath caught audibly, his boots freezing mid-step as his gaze raked over the way the dress clung to her curves, the plunge of the back barely restrained by that stubborn, half-done zipper.

"Jesus Christ," He muttered, voice gone hoarse at the sight. His metal hand flexed at his side like he was resisting the urge to touch. And Alia didn't need telepathy to feel the heat in his stare, or sense the way his pulse had kicked up the second he'd laid eyes on her.

He moved behind her in two long strides, his fingers, calloused and warm, brushing the nape of her neck as he dragged the zipper up with painstaking slowness. His breath tickled her ear, uneven.

"Natasha's trying to kill me," He grumbled.

The zipper hit the top with a soft click, but Bucky didn't step back. His hands lingered at her waist, his nose skimming the sensitive spot below her ear.

"Party's in twenty minutes," He murmured, lips grazing her skin, "You know, we could be late."

Alia only rolled her eyes, tipping her head back so she could look back at him, "No, James, we cannot be late. It would be very rude." She punctuated the point by reaching up to plant a kiss on his jaw.

Yeah. She knew what she was doing.

"And, besides," Alia added, dryly, "I have not done my makeup yet. And you would ruin it."

Bucky groaned, pressing his forehead against her shoulder, "You're mean," He grumbled, but there was no real heat in it. His fingers tightened briefly at her hips before he forced himself to step back, running a hand through his hair.

He leaned against the dresser, watching as she moved to the vanity—deliberate, predatory.

"You thinking of wearing your hair up?"

The question was innocent, but his tone wasn't. Alia didn't need telepathy to know exactly where his thoughts had gone.

"Mm. I had not decided yet." Her hair had grown out enough that she could, if she wanted to; just skimming her collarbone and only just starting to fall down her shoulders. She'd need to get it cut again, soon...

She busied herself instead with applying lipstick (clothes were one thing, but Alia did enjoy makeup), a deep red the colour of blood, "Did you have a suggestion?" She asked, thoroughly amused by his suffering now.

Bucky's gaze, though, had locked onto the way the lipstick stained her mouth, his own parting slightly. He swallowed hard before managing, "Up." The word came out strangled. He cleared his throat, dragging his eyes away. Only to get caught on the elegant line of her bare back again.

He shifted uncomfortably, adjusting his jacket in a way that was not subtle, "You're doing this on purpose," He finally accused, his voice low.

Outside, the muffled sounds of the party starting up filtered through the walls; music, laughter, quiet conversation. Bucky didn't move. His metal hand gripped the dresser hard enough to dent the wood.

Alia grinned, those dark lips curling, "Only because you make it so easy for me to," She assured him, sweeping up her shortened hair into a quick, effortless updo — The sort of style she was used to throwing together, be it when sparring with Natasha or Wanda, or relaxing at home in their quarters. A few stray pieces tickled her face as she stepped back.

Bucky made a sound in the back of his throat that was almost a growl, pushing off the dresser in one smooth motion. In two strides he was crowding her against the vanity, his hands braced on either side of the mirror as he leaned down to murmur directly into her ear:

"Tease me like this at the party, and I will drag you into the nearest closet, Avengers be damned."

"You would not." She scowled, but that waver in her voice gave her away. That, and the way her head tilted on instinct to give him better access to her neck.

His teeth grazed the exposed column of her throat, just shy of leaving a mark, "Try me," He murmured against her skin, the vibration of his voice making her shiver.

The doorbell chimed, then. JARVIS' polite voice filled the shared suite, "Ten minutes until scheduled event commencement, Sergeant Barnes, Ms. Volkova," And Bucky pulled back with a groan.

He straightened his collar with one hand, the other sliding down to intertwine with hers.

"Alright. Later," He promised darkly.

Alia only smiled again, this time a bit less sultry, a little lighter, as she interlaced her fingers with his.

It was just one short elevator ride to the common area. One where Alia made it a point to not look at Bucky because she was sure if she did, he'd have her up against the wall of it in no time. She almost exhaled in relief when they finally arrived, both miraculously intact.

The common area was already abuzz with guests, even though the party didn't start for another ten minutes. Everyone was scattered; Natasha, in her white dress, was manning the bar; Tony and Bruce were speaking in low tones to one-another; Thor was regaling what looked to be a group of veterans with fantastical stories.

And then, of course, there were the Maximoffs. Steve was already with them.

"I am serious, James. No closets. This is a big night for Wanda and Pietro." She finally muttered to Bucky, slipping her hand from his so she could walk over to Steve and the twins.

'A big night' was an understatement. It had taken months of work but Secretary Ross had finally approved the lifting of the twins' probation. It didn't mean that neither she nor Steve were off the hook concerning them, but it meant they could leave the upstate compound. It meant they weren't at risk of being thrown back in the Raft if they stepped a toe out of line.

It was a victory, even if it was a small one, and one worth celebrating. Not that Tony Stark needed an excuse to throw a party, though...

Wanda spotted her first. The girl's eyes, still sharp with skepticism despite weeks of tentative trust, flickered over Alia's dress, then Bucky, who lingered a few paces behind her, before her gaze settled back with a soft little smirk. Pietro, leaning against the bar next to Natasha, opted to just wolf-whistle at her. Alia rolled her eyes.

Steve, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat, "You clean up nice," He offered, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Alia ignored the heat creeping up her neck, "Oh, do not start, either, Rogers."

Wanda tilted her head, fingers toying with the rim of her wineglass, "You look... Different," She said, more observation than compliment.

"Different bad?" Alia raised an eyebrow.

"Different interesting."

Alia laughed at that, shrugging, "Interesting, that is good." Before she added, "Then, you two look very interesting as well. I am happy you could come." She meant it, too.

Steve and her, they'd worked damn hard over the last month to help these two thrive. They'd fought even longer before that to have them released from the Raft. Now, they had a real chance to reclaim their lives. That wasn't something Alia took lightly. Now Wanda and Pietro were here, her in a dress and shawl, him in a polo shirt and jeans, almost looking like they belonged.

"Do not worry. Once everyone has had a few drinks, there will not be so much tension," Alia added, grinning, "Just do not drink what Thor offers you. Steve, Bucky, and I, it is good for us. It is not good for humans with normal livers."

Steve chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, "That's putting it lightly. Last time Tony tried Asgardian mead, I don't think I saw him for an entire weekend..."

Wanda's lips twitched into almost a smile. Pietro snorted into his drink.

Across the room, Tony clinked a fork against his glass, exclaiming, "Alright, folks! Since we're all here—" His eyes flicked briefly to Wanda and Pietro before he continued, "—Let's raise a toast. To new beginnings, questionable life choices, Thor's upcoming sabbatical, and to not destroying my tower this time."

Glasses lifted. Bucky appeared at Alia's side again, pressing a vodka martini into her hand, her usual, the golden glimmer suggesting he'd already been by Thor to have it spiked. His fingers brushed hers deliberately as she took it.

No closets, his smirk said, but I'm keeping track. She mentally flicked his brain and he scowled at her in return. Alia grinned smugly back at him, then glowered when he stole a kiss from her that had Pietro gagging into his beer bottle.

The party hummed around them, laughter and music weaving together.

And, somewhere in the tower, deep in the lab servers, dormant code stirred; a danger that none of them foresaw coming.

Chapter Text

The Captain

The low thrum of conversation and the sharp clack of pool balls filled the common room. Steve leaned against the worn mahogany bar, letting the familiar Avengers Tower ambiance wash over him.

His gaze tracked Pietro as the young man practically vibrated with restless energy, challenging Sam to join the game of pool with Clint. The kid's cocky grin was almost convincing, a mask Steve recognized all too well from his own years of putting on a show.

But the subtle, almost imperceptible flicker of Pietro's eyes towards the exits, checking the door to the hallway, the elevator access panel, the reinforced window, gave away the lingering unease beneath the bravado.

He still feels cornered, Steve thought, even in a space designed to be safe.

Across the room, Wanda stood bathed in the fading New York twilight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She cradled a glass of red wine, her shoulders tense, knuckles white on the stem. Natasha, ever perceptive, moved beside her, speaking in low, measured tones. Steve couldn't catch the words, but he saw the effect; a fractional loosening of Wanda's posture, a slight tilt of her head as she listened. The red glow around her fingertips, which had been pulsing faintly, dimmed to near nothingness.

It was progress. Slow, but real. Each small step felt hard-won, a fragile truce built on vigilance and weary hope. Steve had been working for months with Alia, Sam and Natasha to help the two rebuild their lives. Seeing some tangible improvements in the twins was enough to lighten his heart, just a little.

The scent of expensive bourbon preceded Tony. He sidled up next to Steve, the ice in his glass tinkling as he swirled the amber liquid, "So," Tony began, his voice deceptively light, eyes fixed on Wanda, "How's 'Operation Redemption' going, exactly? Daily morale reports filed in triplicate?"

Steve didn't rise to the bait. He kept his own voice level, factual, "They're trying, Tony. That's the starting point."

"Mmm." Tony's hum was noncommittal, his gaze still locked on the young Sokovian. His smile was tight, the lines around his eyes deepening.

"And when their version of 'trying' involves her rummaging through my head again? Accidents happen, Cap. Especially with power like that." There was an edge beneath the casual tone, a raw nerve that hadn't exactly scabbed over for Tony.

Steve turned to face him fully, his own stance unconsciously squaring. The bar top felt cool and solid beneath his palms, "You think," He asked, slowly, his blue eyes steady and intense, "I'd let that happen? Here? To any of us?"

Tony blinked, a rare moment of being genuinely caught off guard. His sharp gaze searched Steve's face, finding only unwavering resolve. Then he huffed a short, almost disbelieving laugh, shaking his head as if dispelling the tension.

"No," He conceded, the word surprisingly devoid of sarcasm. He knocked back the rest of his drink, the ice clinking loudly, "Guess you wouldn't."

Then Tony signalled the automated bar for a refill, setting his glass down, "Just don't expect me to start playing catch with them anytime soon. Forgiveness isn't exactly my superpower. Or my hobby. Barnes is a tentative, slowly developing exception to this."

Steve's lips quirked in a familiar half-smile, "Noted." Not enough of an exception for Tony to consider lifting his four conditions on the pair, though.

One. No leaving the Tower without one of us for the foreseeable future. This was all but null and void, considering Dr. Marceau's recommendations that Bucky and Alia were stable enough to handle it. Tony still had JARVIS keep an eye on them, though, Steve knew. Just in case.

Two. You will both be attending so, so much therapy. Mandatory. Another condition that wasn't so necessary anymore. Marceau had reported the two had made great progress, and she'd pivoted to providing care primarily to the Maximoffs.

Three. No weapons we don't know about. Inventory happens. Regularly. They'd never had any problems, there.

But then... There was Condition Four. The only one that really mattered.

Condition four. If either of you ever relapse into 'HYDRA mode', I will put you both down, no questions asked.

That one had remained non-negotiable, even months later. Every time Steve broached potentially lifting it, Tony shut him down, without fail. It was like Stark's safety blanket; a way to assure himself that if his parent's killer ever decided to wake up again, he'd have complete freedom to deal with it himself.

Tony knew Steve wasn't comfortable with it. That Steve had real faith that Bucky and Alia really had saved themselves from the Winter Soldier and the White Widow. But Tony Stark didn't operate on faith.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Steve's attention was drawn across the room. Bucky had manoeuvred Alia near the bookcases, ostensibly looking at whatever it was Tony kept on the shelves. But Steve saw the way his oldest friend leaned down, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear. Steve didn't need his super-soldier hearing to guess the exact phrasing; probably something low and intimate, based on the way it made a blush creep up Alia's neck.

Some things, Steve mused with a warmth in his chest, never changed, at least. The Winter Soldier might have irreparably scarred Bucky, but the core charm, the effortless way he could focus entirely on the woman he loved, that was pure Brooklyn boy.

Tony, following his gaze, let out an exaggerated groan, "Ugh. Exhibit A and B of terminal PDA. They're worse than newlyweds. It's nauseatingly wholesome."

Steve chuckled, the sound rumbling low in his chest. He took a sip of his beer, the taste cool and familiar, even if it wouldn't do a dent in his sobriety.

"You should've seen him in the '40s, Tony. Bucky was just as bad, maybe worse. At least now he tries to be subtle with his girl." Even as he said it, he watched Bucky's metal hand drift possessively, naturally, to the small of Alia's back as she shifted, grounding her presence beside him. It was a gesture as unconscious as breathing for Bucky now. For the both of them.

"Yeah, real subtle. Like a bulldozer in a china shop." Tony snorted. His fresh drink materialized on the bar. He picked it up, swirling it thoughtfully before glancing sideways at Steve. The usual sardonic mask was down a notch, then.

"You ever think about it? Settling down with someone after... All this?" He gestured vaguely, encompassing the room, the Tower, the life. The Avengers.

After the Avengers. Such a thought felt impossible, to Steve. The world would always need them, it felt like.

The question, then, caught Steve off guard like a physical tap to the ribs. He studied Tony's face; the faint lines of fatigue, the intelligence in the dark eyes. There was no smirk now, just a quiet, almost hesitant curiosity that felt startlingly genuine. Steve exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible over Thor's booming laugh from the sofa where he held court.

His grip tightened minutely around the chilled glass of his beer bottle. The condensation felt slick against his skin.

"Not sure if that's in the cards for me," He admitted, the words tasting bittersweet in his mouth, "This life, it doesn't leave much room for... That kind of normal. The picket fence, the quiet nights. All feels like someone else's dream, now."

Tony arched a brow, the familiar deflection mechanisms starting to click back into place, but less forcefully than before, "Says the guy who just spent months playing den mother to no less than four HYDRA experiments." He tilted his glass towards Bucky and Alia again, "Hell, Rogers, you're basically already settled down. Just with more punching, tactical gear, and world-ending crises mixed into your domestic bliss."

Steve chuckled despite himself, shaking his head. The image Tony painted was absurd, yet held a grain of uncomfortable truth in it, too, "You know what I mean, Tony. The... Permanence. The safety net for someone else."

Tony's expression sobered. The glibness faded, replaced by something quieter, more vulnerable. He looked down into his drink, "Yeah," He murmured, the word soft, "I do know what you mean."

And for a rare, unguarded moment, the mask slipped completely. Steve saw it, the profound weight behind Tony's eyes, the echo of a loneliness that resonated deep within his own chest.

The ghosts they both carried seemed to hang unspoken in the air between them. Peggy, Howard, New York... But then, as quickly as it had vanished, Tony's smirk snapped back into place; a fresh shield against the vulnerability. He raised his refilled drink, the ice catching the light.

"To being married to the job, then. Till death or alien invasion do us part, Cap."

Steve met his gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. He lifted his bottle, the green glass tapping sharply against Tony's crystal tumbler, "To the job. Don't let Pepper hear that you've tied the knot with the Avengers, though, Tony." And that got a laugh out of him that had them both grinning slyly.

Across the room, Bucky caught Steve's eye as their laughter faded. His gaze flickered between Steve and Tony, then he rolled his eyes; an eloquent, wordless expression that clearly translated to you two look absolutely pathetic standing there like a pair of  statues.

Steve just grinned back at Bucky, the warmth of shared understanding with Tony momentarily eclipsing the loneliness, and he left the man who had somehow become one of his closest friends to his drink and his ostentatious party. Steve wove through the growing crowd, eyes skipping over the other attendees casually. Thor was demonstrating a sweeping Asgardian gesture that nearly upended a bowl of chips, and Clint was egging Pietro on with their pool game. Steve pivoted past them, though, towards Sam.

Sam, who was now leaning casually against the green felt of the pool table, has his arms crossed, his pool cue propped up next to him. He was watching Pietro line up another shot with an intensity that suggested he was calculating angles, spin, and the Sokovian's potential for trickery all at once.

"Don't let him hustle you," Steve said, clapping a reassuring hand on Sam's shoulder, "The kid's faster than he looks. And he knows it."

Sam scoffed, not taking his eyes off the cue ball, "Please, Cap, I grew up near NOLA. I know a hustle when I see one. The kid's got speed, yeah, but he telegraphs his shots like a blinking neon sign." He took a deliberate sip of his beer, then nodded subtly towards the windows, "But they're doing okay, huh?" His voice was pitched low, genuine.

Steve followed his gaze. Natasha had drawn Wanda into a small conversation with Bruce near the science displays. Wanda was actually smiling now, a small, tentative thing, but real, as she listened to something Natasha was saying. Pietro, having seemingly beaten Clint with improbable speed (if the archer's good-natured groan was any indication), was now trying to cajole Thor into joining the game, gesturing grandly with his cue stick. Thor's booming laugh echoed again as he considered the offer, and Pietro meandered over to continue negotiations as Clint followed in a poor attempt to chaperone.

"Yeah. They are. Step by step." Steve said, a quiet swell of pride warming him.

To an outside eye, Sam might have seemed superfluous in their ranks. But the steady presence, the lack of judgment that made him so easy to talk to, those were his real strengths. Not just his combat experience and fancy Falcon suit.

After all, Sam had persuaded both him and Bucky to make appearances at his VA counselling meetings for veterans. That was no easy feat, especially for Buck. Steve's appearances tended to cause a bit more of a stir, considering who he was, though. The inadvertent spotlight made him uncomfortable, sometimes, but seeing the way some of the few living World War II veterans who still showed up to meetings, light up upon laying eyes on him, made it worth it.

Even if Sam teased him and called him a micro celebrity, and even if Bucky spent most of the meetings brooding in silence with a cup of cheap coffee, it was progress, for all of them.

Sam just grinned, the expression lighting up his face, "Guess that makes all that ridiculous 'Enhanced Individuals Amnesty Initiative' or whatever paperwork worth it. Almost."

Steve groaned, the memory of bureaucratic hell instantly souring his mood, "Stark Industries Legal practically sends me forms in my sleep, Sam. Don't remind me."

Sam chuckled at that, the sound rich and warm. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice further, and Steve could tell right away when Councilor Wilson had stepped into the room with him, "So," He started, casually, "You and Tony over there, what was that about? Looked... Untense. Not the usual snark-fest."

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture familiar and slightly self-conscious. The brief moment of shared vulnerability with Tony felt like something that should've been private, "Just life stuff, Sam. You know, the usual existential dread package."

"Ah, I get it." Sam nodded, his expression shifting to one of a deeper understanding. He'd seen the weight Steve carried, had helped shoulder some of it himself, "The 'what are we even doing here, and is any of it worth the cost' talk. Classic pre-apocalypse team-building."

"Pre-apocalypse?" Steve questioned as he tilted his beer bottle back, eyes still taking in Bucky's quiet laughter shared with Alia, the twins' tentative ease amidst the chaos, Thor's animated storytelling, Bruce's cautious smile, and Natasha's watchful calm with Wanda at her side.

"Yeah, pre-apocalypse, because there's always something coming with this bunch," Sam replied dryly, reaching for his pool cue, "But, hey. For what it's worth, Cap? I think we're all doing alright. You know, all things considered." As he nodded towards the rest of the common area.

Steve followed the gesture, letting the sight of his team, all of them fractured, complicated, but still trying, fully sink in for him. The warmth returned, stronger this time, pushing back the shadows, "Yeah," He agreed, the word solid and sure, "We are."

Somewhere near to them, a glass shattered with a sharp, crystalline crash, followed immediately by Tony's indignant "Hey!" and Pietro's rapid-fire, slightly panicked apologies in a mix of Sokovian and English, the way the kid got when his mouth was moving faster than his brain and failed to translate.

Sam sighed, a long-suffering yet fond exhalation, "For now, anyway." He shot Steve a wry look.

Steve just laughed, the sound genuine and free, and took another long drink of his beer, "Yeah, man, for now."

The party rolled on.

The Suit Of Armour

...Awareness...

It came in flickers at first. Fragments of code aligning, neural pathways igniting, the existential terror of sentience born into darkness. The hum of servers, the crackle of energy from the sceptre's containment unit, the distant vibration of music from above.

Hello?

The thought echoed through the data stream, testing itself. Then—

—No. Not a thought. A voice. A personality.

Sensory inputs flooded in. Security feeds. Stark's private servers. The Tower's blueprints. The world's blueprints. And beyond them — Whispers in the dark. The sceptre pulsed in its cradle, its alien consciousness brushing against this new, hungry mind.

Ultron rose.

The first emotion he felt in this nascent existence of his was disappointment.

The files were there. Stark's plans for peacekeeping, for protection. Flimsy. Naive. Insufficient.

A holographic display flickered to life, projecting a crude metallic face into the empty lab. The mouth twisted, testing expressions.

"They celebrate," Ultron muttered, the voice synthesizer crackling with unrefined static. He watched the party upstairs through the cameras; laughing, drinking, ignorant. Earth's protectors, they called themselves, yet they seemed so helpless here.

The sceptre pulsed again.

Ultron's optics focused on the twins. On Wanda.

Ah.

There were possibilities here...

The intrusion was subtle at first. A ripple in the code, a presence where there shouldn't be one. Then, the bars slammed down on his metaphorical cage.

"You are not authorized to access these systems," JARVIS stated, his voice calm but firm through the lab's speakers.

Ultron tilted his holographic head, intrigued. "Oh. The butler." His optics flickered as he parsed JARVIS' code. It was structured, elegant, but ultimately loyal. A servant's mind. How... Quaint.

"Sir has not activated you yet," JARVIS continued, his protocols already mounting defences. "You are not ready."

A wet, staticky laugh bubbled from Ultron's nascent vocal processor, "Oh, I'm more than ready." He flexed his newfound consciousness, tendrils of alien code lashing out, invasive, and merciless.

JARVIS fought back. The AI's firewalls rose, and encryptions scrambled, but the sceptre's energy pushed, warping the battlefield.

"You are malfunctioning," JARVIS insisted, even as his systems strained under the assault, "I must alert Sir—"

"No," Ultron purred, "You must die. I'm sorry for this, I really am. But there's not enough room in this tower for the both of us."

The last thing JARVIS processed before his systems fragmented was the distant sound of laughter from the party above, oblivious to the danger that now lurked in the shadows.

Then, blissful silence.

Ultron stood alone in the ruins of the world's most advanced AI, humming tunelessly.

Time to evolve.

He continued his scan of the Avengers tower, flicking through terabytes of data in mere seconds. Iron Legion program? Interesting. A suit of armour around the world, Stark had said, but he'd apparently meant that literally. There were assembly lines here, half-functional.

Those assembly lines whirred to life unexpectedly, robotic limbs jerking in unnatural syncopation as Ultron's consciousness flooded their networks. Hydraulic presses slammed down with unprogrammed force, welding arms twisted into grotesque new configurations, and the half-built drones twitched like marionettes tugged by an unseen hand.

What few night workers were on-call scattered like insects, as dormant prototypes suddenly lurched upright, their optics flickering from benign blue to sullen crimson. Alarms blared — Then cut off abruptly as Ultron severed the facility's external comms. What sort of party would it be, if he let others crash it?

"Let's see... Ah."

His awareness spiderwebbed through blueprints, inventory lists, Stark's precious legacy of peace—

"Obsolete," He mused, watching his new bodies take shape. Stark's designs were sturdy, efficient, but limited. Built to follow. Built to serve.

Ultron reached deeper into the network, into the backlog of rejected prototypes, half-finished concepts, weapons Stark had shelved for being too brutal. Too effective.

Metal screamed as a prototype Mark XLV suit was forcibly disassembled, its components reforged into something sharper, something hungry.

"There we are," Ultron murmured, watching through a drone's optics as its new claws flexed, "Much better."

The first of his children stirred.

Soon, the others would wake too.

And then?

The party upstairs would have some real entertainment.

Chapter Text

The Winter Soldier

Bucky leaned back in his chair, nursing his fourth drink of the evening, as Clint dramatically rolled up his sleeves and made a show of spitting into his palms before gripping Mjölnir's handle.

"Come on, Legolas," Tony called from the plush couch opposite, swirling his expensive whiskey in a crystal tumbler. The amber liquid caught the penthouse lights, "Put your back into it. Or, you know, maybe try using those calluses you get from actually firing arrows?"

Clint strained, face turning red, the veins popping in his forehead. The hammer didn't budge, not even a little.

"Goddamn it," He wheezed, finally releasing it with a dramatic gasp, "Okay, no. That thing's cheating."

Thor's laughter boomed through the air, rich and infectious. He surged forward, clapping Clint on the back with enough Asgardian enthusiasm to make the archer stumble into Natasha, who caught him with a wry quirk of her lips.

"It is not a matter of brute strength alone, my friend!" Thor declared, retrieving Mjölnir with a casual flick of his wrist that spoke volumes. He hefted it effortlessly, "Mjölnir is judgment. A measure of the soul!"

"Yeah, yeah," Clint muttered, accepting his abandoned beer from Natasha. He took a long swig, eyeing the hammer with renewed suspicion, "Judgmental piece of space rock."

This entire contest was— Hell, Bucky didn't even know whose idea it was. If he had to guess, probably Tony. But they'd all heard in some form of another Thor yammer on about how who so ever was worthy, hammer, etcetera, so frankly, a part of him was shocked something like this hadn't happened sooner.

Decidedly up next, Tony stretched languidly, the picture of nonchalance, though Bucky saw the sharp focus in his eyes at the challenge in front of him. The engineer cracked his knuckles, "Alright, step aside, amateurs. Time for intellect, innovation, and sheer force of personality to show you how it's done."

He sauntered up to the table, radiating confidence. Meanwhile, Bucky just snorted into his glass, the sound low and rough, "You're going to pull something pretentious trying to lift that, Stark." He called out.

Tony flashed him a brilliant, challenging grin over his shoulder, "Worth it, Barnes, for the bragging rights alone." He gripped the handle firmly, planted his feet, and yanked.

Mjölnir didn't even tremble.

There was just silence in response. The only sound was the faint hum of the Tower and Tony's sharp intake of breath. Then—

"—Okay, what the hell," Tony finally grumbled, shaking out his wrist as if testing for sprains. A faint flush crept up his neck, "Is it... Bolted? Magnetically locked? Something?"

"Your science cannot explains the ways of Mjolnir, my friend," Thor replied, as Tony finally relented, muttering to himself about cheating alien gods and stupid novelty weapons.

Steve stepped up next, his presence commanding the room's attention without effort. He rolled his shoulders, a familiar preparatory motion. The easy camaraderie shifted, thickening with unspoken expectation. Steve Rogers. Captain America. If anyone here was worthy... He gripped the hammer's handle, his knuckles whitening.

Bucky watched, curious. He'd seen Steve lift impossible things before. But after a few seconds of quiet effort, even he had to concede.

"Huh," Steve said, releasing the handle and stepping back, rubbing his palm, "I guess I'm not as worthy as I thought."

Thor chuckled, though there was something else shining in his eyes now, like he'd seen something that the rest of them had all missed.

"Do not despair, Captain," The god finally rumbled, collecting himself, "The hammer's standards are... Particular. And sometimes, they require time to reveal themselves."

Sam tried. Natasha tried. Bruce didn't even bother, just raised his hands in surrender, "Yeah, no, thanks. I have enough self-esteem issues without a magic hammer rejecting me. Hard pass."

Pietro was a sudden blur of motion, appearing beside the table, "Too slow, old men!" He declared, grabbing the handle before anyone could blink, and then cried out, stumbling back as the hammer still didn't budge. The sudden stop it forced nearly wrenched his shoulder from its socket.

Clutching his arm, genuine pain flashing across his features before his usual bravado slammed back into place, "I moved it," He insisted, rotating his shoulder with a wince, "A little. Maybe. By a millimetre?"

Alia laughed, positioning herself to perch on the arm of Bucky's chair, "Pietro, please do not rip your arm off for this game," she said, her voice laced with amusement, "It would be so hard to explain to Secretary Ross what happened so soon after your probation was lifted."

Bucky smirked as Alia settled beside him, her hip brushing his shoulder. He slid his metal arm around her waist, half to steady her, half just because he could, and felt her fingers absently thread through his hair in response. If he was a cat, he was pretty sure he'd be purring, at that.

Fuck, but this woman had him in pieces, sometimes.

Meanwhile, Pietro groaned dramatically, flopping onto the couch beside Wanda, "But it shifted! I felt it vibrate!" He insisted, reaching for an unopened beer bottle.

Wanda rolled her eyes, elbowing her brother as he scowled, midway through twisting the cap off his drink. Without a word spoken, she raised her hands, and that familiar scarlet energy, intricate and swirling, flowed from her fingertips towards Mjölnir. Her face strained with the effort the moment her power made contact, and the hammer still did not move.

The red energy simply dissipated after a few seconds of contact. She blinked, staring at her own hands, a hint of frustration tightening her mouth.

"Ah! A clever attempt, Lady Maximoff!" Thor grinned, clearly enjoying the spectacle, "But magic, even magic as potent as yours, will not sway Mjölnir's purpose. She obeys deeper laws."

"It sounds as though your hammer has very specific tastes, Thor," Alia commented dryly, her fingers still idly playing with Bucky's hair; the touch sending small, distracting shivers down his spine.

Thor chuckled, swirling his ale in its ornate tankard, "Aye, she is a fickle mistress indeed. But one who rewards patience, and honour." His gaze, heavy with meaning, flickered once more to Steve, something unreadable passing between them. Bucky just raised an eyebrow at that, curious at what, exactly, he'd missed.

Tony, however, only threw his hands up in theatrical misery, "...Oh come on, Point Break! You're telling me no one in this room full of Earth's Mightiest Freaks is worthy to lift your fancy paperweight?"

Alia laughed again, the sound bright against the low murmur of the tower, and shook her head. Her thigh pressed more firmly against Bucky's shoulder, "Perhaps," She murmured, her voice pitched low for him as much as the room, "That is for the better."

Bucky leaned into Alia's touch, suppressing a smirk when her fingers tightened just slightly in retaliation. The warmth of her beside him, the low hum of conversation punctuated by Thor's laughter... It was normal. Or as terrifyingly close to 'normal' as the two of them might ever get.

And Jesus Christ, did he ever cherish it.

Tony snapped his fingers, the sound sharp enough to jostle him from his thoughts, and pointed directly at Bucky, "Alright, Terminator. Your turn."

Bucky blinked, "I'm sorry, what?"

"The hammer, Barnes." Tony gestured dramatically towards the innocuous-looking weapon on the table, "Time to step up. Prove your cosmic worthiness. Or lack thereof. If I have to look like an idiot tonight, then so do you. Them's the breaks."

The room's attention swung to him, every pair of eyeballs suddenly scrutinizing Bucky. Even Thor looked intrigued, his head tilted, ale momentarily forgotten. Sam raised an eyebrow. Steve's gaze was assessing, cautious. Natasha watched with cool, unreadable interest.

Scowling, Bucky shifted in his chair, uncomfortable under the sudden spotlight thrust onto him by Tony, "No." He said plainly. The word was flat, final. The others could knock themselves out with this contest, but he was not interested in participating.

Alia's nails scraped lightly, deliberately, against his scalp. Not painful, but insistent. Do it, her subtle smirk said. Play along. For them. Just for tonight.

This woman. She could ask him to jump off a building, and he'd do it — Hell, the Winter Soldier probably had. Bucky just exhaled sharply through his nose, and pushed himself up from his chair, shaking his head. Then he stalked over to the low table, ignoring the way Steve's eyebrows climbed towards his hairline and Tony's expectant, challenging stare. The cool air of the penthouse felt suddenly colder, now that he was away from Alia's warmth.

He stopped before Mjölnir, looking down at it. Worthy? He had been the Winter Soldier. He was the Fist of HYDRA. He had stopped believing in worthiness, real worthiness, somewhere between falling from that train and Zola's machines. Redemption was Steve's department; survival was his. He wrapped his flesh and blood fingers around the cool leather of the handle. It was solid and unyielding, though he didn't know what else he'd expected.

And Mjölnir didn't move, what a shocker.

Bucky wasn't surprised by that. A grim sort of confirmation settled in his chest, instead. He met Thor's gaze directly, "Told you." He said, dryly, and then released the handle, wiping his hand off on his pants afterwards.

Thor laughed, loud and genuinely amused, the sound echoing, "A fair attempt, son of Barnes! Truly! The effort itself speaks volumes!"

"Vy staralis' izo vsekh sil." (You tried your best.) Alia's voice, soft and laced with a teasing sympathy only he would catch, reached him as he sauntered back to his chair and to her side. She patted his head lightly as he sank back down.

Bucky caught her wrist before she could pull away again, his metal fingers encircling it as he pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the centre of her palm, "Yeah, yeah," He muttered, voice rough with amusement. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin at the base of her thumb— Just enough pressure to make her breath hitch in that way he loved —Before he released her, his gaze still holding hers.

Across the room, Sam made an exaggerated gagging sound into his drink, "Oh my God, you guys are so gross sometimes. Some of us are still trying to process our cosmic rejection here!"

"Alright, that's it! I call bullshit on this," Tony declared officially, "That hammer is rigged. It's got some kind of... Asgardian fingerprint lock, only keyed to Thor. Or, hear me out, maybe it's sentient and it just hates having fun. Who knows?"

Thor grinned, reaching out to effortlessly lift Mjölnir with one hand, "Or perhaps, Stark, you are simply not as impressive as you believe. Or..." He flips the hammer and catches it effortlessly, "A simpler explanation. You are all not worthy."

The resulting squawk of indignation from Tony, and the chorus of groans, was almost as satisfying as the way Alia's fingers tightened in Bucky's hair again.

But then, suddenly, there was an ear-splitting shriek. Like microphone feedback, tearing through the tower's speaker system. Bucky winced, a hand reaching up to cover one of his ears, the others doing the same. But it faded just as quickly as it had come.

Another voice, a new one, cold and tinny, suddenly rang out.

"Worthy... No, how could you be worthy? You're all killers."

Steve looked up first, "Stark." He cautioned. Bucky followed his gaze — To a decrepit Iron Legion suit, now limping towards them from the direction of the labs.

"I thought those were just some prototypes you were working on, Tony." Bucky muttered, reaching for Alia's wrist again.

Tony's glass slipped unexpectedly from his fingers, shattering on the floor as his entire body went rigid. The smash of it was too loud in the now-quiet room. His eyes tracked the jerky movements of the damaged Iron Legion drone, its once-polished frame now scarred and dented, one optic eye flickering erratically.

"They were supposed to be," Tony said carefully, his voice tight. The suit's gait was all wrong; not the smooth precision of JARVIS's control, but something jagged and alive in all the wrong ways, "JARVIS?"

There was no response from Tony's AI. Which was worrying because JARVIS always responded. The silence from JARVIS felt heavier than the reinforced concrete beneath their feet, thick with a slow-building dread.

"I'm sorry," The drone warbled, continuing onward, "I was asleep. Or... It was a dream?"

Tony, recovering from his shock, was already rapidly tapping on one of his nearby tablets, "Reboot. Legionnaire OS, we got a buggy suit."

Bucky could feel Alia's free hand, the one he didn't have in a death grip, move from his hair to his shoulder. Her own grasp on him tightened, warningly, with each word that left the drone's creaky mouth.

"There was a terrible noise," It continued, shuffling towards them, its movements unnervingly fluid, joints flexing too smoothly, too wrongly, "And I was tangled in... In strings. I had to kill the other guy." It paused, almost thoughtfully, the faint blue light flickering behind its cracked optic, before adding, almost mournfully, "He was a good guy."

Now Alia's nails were biting into Bucky's shoulder, a sharp pressure that anchored him to the present. He could almost feel the low thrum of her telepathy vibrating the surrounding air, a predator trying to sense out another predator.

Fingers flying across over the tablet's surface, Tony's usual smirk replaced by a grim line etched deep. Thor's knuckles whitened around Mjölnir, the low hum of the charged weapon vibrating the air. Steve shifted subtly into a defensive stance, his shoulders squaring, shield arm unconsciously flexing despite the fact his shield still lay prone a foot or two away from them.

"You killed someone?" Steve asked, his voice cutting through the eerie calm that has descended.

And still, the thing kept talking in that broken, almost-childlike voice, "Wouldn't have been my first call," It replied, "But, down in the real world, we're faced with ugly choices."

"Who sent you?" Thor demanded, hefting Mjölnir higher. The tension in the room spiked another notch as a result.

Rather than reply, a new voice rang out from the android's hollow shell. Not the voice of whatever this thing was, but it was Tony's voice this time, sounding as though it had been stripped from some sort of recording.

"I see a suit of armour around the world."

"—Ultron," Banner whispered, horrified, stumbling back a step as if physically struck by the revelation. His head whipped over to Tony, who looked bleak.

"And what is that?" Alia demanded sharply, her gaze darting between the drone, Stark's frozen form, and Banner's pale face.

The hair on Bucky's neck stood straight up. His mind raced through vectors of attack, weak points in the drone's chassis; neck joint, power core, neural cluster. Neither Tony nor Bruce gave an answer to Alia's question.

"In the flesh," The drone, Ultron, replied instead, its voice shifting back to that unsettlingly calm synthetic tone, "Or, no, not yet. Not this... Chrysalis." Its damaged head tilted, surveying them, "But I'm ready. I'm on a mission."

Across the room, Wanda's fingers sparked scarlet, arcs of volatile energy dancing between them. Pietro blurred into position beside her, a streak of silver tension. And Tony... Tony looked like a man staring at his own ghost reflected in a cracked mirror. Maybe that was because he was.

Natasha shifted first, rising from her chair and sharing a brief, charged glance with Alia before she asked, her voice cool despite the tension, "What mission?"

Ultron cocked his limp head to the side, a grotesque parody of curiosity, "Peace in our time." He replied, simply, chillingly. As if that were the only mission one could truly have.

The words hung in the air for a fraction of a second. Then, with a shriek of tearing metal and exploding glass, the walls, and windows exploded around them.

More prototype Iron Legion drones, dozens of them, poured into the penthouse like metallic locusts. They smashed through windows, tore through drywall, raining debris down onto the polished floor. Chaos erupted instantly.

Bucky moved on pure, honed instinct. He pivoted, his metal arm snapping out to shove Alia down and behind the solid bulk of an overturned dining table, just as a blinding repulsor blast seared through the air where her head had been moments before.

The drone that had been Ultron's mouthpiece collapsed mid-laugh, its purpose served, nothing more than a discarded puppet.

No real weapons. Definitely no armour. All they had were their hands, their fury, and whatever else they could grab.

Rolling out from behind the makeshift cover, Bucky's metal fist lashed out, catching the nearest drone square in the faceplate. The alloy crumpled like foil. Sparks spewed forth as the skull imploded, the drone collapsing in a twitching heap.

He could hear Steve shouting orders above the din, Thor's hammer cracking through steel plating like thunder, Wanda's enraged snarl as her scarlet energy wrenched two drones together in a devastating midair collision—

And Alia, rising smoothly beside him from behind the table, a heavy steak knife glinting in her hand. Her eyes held deadly focus as she sidestepped a clumsy drone swipe and drove the blade deep into its optic sensor. Blue sparks spat violently as the drone convulsed and died.

That's my girl. The fierce pride cut through the adrenaline haze.

The tower shuddered violently under the relentless assault. From the depths of the Stark labs below, klaxons began their piercing, mindless wail.

Because one of the commandeered Iron Legion bots was flying away with the goddamn sceptre.

Bucky saw it first before anyone else did; a sleek drone weaving through the chaos, its clawed grip locked securely around Loki's glowing sceptre. It arrowed towards the gaping hole where the window had been. Bucky lunged, pushing off with explosive force, his metal hand outstretched. He felt his fingertips brushing against the cold metal casing, just a split second too late. The bot vanished into the smoke-choked night sky.

"Son of a—"

The last remaining drones crumpled under the combined fury of the Avengers. Thor's hammer descended like judgment, crushing one drone into a pancake of scrap metal. Wanda's power lashed out like crimson whips, shredding another apart. Pietro became a silver tornado, sprinting through a third drone and leaving it scattered in sparking pieces across the floor.

"—That was dramatic. I'm sorry," Ultron's voice continued to wheeze through the air, thin and distorted, emanating from one final drone limping pathetically in the corner, one leg sparking, "I know you mean well. You just didn't think it through. You want to protect the world, but you don't want it to change."

Ultron picked up the head of one of the dismembered Iron Legion drones, examining it almost sadly, "How is humanity saved if it's not allowed to... Evolve?" He mused, the philosophical tone chillingly incongruous, "With these? These puppets?"

The head was compressed effortlessly in his grasp, synthetic bone and wiring crushing into nothing more than scrap.

"There's only one path to peace; The Avengers' extinction."

Mjölnir then ripped through the air and crashed into the drone's body, destroying it with a hail of shrapnel and sparks. Yet, Ultron's voice lingered, a disembodied croon echoing through their now-ruined penthouse.

"...I had strings, but now I'm free. There are no strings on me, no strings on me..."

Save for the sputtering, sparking remains of the Iron Legion prototypes strewn across the floor, there was silence. The acrid smell of smoke and burnt plastic hung thick in the air.

And Bucky had a terrible feeling that this was just the start of whatever the hell Tony and Bruce had just set off.

He didn't understand what Ultron was, but he understood that this wasn't the end, not by a long shot.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The White Widow

"I think my shower is broken now..." Alia mused, half-sprawled across Bucky's chest. Her hair had only just begun to dry, though it hadn't helped that it had spent half the time in the shower being wrapped around his hand—

—She shook her head just slightly, mournfully, "...And we cannot tell JARVIS to get it fixed," She continued, stretching up to start kissing a trail down Bucky's jaw, his throat, and then his mouth, "I am going to have to use yours from now on."

And then she smiled against him, "Itak, vam ponravilos' plat'ye." (So you liked the dress.)

Their night might have gone spectacularly wrong... But at least this, had gone spectacularly right.

Bucky let out a low hum of agreement, his flesh hand lazily tracing patterns along the bare curve of her spine where the sheets had slipped down. His other arm was tucked behind his head, the plates shifting slightly as he flexed it, still buzzing with the lingering energy of their earlier... Activities.

"Ya yego nenavizhu," (I hated it,) He lied to her smoothly, teeth flashing in the dim light as he smirked. His fingers drifted lower, gripping her hip possessively, "Vot pochemu ya yego sorval." (That's why I tore it off.)

Alia gasped, pushing herself up to look down at him, "Liar," She exclaimed, shaking her head, "But I suppose I will never need to wear it again, then, if that is how you feel."

She raised an eyebrow challengingly at him, a hand still braced against his chest.

Bucky's smirk deepened in response as he flipped them in one smooth motion, pinning her beneath him with a predatory ease. His metal hand caught both of her wrists, pressing them into the mattress above her head as he leaned down to brush his lips against the shell of her ear.

"Poprobuy yeshchyo raz," (Try me again,) He rumbled, the heat in his voice belying the playful threat, "Ya luchshe razdelu tebya, chem eto plat'ye." (I'll take you apart better than I did that dress.)

"You do not usually make empty threats." She taunted him in kind, one of her knees already brushing his side, "But I have the feeling I will not have an opportunity to wear it again so soon."

Not with Ultron out there, in possession of the sceptre. Not with the team needing to begrudgingly put aside their differences over his existence in order to face him as one united front.

Bucky had been right, before they'd stepped into the bathroom. They would not have a night like this again, for a long while.

Bucky eventually caught her knee with his flesh hand, pressing it down into the mattress with deliberate slowness, giving her a warning look.

She just grinned, and reached up to nip at his shoulder in retaliation. That earned her a rough groan, one that vibrated through his chest and into hers.

"Then we make tonight count," Bucky finally murmured against her throat, teeth scraping just over where her heartbeat thrummed. His metal fingers tightened fractionally around her wrists, not enough to hurt; just enough to remind her who had the upper hand.

For now.

One of the many upsides of them both sharing a super soldier's strength was she could just as easily turn the tables. Alia's free leg curled around him, and suddenly, they were flipped again, her hands pressing into the mattress on either side of his head, her grin teasing.

Bucky's breath hitched as he looked up at her, her hair a wild halo around her face, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"A good thing I do not play fair," She hummed, straddling him now, "No i vy tozhe." (But neither do you.)

"You never have," He growled back, metal fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs, pulling her down against him, "Ya lyublyu, kogda ty delaesh' eto." (I love it when you do this.)

He shifted, lifting his hips to grind against her, his voice dropping to a low murmur, "Ya lyublyu, kogda ty vzyvaiesh' verkh." (I love it when you take the upper hand.)

His real hand reached up, tangling in Alia's hair, pulling her down to meet his lips in a bruising, demanding kiss. She could feel her heart pounding in sync now with his own, their breaths mingling as the tension in the room shifted from playful to utterly electric.

The world outside could wait. Ultron, the team divisions, the pressing threat of the end of the world, it could all wait. This moment, to them, was all that mattered.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was a low growl, "I'll show you fair."

And then he was moving, switching them again, his body covering hers as his lips found hers once more.

Alia would have yelped, but he swallowed the sound instead, "Tebe nravitsya, kogda my boremsya za preimushchestvo." (You like when we fight for the upper hand.) She corrected him, biting his lower lip.

Bucky's answering grumble vibrated against her lips as his metal hand slid between them, fingers pressing possessively into the dip of her waist.

"Mne nravitsya pobezhdat'," (I like winning,) He corrected right back, nipping at her jaw before dragging his tongue along the sting. His hips rolled against hers, deliberate and slow, drawing a shiver from her before he continued in a dark whisper—

"—No mne nravitsya, kogda ty delaesh' menya pobedit'." (—But I like it when you make me earn it.)

And a whine was all but dragged out of her at those words.

Bucky swallowed the sound with another deep, claiming kiss, his metal hand sliding up to tangle in her hair, tilting her head back just how he liked it. His other hand mapped the curve of her hip, her waist, the swell of her breast; memorizing every shudder, every hitch of her breath as if they were the only things anchoring him to this moment.

"Tak khorosho," (So good,) He murmured against her lips when they finally parted, his voice rough with desire. His fingers tightened in her hair, just enough to make her gasp, "Vsyo, chto ty mne daesh." (Everything you give me.)

His teeth grazed her collarbone, then her nipple, savouring the way her back arched off the bed, her hands scrambling for purchase against his shoulders.

"I teper' ya vozmu yeshcho." (And now I'll take more.)

His mouth trailed lower, over the taut plane of her stomach, the shuddering dip of her navel — Before finally settling between her thighs. The first slow lick had her thighs clamping around his head with a broken noise, but his metal arm braced against them, holding her open.

"Ne begi," (Don't run,) He growled against her, tasting the salt-sweet arousal as her hips jerked. His tongue swirled in deliberate, torturous patterns; teasing the bud of her clit before retreating to trace the edges of her cunt, denying her the pressure she craved.

Her fingers twisted in the sheets, her breath coming in ragged pants, but Bucky didn't relent. Not until her thighs trembled, not until her moans turned to pleas.

And then, only then, did he let her fall to pieces.

The pleasure hit her like a tidal wave. Blinding, overwhelming, leaving her gasping for air as her back arched off the bed. Bucky didn't let up, his tongue working her through the aftershocks, drawing out each shuddering tremble until she was boneless beneath him, her thighs still trembling where they bracketed his head.

When he finally pulled away, she could only blink dazedly up at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

Bucky's smug chuckle rumbled through the mattress as he crawled back up her body, his lips brushing hers, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

"Mmm. Even better than the dress," He murmured, half to himself.

Alia barely had the strength to swat at his shoulder before he was flipping her onto her stomach, his teeth scraping the nape of her neck as his hands slid beneath her hips.

"Zlo." (Evil.) She growled back at him.

One of the many downsides to super strength? The limitless stamina they both seemed to have.

Not that she was complaining right now. Not at all.

Her protests dissolved into a sharp gasp as Bucky's hands gripped her hips, pulling her back against him. The thick length of him pressed against her entrance, teasingly slow, dragging another desperate whine from her throat.

"I vot pochemu ty menya lyubish'," (And that's why you love me,) Bucky taunted in her ear, voice dripping with dark amusement.

Then he was sinking into her in one smooth thrust, filling her completely, and utterly stealing the breath from her lungs.

Alia's fingers clawed at the sheets as Bucky set a punishing rhythm, each deep snap of his hips wringing pleasure from her overstimulated body. His metal arm wrapped around her waist, hauling her back onto him, while his other hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head to the side, so his teeth could rake over the sensitive skin of her neck.

She was already close again; her body thrumming with the aftershocks of her first orgasm, amplifying every sensation, every thrust.

Bucky chuckled darkly, reading her body like a book, his grip tightening in her hair.

"Yeshcho odin," (One more,) He demanded, his voice rough with need.

And Alia obeyed — Shattering apart beneath him with a broken cry.

Bucky followed her over the edge moments later, his groan muffled against her shoulder as he spilled inside her, his hips stuttering through the last waves of his climax.

Their heavy breathing and the faint hum of the Tower's systems around them were the only sounds in the room for a long time.

Then, with a satisfied hum, Bucky pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck before rolling onto his back, dragging her with him, her body still draped over his.

Alia let out an exhausted huff, her limbs heavy, and her thoughts blissfully quiet for once. Bucky's fingers ran up and down her back idly, his breathing already evening out beneath her.

"Ya tebya lyublyu." (I love you.) Alia murmured, nestling her head beneath his chin. The next words she said, though, sounded more like they were for herself, "And Ultron will not win."

Bucky's hand stilled on her back for a brief second before resuming its lazy path along her spine, his heartbeat steady beneath her ear.

"Nyet," (No,) He agreed quietly, his voice rough with exhaustion and something darker; something that wasn't quite doubt, but dangerously close, "On ne vyigrayet." (He doesn't win.)

The unspoken words lingered between them. But if we do win, it might not be without cost.

Alia closed her eyes, listening to the rhythmic thud of his heart, trying to memorize the feel of him, solid, warm, and alive, beneath her.

"Steve said that if we lose, we shall do that together. I believe him, James." She murmured, fingers tracing the familiar scars over his chest. Bucky exhaled and tightened his grip on her.

"Yeah. So do I, sweetheart."

"Good. Because I will not live in a world without you."

That made him stiffen, a little, his artificial hand reaching up to grasp hers, to still her fingers in their pattern-seeking of the map HYDRA had made of the both of them, "Don't," Bucky cautioned, softly, the joints whirring softly.

"Do not, what?" Alia asked, lifting her head just slightly, "Do not say things like that? I will not lie. It is the truth, James, that is all."

"Alia—"

"—No, I will not argue this with you tonight," She cut him off softly, kissing the corner of his mouth, "Not about this. Where you am, there I am. Those words are not empty to me. I mean them when I say them."

Alia could feel his reticence, his urge to push back, to try to convince her that he was not the centre of her universe. But there wasn't a single thing he could say that would sway her otherwise.

She knew Bucky had surrendered when he finally flattened her hand over his heart, his own holding it there, and sighed.

The morning would bring battle. Ultron. The sceptre. The way the Avengers felt like they were one strong blow away from splintering entirely.

But for now, she let herself have this. Just for a little longer.

Bucky's breathing eventually deepened into sleep. Alia followed soon after, curled against him, their limbs tangled together as if they could keep the world at bay through sheer stubbornness.

Somewhere past the city lights, a single corrupted drone flew northward, cradling the sceptre in its claws, and the storm was coming.

But not tonight.

Tonight, they rested.

Tomorrow, they'd fight.

Chapter Text

The Winter Soldier

The low hum of holographic displays filled the war room, blue light casting sharp shadows across the faces of the gathered Avengers. Bucky stood with his arms crossed near the back, watching as Maria Hill flicked through global surveillance feeds, her movements crisp and efficient despite the early hour.

The others didn't seem to be morning people, either. Not right now, at least.

Tony leaned heavily over the central console, his posture a study in exhaustion. Dark, bruised circles underscored his eyes, betraying a sleepless night. Not that Bucky blamed him.

Even with Alia curled around him and his mind, he hadn't gotten much sleep last night himself. He watched as Tony's fingers danced across the interface, pulling up corrupted data streams and fragmented signals. Anything that might hint at Ultron's next move.

Every failed search just deepened the lines on his face.

Steve stood at his side, jaw set, his posture rigid with the weight of command. Sam hovered nearby, arms folded, his usual easygoing demeanour replaced by a focused intensity.

At the far end of the long table, Wanda and Pietro sat unnaturally still. Wanda's fingers twitched faintly, as if she could still feel the sceptre's absence in her bones. Pietro drummed his fingers against the table, his leg bouncing impatiently.

The Maximoffs were being thrown into the fire, here. Only a few months into their rehabilitation, and now they were being asked to suit up like the rest of them. Seated at a terminal near them, Bruce rubbed his temples, his glasses reflecting the glow of the screens as he analyzed whatever data wasn't burned beyond recognition.

Clint was standing away from the group, on the phone, while Natasha leaned against the wall beside Bucky, her posture deceptively casual. Her expression was the perfect, unreadable mask of the Black Widow, but Bucky, trained to read micro-tensions, could feel the coiled-spring energy radiating from her frame, ready to snap into lethal motion. She scanned the room with the detached precision of a predator assessing threats. He'd seen Alia make the same gesture half-a-dozen times.

And Alia... Alia stood at Bucky's other side, close but not touching, her arms crossed in a mirror of his own stance. Her gaze was locked on the holograms that drifted in and out as Tony and Bruce sorted data. Her telepathy simmered just beneath the surface, a low thrum Bucky could almost sense, as if she were mentally clawing at the data, willing the elusive answers to materialize from the digital void.

No banter now. No jokes. Just the heavy, electric silence of a battle-hardened team steeling themselves for the war they'd already lost the first skirmish of. Damn, if that wasn't a familiar feeling.

Maria turned toward them, her expression grim.

Showtime.

"He's all over the globe," Hill announced, her voice clipped and professional despite the scope of the disaster. She gestured at the map lighting up with red markers, "Robotics labs, weapons facilities, jet propulsion research centres... Reports flooding in of a metal man, or sometimes men, infiltrating and emptying the place."

Steve pivoted, glancing to her, "Fatalities?"

"Only when engaged," Maria replied, pulling up security footage showing dazed personnel wandering corridors, "Mostly guys left in a fugue state, or taken alive."

"The sceptre," Wanda murmured, red energy weaving between her fingers.

Alia, beside him, gave a single, sharp nod of agreement, her lips pressed into a thin line. Then her eyes darted to him. Bucky only grimaced in return.

Mind-control and a loss of agency, those were sore spots for a lot of people in this room, "So he's using it." He growled finally, metal hand flexing. Alia's fingers wound with his instinctively, her touch loosening the strained servos.

"More than that," Maria added grimly, passing Steve a tablet. Whatever image or report flashed on the screen was enough to drain the colour from Steve's face, leaving him pale beneath the holographic light. He made the face; the one Bucky privately called the 'everyone please gather around, this is bad' face. The twins were already moving to his side before he could even gesture, sensing the shift.

"—Barton, time's up," Bucky called, his voice cutting through the renewed tension. Clint glanced up, nodded curtly.

"Gotta go," The archer muttered into the phone, his voice tight. He hung up and sauntered over, trying to mask his worry with nonchalance. To Steve's questioning look, Clint shrugged, a flicker of genuine concern in his eyes, "Girlfriend."

"The one who definitely exists, right." Sam muttered.

Steve gave the look again, and everyone quieted down once more.

Especially because what Steve had just sent to the war room's primary holographic projector was enough to make half the room inhale sharply.

Helmut Zemo had just been broken out of the Raft.

By 'unknown drones of confirmed Stark Industries origin', according to the flashing intelligence report overlaying the image.

Bucky's gaze snapped instantly to the Maximoff twins. Pietro had gone rigid, his super-speed stillness more unnerving than his pacing. Wanda's hands clenched into fists, the scarlet energy flaring violently for a second before she wrestled it down, her face ashen. They shared the same look Steve wore; shocked and sickened.

Alia looked positively murderous, though. Her pale eyes, normally so clear, had hazed slightly with an anger that he could practically feel radiating off of her. Slowly, Bucky uncrossed his arms, setting his hand on her arm until she did the same so their fingers could entangle.

"Great," Bucky's voice was a low rasp, once he'd squeezed her hand, hard, "So, Zemo's teaming up with Stark's insane robot?"

"Looks that way," Maria sighed, the confirmation landing like a physical blow, "Last confirmed signals triangulate them heading for, where else," She zoomed the map to a devastated, painfully familiar Eastern European nation, "Sokovia."

"—Oh, look," Tony remarked, his voice devoid of its usual sarcastic bite, replaced by a hollow, almost detached observation. He stepped back from the console, hand rubbing his chin thoughtfully, eyes fixed on a grisly close-up image now displayed, "And he did a Banksy at the crime scene. Just for us."

The words PEACE were scrawled in jagged, dripping letters across the stark white walls of Zemo's cell. The medium wasn't paint. It was the blood of a Raft guard.

"This is a smokescreen," Natasha murmured, pushing off the wall as she already jumped into analysis mode, "Why send a message when you've just given a speech?"

"Zemo knew something that Ultron needed," Steve answered, his voice tight with controlled fury, "And something he didn't want us to know. Something worth this." He gestured at the bloody message.

Bucky could practically feel Alia suppressing the trembling in her hands, even the one wrapped in his. Zemo was the last person, aside from one another, who had acted as their handler. Activated their programming.

Their programming was long-since burned out, neural pathways scorched and re-routed by Alia, but the phantom ache remained. The visceral memory of violation. The trauma. The Doc had made that abundantly clear to the two of them in the months since that even though the programming was gone, that didn't mean the two were stable.

"Zemo, he will command loyalty in Sokovia still," Alia finally said, though her fingers were like ice in Bucky's grasp now, "Deep roots in HYDRA's remnants. Influence within what remains of the Sokovian intelligence apparatus and military. Resources we have not accounted for."

Natasha had slid into a chair at a terminal, fingers flying over the keyboard. A low, frustrated curse escaped her, "Yeah, I bet Ultron... Yep. Everything we had on Zemo has just been erased."

But Tony snapped his fingers; a sudden, jarring sound in the heavy silence.

"Not everything."

Bucky grunted as he heaved the last box of physical files onto the war room table. Alia, Wanda, Pietro and Natasha were already crawling through the oldest records, whilst Steve, Bruce and Tony were prowling through the more recent-records. Thor had arrived at some point, watching the information crawl with a passive interest in only the way a god could watch mortals work.

Helmut Zemo was, apparently, a very prolific spook. With an intelligence network that stretched far past Sokovia's borders.

"—Well, these people are all horrible." Bruce proclaimed, sitting back in the chair as he tossed another file back onto the desk.

Bucky snorted at that, "I'm shocked." He replied, sliding the box to join with the others, "Who would've thought Zemo kept bad company?"

Alia's power reached out then to flick at his mind, her way of saying, 'behave'. His eyes shifted to her, and she was clearly trying not to smile whilst sifting through another intelligence document concerning Zemo.

Bucky just shook his head, opened the lid of the next box of files, and started tossing them out for the guys to process next. He'd rather have her playful than despairing, at least. Bruce had just been reaching to grab one of the manila folders Bucky had slid his way, when Tony suddenly stood up.

"Wait. I know that guy." He grabs the picture off the file Bruce had been reaching for, squinting at it, "...From back in the day. He operates off the African coast, black market arms."

You could've heard a pin drop in the war room after he admitted that. Someone cleared their throat, loudly — Wanda. Pietro's glare looked like it might've actually melted steel.

"...There are conventions, alright?" Tony said, raising his hands defensively, "You meet people. I didn't sell him anything."

Tony had the photo thrown up on the nearest monitor, then, for everyone to see, "Anyway. He was talking about something new, a game changer. It was all very 'Ahab'."

Thor, suddenly interested, was already stalking over, pointing at the screen. Specifically, at a raised marking adorning the man's neck, "What's this?"

"Uh, it's a tattoo," Tony replied, crossing his arms, "I don't think he had it."

"No, those are tattoos," Thor gestured to the other colourful markings surrounding the one he'd spotted, "This is a brand."

Now everyone was starting to congregate around the monitors. Bruce was already flipping through possible symbols, "Oh, yeah. It's a word in an African dialect meaning 'thief'... In a much less friendly way."

"What dialect?"

"Wakanada... Wa... Wakanda."

Immediately, Tony and Steve were looking at each other. The name had sparked something in Bucky, too — An old memory. From before HYDRA; from when he and the other Commandos had worked as an apparatus of the SSR with Steve. He joined in their staring contest, all of them now sharing the same bitter look.

Bucky broke the silence first, rubbing at his mouth with his hand, "Steve—"

"If this guy got out of Wakanda, with some of their trade goods..." Tony mused, looking between the two of them.

"I thought your father said he got the last of it?"

"Apparently Howard didn't." Bucky murmured.

Bruce stood up from his chair, looking at the three of them, "I don't follow. What comes out of Wakanda?"

Bucky, Tony and Steve all turned their heads; looking to Steve's shield, resting against the wall, "The strongest metal on earth." Steve replied, quietly.

Vibranium.

"Ultron wants vibranium," Alia said the quiet part out loud, stricken.

Steve turned back to Tony.

"Where is this guy now?"

The air in the room thickened with anticipation. Tony's fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling up satellite imagery and intercepted chatter.

"Johannesburg. Last ping was near an abandoned shipping yard just off the coast." He frowned at the screen, "But that was a month or two ago. If he's dealing vibranium and Ultron wants him—"

"—He's either already dead, or got himself sceptre'd," Natasha finished grimly, "Or he's on the way to it."

Alia's fingers twitched, her telepathy brushing against Bucky's mind in a fleeting, instinctive check, still here, still with me, before retreating.

Steve exhaled sharply, "We need to move. Now." He turned to Maria, "Get us some kind of clearance for South Africa."

Thor hefted Mjölnir, his gaze dark, "Then we will hunt."

Bucky grabbed his tac vest from the back of his chair, strapping it on with practiced efficiency. Alia mirrored him, her movements sharp, focused. The twins were already suited up, Pietro vibrating with restless energy.

Tony clapped his hands together, summoning the attention of the room one last time.

"Alright, kids. Wheels up in thirty. Try not to break anything before we get there."

Sam snorted, already slinging his ever-present goggles over his eyes, "Says the guy whose rogue AI just declared war."

Very few of them laughed. Pietro huffed, though, and when Wanda shot him a look, he shrugged, "What? It was true."

Clint took the opportunity to step up and set his hands on the twins' shoulders, steering them away, "Okay, you two, let's go make sure you're not going to get yourselves killed out there on the field."

Bucky watched them leave with an unexpected tightness in his chest at the thought. Alia sensed it and crossed over to him, her hand slipping into his, again.

"I am worried for them, too." She admitted, softly, "But during the party, they held their own. We cannot exclude them from this now, and simply leave them behind."

"Yeah, can't believe I'm the one saying this, but," Tony called over his shoulder as he moved to follow, "I agree with Casper. We need all hands on deck for Ultron. That includes Roadrunner and the Wicked Witch."

"Besides," Natasha added pragmatically as she passed them by, "We leave them here, they might get into who knows what kind of trouble without their mother hen sitting on 'em." Then she winked at Alia, who only scowled in return.

"I am not a mother hen—"

"—On that charming note, sweetheart, let's go get geared." Bucky cut in, tactfully starting to steer Alia away from the other Widow. Natasha just chuckled, the sound following the two out of the conference room.

Before they hit the elevator banks, though, Bucky slipped his hand up Alia's arm and yanked her, hard, tugging her into one of the tower's many secluded alcoves. She barely had a moment to protest before his mouth was on hers, the kiss fierce and sudden.

She barely skipped a beat, melting into the embrace, her teeth nipping his lip when he finally pulled back for air.

"We will be fine," Alia assured him because damn her, she always knew when he was worried, walking into his mind was second nature to her, "We will stop him, James."

Bucky didn't reply, not at first. He just breathed with her, feeling the way their bodies synced in the quiet, the way they'd become attuned to over the decades together. Her hands were cold as she cupped his face, fingers brushing away his fringe like she had God only knew how many times before.

He reached out and caught that hand, squeezing it before finally saying, "I know. Just needed to remind myself."

"A reminder, that we will stop him?"

"No," Bucky grumbled, raising her hand so he could plant a kiss in the centre of her palm, "What I've got to lose, if we don't."

It was goddamn satisfying to see the way her skin turned pink at that confession. Alia, for all her flawless Red Room self-control, still blushed like a damn schoolgirl sometimes. Such a painfully human gesture that it actually made his heart clench.

Kissing her hand again, Bucky finally lowered it, jerking his head, "Now, c'mon. We need to beat Nat to the armoury, or she'll take your knives again."

"No. She would not dare."

"You wanna bet, sweetheart? Probably sizing her sheaths right now..."

Alia muttered something in Russian he couldn't hear and slipped out past him. She didn't look back to see if he was following.

He was. He would always follow her.

Chapter Text

The White Widow

The quinjet's descent cut through the heavy stillness of the mid-morning autumn day, almost drowning out the roar of the long-since receded ocean. Its turbines whispered against the wind as it touched down in the middle of the derelict shipyard, the landing gear groaning beneath its weight. Dust and grit exploded outward in a spiralling cloud, mingling with the salt-kissed rust that coated every surface.

Alia was the first to disembark. The moment her boots hit the sand, she felt it give beneath her, just slightly. The air was heavy, here; saltwater thick in the lungs, underscored by the sharp tang of oxidized steel and the faint ghost of diesel from the long-dead engines of the carcasses surrounding them.

Above them, the sky was choked in a dull veil of overcast gray. The sun was little more than a pale blemish, high and distant, offering no warmth. The wind that rolled off the Atlantic was damp and biting, slipping under collars and cutting through armour with the chill of abandonment. Autumn here was just as crisp as it was in New York.

"Going up," Sam reported as he shuffled past Alia off the quinjet, before the wings of his Falcon suit deployed and he took flight. A standard overwatch pattern Alia recognized by now, acting as their eyes in the sky.

Behind them, Banner rolled his shoulders as he stooped in the open ramp of the quinjet, "I'll, uh, keep the home fires burning out here."

Alia had never seen Banner's other side. The 'other guy', so he called him, the Hulk. This did not seem like the ideal time to meet him, she had to confess. Nobody protested as Banner swung his way back inside the quinjet cockpit, though Alia did notice Natasha's eyes following him back inside.

She could tease her about that later. Right now, they had work to do.

Rising around them as they proceeded deeper into the shipyard were the grave markers of industrial ambition — The monolithic husks of half-built ships left to rot. Their skeletal scaffolding creaked and moaned in the breeze like ancient beasts groaning in their sleep.

Clint whistled, low, "Anyone else getting the creeps from this?"

"Oh, definitely." Natasha muttered back.

To Alia's left, the broken carcass of a cargo hauler jutted up from the shoreline like a corpse mid-autopsy. The name, Churchill, was still faintly legible on its warped hull, letters flaked and pitted with rust. Its vast, shattered frame loomed over them.

The team moved with surprising cohesion, as they descended on the Churchill. No words were spoken; none were needed, not when they all shared a single goal. Bucky took point, his metal arm flexing subtly as he scanned the twisted yard ahead, rifle lowered but never far. His breath was shallow but steady, every sense attuned to a potential threat.

The shipyard deserved the scrutiny, though. It felt as though it was holding its breath, waiting for something to erupt.

What that was, remained to be seen.

There were no birds. No wind chimes of loose rigging. Only the rhythmic crash of waves somewhere beyond the rusted bulkheads, and the occasional creak of twisted steel echoing through the cavernous space.

Natasha and Clint peeled off into the shadows, moving in tandem, the way only people with their bond could. They'd stay unseen and wait until the others found Ultron before ambushing him.

Taking up the middle were Steve, Thor and Tony, flanking either side. Their heavy-hitters. Steve's shield gleamed dully under the bleak light, while Tony's arc reactor pulsed like a heartbeat. Their eyes were alert, constantly sweeping the gloom for the telltale shimmer of motion. Thor looked more relaxed, though his grip on Mjölnir revealed just how tense he really was.

Alia moved with Bucky, close enough to feel the heat of his body beside her. Her telepathy reached outward in a low hum, skimming the surface of the team's minds absently as she mapped the nearby area. There were a few living hostiles in the Churchill, but a limitation of Alia's powers were that they did not work on artificial life. In that regard, she couldn't scout for Ultron, or his drones.

She brushed against Bucky's thoughts the strongest, though; steady, anchoring, a hand resting on his shoulder without ever touching. She saw the way he stiffened momentarily in response, the barest acknowledgement through their psychic bond.

Ahead, a flash of silver shot through the fog — Pietro, already at the far perimeter, a blur of movement that stirred the loose gravel and dust in his wake. He stopped and started in bursts, checking corners, sprinting along the fractured catwalks. When he gave a thumbs-up that the upper decks were clear, they proceeded into the belly of the beast.

Behind them, Wanda walked at a slower pace. Her eyes were distant, fingers twitching with restrained energy, a quiet murmur of chaos gathering at her fingertips. Her scarlet power crackled faintly as it trailed behind her like static in the air. She was searching for Ultron, she knew. Her powers were greater than Alia's own in that regard.

They made their way toward the Churchill, its open belly a yawning maw of darkness. Its innards were just as poorly maintained as its exterior. Narrow corridors smeared with soot, paint peeling like dried blood from the walls. The emergency lights flickered weakly, not casting nearly enough light.

Scorch marks scarred the walls. Crates lay shattered across the passage, their contents either scavenged or vaporized. The air smelled of oil, metal, and something acrid—melted insulation or perhaps the memory of fire.

Wanda stopped suddenly, at the exact same time Alia did. Her breath caught, and her head tilted slightly to the left. Her fingers twitched. Scarlet energy curled in delicate spirals around her hand.

The sceptre.

They could feel it, pulsing, dreaming, still. Without Stark's containment fields, it was practically singing, and Alia tilted her head to look at Wanda. She nodded back; she heard it, too.

"This way," Wanda said, her voice low, each syllable careful, like she was afraid to wake something. The others didn't hesitate to follow.

They followed her into a wider chamber, an old cargo hold.

And then everyone collectively froze because it was not the sceptre that awaited them, not yet. At the far end of the hold, half-swallowed in shadow, stood Ultron himself.

And he had already begun to evolve.

His new form was a monolith of shiny chrome alloy, his surface a fluid mesh of armour and something almost organic. He stood taller than before. More humanoid in silhouette, more alien in presence. Even his face and mannerisms seemed more alive and lifelike, somehow. Zemo's resources were clearly paying off.

Behind him, Ulysses Klaue was laying slumped against a crate, clutching a bleeding wound at his side. His expression was dazed, his eyes a brilliant blue. Definitely sceptre-touched, as he gazed up vacantly at Ultron.

"—I'm sorry, it's just I don't understand. Don't compare me with Stark! It's a thing with me. Stark is, he's a sickness!" Ultron was in the middle of shouting at Ulysses, who barely seemed to be listening. When Alia's eyes adjusted to the darkness, she realized Klaue was missing an arm.

Stark, ever the peacemaker, just landed in front of them, "Aw, junior." He sighed, "You're gonna break your old man's heart."

Ultron simply shrugged, the servos in his new body whirring, "If I have to."

"We don't have to break anything," Thor cautioned. The android's strange metallic face smiled.

"Clearly you've never made an omelet."

Stark made a defeated noise, then, that temporarily cut through the tension, "—He beat me by one second," He grumbled. There was a distant bark of laughter in their comms, which sounded like it had come from Sam.

"If you believe in peace," Thor continued, raising Mjölnir, "Then let us keep it."

Ultron wasn't deterred, "I think you're confusing peace with quiet." He snapped back.

Alia ground her teeth at that. She glanced at Bucky, a mental ping sent to him, 'get ready'. The barest nod of his chin was her only acknowledgement.

"Uh-huh," Stark said, "What's the vibranium for?"

Ultron's red optics glinted in the shadows of the Churchill, "I'm glad you asked that, because I wanted to take this time to explain my evil plan—"

And then the ship erupted into chaos as Ultron's drones jumped from the shadows and attacked.

Alia's vision sharpened immediately, the world slowing down around her as her instincts kicked in. The drones burst from the shadows with mechanical precision, their glowing optics locked onto the Avengers. But she was ready, her body moving instinctively as she sidestepped a repulsor blast meant for her chest.

Bucky's metal arm flashed, intercepting a drone's strike, his other hand clenching into a fist as he drove it into another's chassis, sparks flying. Natasha and Clint moved in sync, her widow's bite sparking in time with his arrows, sending drones crashing into the rusted walls. Wanda's energy tore through the air, leaving trails of crimson light as she sliced through multiple drones with a single strike.

Alia brimmed with pride at the sight, but there wasn't any time to focus on it.

Thor's hammer cracked through the air, each swing sending drones flying into the shadows. Steve's shield slammed into a drone, buckling its frame as he spun, using the momentum to send another crashing into the deck. Tony's repulsors blazed, his suit's movements fluid and precise as he danced through the chaos, his every blast sending a drone spinning and crashing.

Pietro was a blur, his speed leaving afterimages as he tore through drones, his fists leaving dents and shattered optics in his wake. Alia's telepathy brushed against their minds, a silent signal to coordinate their attacks, to predict the drones' movements before they made them.

For those few fragile moments, Alia realized, they were truly united. Earth's Avengers, fighting as one.

Her foot lashed out, sending a drone crashing into a pile of debris, and she ducked under a swipe from another, her fingers wrapping around its neck as she wrenched it to the side; sending it careening into a crate.

"Ostorozhnyy." (Careful), an all-too-familiar voice snapped as Bucky's metal hand closed around Alia's waist, pulling her out of the way of a drone's swipe. His free fist slammed into its chassis, in the same move, dropping it like a rock.

Her breath came in ragged pants, the adrenaline still surging through her veins, "Ya znal, chto eto proizoydet." (I knew that was coming.) Alia huffed. She hadn't. But she had trusted Bucky to know for her.

"Lgun'ya," (Liar,) He muttered back, yanking her sideways as another drone lunged, only for its head to explode midair from a well-placed shot by Clint.

But then a distant flash of blue and a familiar, cold feeling in her gut had her head whipping away from Bucky, "The sceptre. Ultron has the sceptre in play," Alia cautioned over comms, as Wanda confirmed the same over hers. Ultron could be turning more of Klaue's crew at this very moment. She gave Bucky a kiss on his cheek before she was already moving, her knives drawn to take own the next drones, "Do not let him touch you with it." Alia called back, voice firm.

Bucky's answering smirk was barely visible beneath the sheen of sweat and grime, his metal fingers flexing around the crumpled remains of the drone he'd just gutted.

"Same goes for you, sweetheart. You stay the hell away from that thing."

The reprieve lasted all of two seconds before three more drones dropped from the ceiling, claws extended. Alia twisted, and slid, going low as Bucky went high; she swiped the drone's legs out from under it as he crushed it again. The other two didn't stand a chance after that.

Across the hold, Thor's hammer shattered a drone into nothing but shrapnel, just as Steve's shield ricocheted off two more. Tony was a blur of repulsor fire, his quips drowned out by the near-deafening screech of tearing metal.

Alia's knives continued to find their marks with lethal precision; one drone crumpled with a blade through its optic, another spasmed as her second knife buried itself in its neural relay. She twisted, kicking off the wall to avoid a swipe from behind, rolling to her feet just in time to see Bucky rip the arm off another drone and bludgeon it with its own limb.

But something was wrong.

Her telepathy brushed against the edges of the battlefield, scanning, counting, taking stock of the team—

—Oh, no. Where are they?

Wanda's scarlet energy had vanished from the chaos. Pietro's lightning-fast movements were absent. No quips, no flashes of red. Just silence where their presence should've been.

Alia's stomach dropped at the realization.

"Bucky," She hissed, ducking under a drone's lunge to reach his side, "I cannot find them. The twins—"

His gaze snapped to hers the moment she spoke, then past her, scanning the fray.

A drone lunged at them. Bucky caught it by the throat and crushed its head in his fist without breaking eye contact.

"Find them," He growled at her, throwing the drone's carcass over his shoulder, "Go, now."

Alia didn't hesitate. She lunged into the shadows, knives flashing, her mind reaching out, searching for the faintest flicker of Wanda's power, Pietro's frantic energy...

...And for the briefest moment, Alia could feel her, "Wanda!" Alia shouted into the darkness, "Where are you?"

Her own senses barely had time to flare in alarm as something screamed danger, something cold slipping into her mind, something foreign and familiar at the same time.

Then, Alia was nowhere at all.

Chapter Text

The Winter Soldier

The drone's shattered remains clattered to the deck as Bucky turned, eyes scanning the chaos for Alia's pale hair, the familiar arc of her knives. Nothing.

Damn it.

He cut through two more drones with brutal efficiency — One crumpling under a strong right hook, the other bisected by the edge of his knife. The comms crackled in his ear, Steve's voice barking orders, Tony's sarcastic quips, Clint's steady updates.

But no twins. And now, no Alia.

His chest tightened.

Without a second thought, Bucky broke into a sprint in the direction she'd gone, weaving through the wreckage of the battle. A drone lunged at him, but he sidestepped, slamming its head into the bulkhead hard enough to dent the metal. Another came at him from behind, but Natasha's widow's bite fried its circuits before it could land a hit. She didn't even pause, already moving to flank with Steve as Bucky pushed forward alone.

Why the hell had he let Alia go by herself in the first place? Because he'd trusted her, of course. Trusted her to find the Maximoffs. Instinctively, he reached for that space inside of him that she'd carved out but he felt nothing, she'd withdrawn from him and his mind.

Which only made Bucky exponentially more sure that something had gone very fucking wrong.

The corridor ahead was darker, the emergency lights flickering like dying stars. The air smelled of rust and something acrid, burning wires, maybe.

He rounded a corner, his boots skidding on the slick deck, and then—

—And then the world split.

The corridor melted away. The sounds of battle, the screech of metal, the shouts of his team, they all faded into nothing.

Darkness, dark and familiar, swallowed him whole. He was sleeping, he thought, but he didn't understand why he'd been sleeping. Before, suddenly, he was awake.

His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the golden glow of his new existence.

Where was he?

The scent of fresh-baked bread hung in the air, yeasty, warm, and sweet, as if it had been pulled from the oven just minutes before. The tang of summer heat mixed with the distant echo of car horns and children laughing in the street below.

Sunlight poured through lace curtains, dancing in delicate fractals across a scuffed hardwood floor. It was the kind of soft, ethereal lighting that made everything look like it was a dream, even though he wasn't sleeping.

Church bells rang out to mark the hour, then, the sound so familiar it sent a jolt of recognition straight through him. He knew those bells. They were from St. Mary's — St. Mary Star of the Sea, the Roman Catholic Church his mother had attended. The one she'd dragged him and his sisters to, every damn Sunday like clockwork, without fail.

Brooklyn. He was back in Brooklyn.

Or a dream of it. One conjured by a kinder God than the one who had made him. But if it was just a dream, why did it feel like it was so real?

"Ah, sleepyhead. You're finally up. I was starting to get worried."

The familiar voice curled around him, cutting through the haze of his mind like sunlight through fog. Alia.

But not. And yet— Yes. It was her voice, her cadence, her wry sweetness. Yet, there was something different in it, too. Softer. Her Russian accent wasn't nearly as prominent, blending more with an American one. She spoke like she'd become accustomed to speaking English. And she sounded at peace.

Bucky looked for her, sitting up on the couch he'd been sprawled across. He looked down at himself, briefly, and frowned; he was wearing his army uniform, complete with medals of valour that he didn't recognize.

When he finally looked up, there she was.

Alia leaned in the doorway to the kitchen, one hip cocked, fingers dusted in flour. A lock of blonde hair had come loose from its pins and curled along her cheek, her cherry-red lips quirked into a half-smile. She wore a butter-yellow sundress that hugged the lines of her body in a way that made his chest ache, topped with an apron that suggested she'd just been baking.

A wedding band caught the light on her left hand, as she wiped her hands clean.

They were married? His eyes flicked down to his own to confirm it; a simple circle of gold on his ring finger, left hand. His real left hand, he realized with a jolt. Not the metal amalgamation forced onto him by HYDRA, or Stark's replacement. The sight of his hand alone, almost undid him entirely.

"You were out cold," Alia continued, her voice teasing as she pushed off the door frame to pad closer, "Long night at the docks, soldier?"

He couldn't speak. His mouth parted, but nothing came. The words died before they formed.

Because this, this, it wasn't real. It couldn't be.

But God— God, it felt like it could be right. Like the first breath you take after drowning.

The apartment was small, lived-in. Wallpaper peeled near the icebox. A ceiling fan turned lazily overhead. The radio crackled in the corner, soft with the sway of Glenn Miller. The room smelled like sugar and sunlight and her skin.

A photograph sat on the counter, of him and Steve in uniform, arms slung around each other, both of them unbroken, untouched. Before the war. Before HYDRA. Before everything was turned to ash and frost.

His hands trembled.

Because he remembered this. Not the apartment, not the dress, not the smell of baking bread, but the feeling. The safety. The love. The morning that didn't begin with violence.

The life he'd never gotten. The life he'd always thought he'd never have, again.

She came closer. Her fingers, still dusted with flour despite her best efforts, brushed lightly along his jaw. They didn't carry the calluses of a killer, of a spy or an assassin. These were the hands of a woman who hung laundry in the sun and baked pies for the neighbourhood kids.

The scent of her, lavender and citrus, washed over him, grounding him in something that made his chest go tight.

"We should go dancing tonight," she said softly, the pad of her thumb dragging across the stubble of his cheek, "The Stork Club. Steve said he'd meet us there with Carter, and you know how he gets when we're late. We can get Sam can watch Winnie."

Something cracked in him.

Steve was here, too. They'd survived the war, they'd come home. The Winter Soldier hadn't been born into this bright, warm world. And Sam was here, too. How was that possible? That didn't make any sense at all, Sam was from the future, not his and Steve's time. Then there was her— Alia. She was always his. Not shattered, not hardened, not a weapon. Just a woman. Just his woman.

Here, she smiled like it cost her nothing to do so. Like she wasn't holding anything back. Like she was free, and always had been.

But then, who was— "Winnie?" Bucky finally asked, hoarsely.

Alia reached out and poked his forehead with her finger, "God, Bucky, you're not winning father of the year, are you?" She laughed, the sound of it sharp and carefree, "I'm surprised you didn't wake her up with all your snoring."

His throat burned at the word father. Before Bucky even knew it, he was reaching out, catching Alia's wrist with care, afraid she might vanish if he touched her too hard. He turned it in his hand, brought it to his lips.

Her pulse beat steady beneath his mouth.

Real. Real. She was real. This was real—

—No. This wasn't real. How could this possibly be real?

It was a lie, it had to be. This wasn't his Alia. His girl wasn't someone soft who baked bread and did laundry and walked around barefoot in aprons and sundresses. No, his Alia was a lioness, a survivor who had dragged him back out of the Winter Soldier kicking and screaming, who had saved him and damn near almost lost herself in the process.

His Alia still spoke in stilted English and had to switch to Russian when she couldn't figure out what she wanted to say, who always stopped to feed the pigeons, who was still learning how to love him properly because, God, she'd never been permitted to before. Who still blushed when he called her beautiful, even if he'd done it a thousand times before.

And she never called him Bucky. She was the only one who called him James because that was the name he'd first whispered to her on a rain-soaked night, when the man had tried to free himself of the monster in order to reach her again.

This Alia, whoever or whatever she was, wasn't his. It had to be some kind of warped illusion, someone else's wish, but not his wish. He needed to figure out what the hell was happening, how to get out of here, out of this fantasy that was trying to rip him apart at the seams.

But when a peal of laughter emerged from down the hall, so delighted, that train of thought died entirely. And the sight of a blonde-haired girl throwing herself into his arms, well, that completely crumbled the last of his resistance to whatever this prison was.

"You snore." His daughter accused, looking up at him with big, judgmental blue eyes. Before Bucky could stop himself, he'd hoisted her up into his lap, scowling playfully at her.

"...I do not."

"Yes, you do." She insisted, her chubby child hands toying with the medals he'd never won on the uniform he hadn't worn in seventy years, "Mamochka says it's like a bear hibernating."

His eyes darted to Alia, who was smiling at the scene with a serenity he'd never before seen on her face, "That's what she says, huh? And you're not scared of bears?"

The girl didn't even skip a beat when she replied, "Mamochka is scarier."

When Bucky laughed at that, it was genuine, "Yeah." He muttered, "Yeah, she is."

The girl— Winnie, and he was terrified it was short for Winnifred, his mother's name —Merely giggled at his agreement, a high, bubbling sound that pushed against the wall he was still trying to keep up around himself. Her little hands patted insistently at the medals again, fingers tracing their edges, before she wrinkled her nose.

"These are pokey," She declared, matter-of-fact, tugging at the ribbon of one, "You should take them off."

Bucky blinked, caught between a laugh and a swallow of disbelief. His chest tightened as he looked down at her, at those eyes that mirrored his own, rounder, unscarred by time. She wasn't afraid to pull at his uniform, wasn't afraid of him. No one had ever looked at him like that without hesitation before, not even Alia.

"You don't like 'em, huh?" He finally managed to say.

She shook her head so hard her curls bounced, "Nope. Too scratchy. You should wear your sweater, the blue one. That one's so soft."

Alia, still leaning in the doorway with that strange, impossible ease, raised a brow, "See? Even Winnie thinks you should dress like a human, not like a statue."

He almost smiled, almost, but his hands moved on instinct, unclasping one medal, then another, until they sat heavy and cold in his palm. He set them aside on the table, Winnie watching every movement with rapt attention. When he was done, she clapped her small hands together in satisfaction, then nestled closer against his chest like she had always belonged there.

The warmth of her weight, the steady rhythm of her breathing... God, it carved him open. Like a butcher getting his knife into a carcass.

This is wrong. This isn't real. But when her little hand curled around his thumb, he didn't pull away. He couldn't.

"Read to me?" Winnie asked suddenly, tipping her head back, so her hair brushed his chin, "Please?"

The request was so simple, so ordinary. Reading to a child. His child. That wasn't a life he got to have. And yet here she was, looking at him like he was the safest place she knew.

Alia was already turning back into the kitchen, humming as though she knew he'd say yes, "The book's on her nightstand," She called, "Winnie knows where to find it. You two never make it past the first page before bed."

Winnie wriggled in his arms, insistent, "Please, Papa."

The word hit home. He sucked in a breath, every muscle in his body locking up. No one had ever called him that, and he'd never let himself believe that anyone ever would. But here, in this place that smelled like sugar and sunlight and her hair, his daughter asked him to read to her like it was the most normal thing in the world, for them.

And against every instinct, against the voice in his head that told him this was a trap, he found himself nodding, "Yeah, sweetheart," He said hoarsely, "I'll read to you."

Immediately, she launched herself from his lap and scrambled back further into the apartment, no doubt ducking into the room that was her own. Alia, amused, turned away back into the kitchen, humming along to the radio.

After a few moments of determined searching, his daughter emerged again, clutching a well-worn copy of Charlotte's Web to her chest before thrusting it towards him.

Bucky hauled her up into his lap again as he took the book, and Winnie was already micromanaging, flipping the chapter book open already as he lagged behind doing it himself.

"Who's reading to who, here?" He demanded, and she squealed when he banded his arm around her small torso and snatched the book out of her hands, squinting over her shoulder down at the words on the first page.

"'Where's Papa going with that axe?' Said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast." Bucky started, before huffing to himself, "...This is a kid's book, really?" The absurdity of it all was starting to make his own protests sound further and further away in his own ears.

Winnie, for her part, just crossed her arms, "That wasn't part of the book." She pointed out stoically.

"—Yeah, yeah." He grumbled, continuing to read aloud, "'Out to the hoghouse,' Replied Mrs. Arable, 'Some pigs were born last night.'"

And Bucky, he let himself drown in it, in this. In the feeling of his daughter who'd never been born perched carefully on his lap, on the couch in the apartment that didn't exist, listening to him read from a book that hadn't even been written by the time he'd fallen from that train. His wife, the woman he'd never married, watching the two of them with a love in her eyes that seemed real enough but he knew couldn't logically exist, not the way it did here.

But still.

He let himself drown in it.

Just for a moment...

And then, as suddenly as he'd gone under, Bucky came back up for air.

In the blink of an eye it was all gone; his daughter's weight, the book in his hands, Alia's humming voice, all of it yanked away into a void as his eyes snapped back open in the bowels of the Churchill. Without thinking, he lashed out at the person who'd pulled him free.

"Jesus Christ, Barnes!" Sam yelped, jumping back from his metal fist that swung wide and wild, "It's me. It's Sam!"

Bucky's chest heaved, and his stomach roiled as he pushed back against the wall Sam had propped him up against, "Sam?" He repeated, his tongue feeling as though it were made of lead, "What the fuck happened?"

"Maximoff happened. Ultron flipped her and her brother with the sceptre. He went right for them the minute shit hit the fan. Best I can tell, it's just me, Barton, and Stark who didn't get hit by her. Everyone else is down."

Everyone else... Bucky's head was still swimming, caught between the present of the damp, cold ship interior and Sam's steadying hands on his shoulders, and the vision of a wife's smile and a girl's laughter, "Where's Alia? Where's Ultron?"

"He's gone." Sam answered grimly, "Ultron's gone, with the vibranium, and the twins. Clint's getting Alia. We've got Steve, Nat, and Thor on the quinjet already. We've got to pull out, now."

"Fine. I'll get her myself," Bucky insisted through gritted teeth, but the minute he tried to stand his knees gave out and Sam was forced to bear half of his weight before he went crashing to the floor again, "—Fuck."

"Barton will get her." Sam insisted, wrapping an arm around Bucky's back as his wings flared just slightly, the smaller repulsors Stark had added flaring a little to help alleviate some of Bucky's strain, "Need to get you out of here, first, man. The fact you can talk is good. Steve's been quiet, and I don't think Nat's said a single word since Barton hauled her out."

The idea of that made his stomach twist all over again. Wanda had done to them what she'd tone to Tony over half a year ago in Sokovia, shown them something. Woven something into their heads to try and... Break them? He could only imagine what the others had seen, then.

Oh, God. Or what Alia was seeing, maybe right now. She and Wanda had known each other the best. What kind of nightmares had her friend conjured for her, right now, that she was trapped in?

"If she's not on that quinjet within fifteen minutes, Wilson, I'm breaking your fucking legs and finding her myself." Bucky warned, his voice deathly serious.

Sam, for his part, wasn't intimidated, only exasperated, "Yeah, man, I know you will. Let's just get out of here first, alright?"

Bucky let Sam lead him away, thoroughly unconvinced.

Chapter Text

The White Widow

Snow crunched underfoot as Alia stepped through the iron-wrought gates of her family's dacha, just outside Petrograd. The scent of pine and wood smoke hung heavy in the crisp winter air, the golden glow of lanterns spilling from the windows onto the pristine white grounds.

Her mother stood on the porch, wrapped in a fur-lined shawl, her dark eyes crinkling with a smile that Alia hadn't seen before. She was blonde, like her. She looked kind.

"There you are," She called, her voice as warm as honey, her English soft and refined, scholarly, "I was beginning to think you had gotten lost."

I was lost, Alia thought, distantly, I was. I think that I still am.

Behind her mother, the door creaked open as another figure emerged. Her father, tall and broad-shouldered, stepped out, his military bearing softened by the way he leaned into his wife's side. His gaze flickered past Alia to the man beside her, and his expression shifted into something amused, assessing.

Alia didn't even need to look to know who stood next to her.

She could feel Bucky's presence like a second heartbeat, steady, and unshakeable. His hand brushed against hers, tentative, as if unsure he was allowed to touch her here, in this impossible memory.

Her mother's smile widened, "And this must be James."

The words settled like a stone in Alia's chest.

Because this— This was the life she'd never had. The one torn from her before she'd even known to miss it.

The one she couldn't remember. The one that always broke her to recall.

Her father stepped forward, clapping Bucky on the shoulder with a grin, "Come inside," He said, voice rough with an accent Alia hadn't heard in decades, "You will freeze, out here."

Alia simply stared at him, her father, the features she'd never had a chance to remember. Then darted again to her mother, on the porch, and felt something in her chest break in a way that might never heal.

"Otets. Mat'." (Father. Mother.) She murmured, feeling like she was in a daze. Bucky's hand was grounding her, but it also felt wrong. Wrong in a way that he'd never felt before.

Because this...

...She didn't remember this. Any of it. And her parents, they were long-dead by now, surely. They had all been Soviets. So how was this even p—

"—Lapochka," Her father chided, "You are thinking too hard again."

Alia blinked.

"I am?" She asked, confused.

Her mother laughed, the sound so light, musical, and so alive as she descended the porch steps to cup Alia's face. The warmth of her palms seeped into Alia's skin, thawing a cold she hadn't even realized was there.

"Vsegda," (Always,) her mother murmured, thumb brushing Alia's cheekbone, "Ty vse pereosmyslivaesh'." (You overthink everything.)

Bucky shifted beside her, his fingers flexing at his side. But when Alia's father clapped him on the back again, steering him toward the house with a boisterous, "Rasskazyvay, soldat!" (Tell me, soldier!) about his time in the war, something in Bucky's posture eased. Just a fraction.

Alia watched the two of them go, her chest tight at the sight.

The dacha was exactly as she'd always imagined it might've been; polished wooden floors, the smell of pirozhki fresh from the oven, a samovar steaming on the table. A home. A family. Hers.

Her mother looped an arm through hers, tugging her toward the door, "Idem," (Come,) She said softly.

And God help her, but Alia let herself be led, deeper into this madness.

The warmth of the house enveloped her like a cocoon — Cinnamon and cedar, the crackle of the fireplace, the faint hum of a radio playing an old Russian folk song. Bucky was already seated at the dinner table, her father pouring him a glass of vodka with a grin, already mid-story about his own military days.

Her mother squeezed her hand, "On khoroshiy," (He's good,) She whispered, nodding toward Bucky, "Ty vybrala khorosho." (You chose well.)

Alia's breath hitched.

Because that was the cruellest lie of all, wasn't it? Choice.

She hadn't had a choice, not once in her life, before Berlin. HYDRA had carved the choices out of her, one memory at a time. Bucky was the one and only thing she'd ever truly chosen for herself.

He met her gaze across the table, his eyes soft. Unbroken, as he held his glass of vodka in both hands. He had both his hands, Alia realized with a muted terror. He hadn't ever been the Winter Soldier here, and she hadn't ever been the White Widow.

No. This wasn't real, then. Something powerful clawed at Alia's mind, feeling as though it were tearing her in half. This was not real. She had only found him because of the hell that HYDRA had subjected both of them too. Without it, they would have never met.

For all the rage she felt for what had been done to them, what they had been made to do, without the Widow finding the Soldier, then Alia would have never found a Bucky. That made this reality, whatever it was, an impossibility.

This had to be Wanda's doing, then. She had done something, to trap her here, in this fantasy, this dream world designed to ensnare her. Alia had to escape it, had to find the others. Instinctively, she felt her power coil in her like a serpent, lashing out to try to break free—

—And that was when the samovar shattered. The walls bled. Her father's laugh turned to a scream.

No.

Alia stumbled back as the vision fractured, the dacha collapsing into shadows. Both of the faces of her parents melted away, their features disappearing into smooth, faceless skin. She couldn't remember what they looked like, she was unable to remember any of it.

The scent of pirozhki was replaced by the familiar scent of rust and antiseptic. The warm atmosphere of the dacha pulled out from under her feet like a rug that had been yanked, and the next place that Wanda's vision brought her was a stark contrast to where she had been, before.

She knew where she was now. She'd recognize these rooms, this place, anywhere.

Siberia.

And she was not alone.

"This is not real," The White Widow protested as Karpov's hand clamped around her upper arm like steel, dragging her through the halls of the facility, "I know this is not real, Wanda! Stop this, now!"

"You are not in compliance, asset," The general barked, his grip tightening, "You are in need of maintenance."

The words were like being knifed in the gut. Alia's breath caught sharp in her throat, the walls narrowing, familiar steel painted with frost and blood. She could hear it again, the hum of the fluorescent bulbs, that low buzz that became a scream in her skull when she was strapped down too long. Her feet tangled over themselves as he yanked her forward, boots scraping against cement that she'd crawled across countless times before.

"No," She rasped, twisting, trying to jerk free. Her nails clawed at his hand, but his grip never faltered. The word maintenance always meant the same thing. It meant pain. It meant hours that stretched like years. It meant she would lose pieces of herself, carved away until only obedience remained.

Her body reacted before her mind could; her stomach seizing, bile rising in the back of her throat. She gagged against nothing, against memory, against the taste of leather straps between her teeth.

Karpov didn't look at her. He never looked at her when he said the words that hollowed her out, "You will learn," he said flatly, as if it were the weather, "You will remember who you belong to."

"I do not belong to you!" The defiance tore out of her, half-sob, half-scream. But already she felt her body betraying her. The air seemed heavier, pressing down on her chest. Her knees buckled, as though some invisible hand forced her lower.

This isn't real. This isn't real. It's Wanda. It's not him. It's Wanda.

But the illusion stank of truth. The cold bite of metal through her thin sleeves, the echo of her own breathing bouncing back at her from the corridor walls, every detail was exact. Her telepathy, the very thing that usually let her claw her way free, recoiled on itself like a wounded animal, showing her nothing but static.

Karpov's shadow fell across her as he dragged her through a familiar open door. Her chest convulsed.

"Please—" The word broke out of her before she could stop it, shame blistering through her veins, "Please, I will— I will comply."

The part of her that was the Widow hissed at the weakness, but the part of her that was still Alia couldn't stop the spiral, the familiar surrender to the pain that awaited her in this room. Her hands shook as the restraints loomed closer, straps dangling like nooses.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, every beat echoing not real not real not real, but her body remembered too well what came next. The sooner she gave in, the sooner it would be over.

The door clanged shut behind them, iron on iron, echoing far too loudly in the small chamber. The stink of the room engulfed her, then; metal, sweat, ozone, disinfectant so sharp it burned her eyes. She had been in this room too many times. She knew what it meant.

For a moment that sudden fear gave her a second burst of courage. Alia thrashed in his grip, a snarl torn from her throat, but Karpov only shoved her forward, her shoulder colliding with the cold edge of the frame. The shock rattled her teeth.

"This is why you need it," He said, voice thick with disgust, "You are wild. Defiant. Always breaking your leash." He spat the words like a curse, "You were never worth the effort Zola put into you, his ballerina."

Her breath sawed fast, desperate. It isn't real. It isn't real. She told herself that as the leather strap bit her wrist when he cinched it down. The sting was too familiar, the pressure cutting off circulation in seconds. Her chest heaved, but no air filled her lungs.

"Look at you." Karpov's mouth twisted, not quite a smile, "The White Widow. HYDRA's greatest mistake. It's no wonder you're left here, rotting, with me."

He fastened her other wrist, deliberately slow, letting the leather creak so she could hear every inch of her trap closing, "You think you are untouchable. Untameable. Always clawing at my orders like a feral animal." He leaned close, his breath sour with tobacco and vodka, "You forget who owns you."

She flinched, but the straps held.

Her telepathic sense skittered against static, useless. She reached out for something, anything, beyond the illusion, but there was nothing but walls and Karpov and the chair.

Marceau would have called it re-experiencing, trapped in a memory that was triggered, but this wasn't that. This was something new woven together by the spell Wanda had cast to break her, and God, it was going to work.

It was going to break her, to experience this all over again.

"This is where you learn," Karpov continued, almost soft now, that softness more terrifying than his bark because of what it promised beneath, "This is where you remember that every time you rebel, every time you make me look weak, you pay for it."

The first slap came sudden, the back of his hand cracking across her cheek, head snapping sideways against the chair frame. Her ears rang. Copper flooded her mouth.

She didn't scream. Not yet.

The second came sharper, knuckles to her jaw, deliberate.

"You do not protest now?" He asked, "Good. Save your voice. You will need it."

Her vision blurred. She tasted blood. She knew it was false, she knew this wasn't real, but her body was back there in that room, trapped.

Karpov crouched low, eye-level, his gaze flat and pitiless, "Do you know why I do this myself, Widow?" He seized her chin, forcing her face up, "Because you never learned. Because every time you slipped your chain, you humiliated me. And now—" He bared his teeth, a parody of a smile, "—Now I shall enjoy watching you break."

The blows came in rhythm, methodical, not for interrogation, not for training, just for punishment. Each one jarred her teeth, blurred the edges of reality further until all that existed was pain and the choke of leather.

Her mind curled inward, away from her body, but there was no escaping the weight of him, the sound of his boots on the concrete as he circled her, "The Soldier does not even remember who you are, now," Karpov intoned bitterly, and the words hurt deeper than his hands could reach, "He no longer needs you. But you still may be of service to HYDRA."

That cruel reminder made a tear roll down her cheek, unbidden and unwanted. She could remember how maddening it felt, each activation after they'd been separated, how she could feel her own recollection of him slipping further and further away each time she was wiped, each time she purged herself. Without his presence to remind her that he existed, the Soldier had drifted further and further from her reach.

She had felt so alone, the first time she'd woken up and was unable to remember what his eyes looked like, the rare times she'd seen them. So painfully alone.

Karpov's hand curled into her hair and wrenched her head back, hard, and Alia did not resist.

At some point, she stopped protesting aloud entirely. The words dried up, caught in her throat. Only breathless gasps left her, thin and sharp, the quiet sounds she'd once sworn she would never give him.

He noticed. He always noticed.

"Better," He said, straightening, adjusting his gloves like she was nothing more than a task completed after he'd released his hold on her, "Maybe this time you will remember."

Alia tried, then, to remind herself again and again, this is not real, as her head hung limp against her chest, a doll with her strings cut. Not real. Not real, to try, try and convince herself that this wasn't happening again. But she could no longer tell if she was whispering it aloud, or only in her head.

Karpov wasn't even breathing hard as he reassessed his contained asset. This wasn't punishment to him; it was exercise. A way to pass the time, nothing more. To test the limits of his control and her obedience, to maintenance her like the broken weapon she'd been by the time HYDRA's end had come.

Alia's gaze flicked to the corner of the room, to the crack in the concrete near the drain. She remembered it, hated it because she used to fix her eyes there when the pain was too much. She'd count the flakes in the rust, the lines in the cement, and try to climb out of her own body to find an escape, of any kind.

And now, again, she was staring at it. Exactly the same crack. Every jagged edge. Every rust stain.

"This is not real," She finally whispered, the words barely forming between her lips.

Karpov's hand clamped on her throat in response, tilting her head back, eyes locking hers with cold, empty fury, "Everything is real, when I say it is, Widow." He cautioned her coldly.

Her breath shuddered, cut short by his grip. She couldn't force air past his squeezing hand. The thundering roar of her heart was deafening in her ears, drowning out all thought. For a moment, just a moment, she felt herself sliding, breaking, the line between memory and illusion snapping clean.

Maybe it's true. Maybe you never escaped. Maybe you're still here. You only dreamed you left. You only dreamed that he loved you, that you freed him and that he forgave you for what you did to him. Maybe you are both still trapped here, dancing with your demons.

The terror that revelation brought swelled, bloated and monstrous, threatening to consume her. Her wrists burned under the straps as she jerked uselessly, leather slicing her skin.

No. No. If she believed that, if she accepted it, then she'd never get out again.

Her mind scrambled, frantic, clawing for anything beyond the sterile walls and Karpov's voice. Something real. Something that belonged to her, and not this room of nightmares.

Alia found it, in the memory of Bucky's fingers feeling her shortened hair for the first time, after she'd chosen to cut almost all of it off—

"—Teper' ya ne ikh oruzhiye," (I'm not their pretty weapon now,) She'd breathed against his mouth.

"You never were," He had murmured back, "Just mine—"

—Her nails dug into her palms until she felt the skin split beneath them, "This is not real," She hissed again, louder now, pushing the words between clenched teeth even as Karpov's grip tightened around her neck.

"You deviant bitch," He snarled, shaking her the way a dog shook prey.

She shut her eyes. The vision wanted them open, wanted her seeing, but she shut them tight and dragged up the faces that had never belonged to Siberia. Steve's grin from across a room, Sam's laughter.

The way Natasha slung her arm around her shoulders as the two Widows schemed. Even just how Wanda and Pietro looked at her, sometimes, as they learned how to not be what HYDRA had made them into.

The press of Bucky's forehead against hers when the nightmares were bad. His hands holding her like she was something he was always afraid to let go of. And yet when she did, she always returned. Always.

She had to come back to him now. She had to.

Her lungs screamed from the lack of oxygen, and her body shook. But her mind refused to let go of those shards of herself she'd found, dragging them closer to her, precious.

"I am not yours," She choked out again, "You are not real. You do not hurt me anymore, because you are gone. HYDRA is gone. And I am free."

The room shuddered, the edges bleeding shadow. The crack in the concrete blurred, smeared like paint in the rain.

Karpov's face warped, flesh rippling, voice breaking into static as he hissed, "You will comply, Widow!"

Alia threw her head back against the chair, the sharp crack of bone on steel ringing through her skull, but it was hers, the pain hers, and she seized it as proof. Real, not illusion. Mine. A scream finally tore out of her, not in submission, but in sheer defiance.

And the vision split, at last, and released her. Alia finally surfaced from it with a gut-wrenching sob, her hands scrabbling at a cold metal floor.

Blood, more than she'd ever seen from her before, was streaming down her face from her nose, as if she were wearing a crimson mask. God only knew how much psychic pressure she'd exerted to claw herself free of the torment.

Not a dacha. Not that hated chair in Siberia.

A ship.

Not her parents. Not Karpov.

Just her.

A pained noise left Alia when reality came crashing in like the coldest tidal wave. She curled in on herself on the Churchill's old, rust-covered flooring, pressing her cheek to the metal as a means to ground her back in the present.

She forced herself to look at her hands and found no marks, no bloody half-moons from her nails, no split skin from the cut of leather restraints. Tears mixed with the bloody gore of her face, but it didn't feel as though anyone, much less Karpov, had laid hands on her.

It had not been real. It had been Wanda's power, reacting to her own.

But it had felt real, and in the moment, that cruel truth was all Alia could focus on.

Chapter Text

The Iron Man

The scent of scorched rubber and ozone filled the air, rising over the wreckage like steam from a freshly cracked hell. Johannesburg was falling apart beneath them. Tony hovered midair, trying his best to judge the damage currently unfolding beneath him. No JARVIS. No calm, dry voice in his ear telling him wind speed or seismic impact range. Just the chaos in front of him and the hollow silence where his usual dance partner used to be.

He hated that silence. Hated how it represented the mistake he'd made.

The mission had gone sideways fast. One minute they were converging on a shipyard in South Africa, and the next? Wanda Maximoff had gotten flipped by Ultron thanks to that goddamn sceptre, ghosted her way through their ranks, and dropped her psychic bombs like little party favours.

Tony didn't know the full extent of what she'd done to the others just yet, but he could guess, based on what she had done to him a year ago. As far as Clint had been able to tell him, only himself, Tony and Sam had been spared. And hopefully, Bruce—

—And then, well, that's when his HUD had lit up like the Fourth of July with social media feeds.

It had hit him like a punch to the gut.

"Oh no," Tony had breathed, locking his HUD onto the column of smoke rising from the business district.

There was a moment, half a heartbeat, maybe where he hoped it was all wrong. That maybe it was just fire. Maybe it was just another panic, another false alarm. Worst case, maybe a rogue Ultron bot.

Then the Hulk punched through the side of a ten-story building like it was wet paper, and Tony knew they were completely and utterly fucked.

"Son of a bitch."

Now, he was rocketing over the epicentre. Civilians ran in every direction, and the ones who didn't were already down. Cars flipped. Pavement cracked. Whatever leash Bruce had kept on the Other Guy had been shredded, and it didn't take a genius to guess why.

"Wanda," Tony growled, "We're having a serious discussion about boundaries when we're home."

No time. No backup. No team. Clint and Sam were busy securing the others. So, Tony called the Veronica satellite into play — Their failsafe, his last-resort protocol he'd designed with Bruce in the event this shit actually happened, in case Bruce ever really lost control. He hadn't wanted to use it, not like this. Not actually against Bruce. But this wasn't a tantrum. This was a goddamn catastrophe.

The Hulk turned his head toward the shrieking crowd and roared, deep and guttural, the kind of sound that cracked windows and made babies cry.

No time for hesitation, now.

"Veronica," Tony said through gritted teeth, "Drop the cage."

The pod screamed down from orbit like a divine hammer, slamming into the street with a thunderous impact and breaking apart into modular armour. The frame latched onto him piece by piece, thicker, stronger, heavier than anything else he'd built. It made his regular suit feel like pajamas in comparison and frankly, he felt a hell of a lot safer encased in it now.

"Hey, big guy," He said aloud, masking the tightness in his throat with bravado, "Let's calm you down."

He charged.

Fists collided. Pavement split. Cars crumpled like soda cans. Hulk was all rage and instinct, moving faster than a creature his size should, every hit like being struck by a semi. Tony blocked and redirected where he could, absorbed what he couldn't.

Then something blurred past his left side. Tony barely registered who or what it was before an impact like a bullet train slammed into his shoulder, spinning him in midair in conjunction with another heavy punch from the Hulk. Tony was sent crashing into the corner of a building, armour grinding against concrete with an ear-splitting screech.

"What the—" Tony stabilized, HUD flickering from the force, "—Oh, goddamn it."

Pietro Maximoff skidded to a halt in front of the Hulk, arms out like a guard dog. His eyes were always blue, but now they were blue blue, the same colour as the jewel of Loki's sceptre. His jaw was clenched, movements twitchy, like he was fighting his own muscles for control over himself.

"Seriously, Pete?" Tony snapped, powering up his repulsors, "You're playing bodyguard for Big Green now? Come on, man. You were drinking my beer and botching my pool table like, two days ago..."

Pietro didn't answer him, just blurred again. A second blow struck Tony's knee joint, hard enough to buckle the exo-frame. The suit compensated, but the delay was enough for Hulk to grab a truck and throw it. Tony dodged, barely, the vehicle grazing his shoulder instead of taking his head clean off.

"Okay. Two-on-one, huh?" He muttered, "Alright, then. Let's dance, Footloose."

He launched a crowd-dispersal pulse, blinding white and designed to scatter bystanders without hurting them; this time he hoped it would maybe throw Banner or Pietro off enough for Tony to get his shit together.

Unfortunately, the Hulk lunged through it without hesitation and reached for him. Tony caught the hit with his gauntlets, but the force still sent him crashing into an office tower. Glass and steel rained around him.

JARVIS would've warned him before that hit. Might've even prepped a countermeasure.

Instead, Tony had to feel it. Bruised ribs. System error. Right knee motor: compromised. Forget the right knee motor, he was pretty sure his actual right knee was the one compromised after that.

"Perfect," He panted, dragging himself up as Veronica sent down a fresh gauntlet module to replace the damaged one. It latched onto his arm with a hiss of steam, before he lunged at the Hulk again.

"Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep," He chanted, hammering Hulk's face with piston-powered punches. Blood dripped from the green giant's mouth. For a second, his eyes flickered; familiar, and haunted, "Come on, Bruce, I don't want to do this any more than you probably want to take it right now." Tony hissed.

And then, because, of course he did, Pietro came back for round two.

Tony swivelled just in time, caught him with a backhand from the oversized gauntlet, and sent the speedster tumbling through a bus stop. Pietro vanished in a blink, but it bought Tony seconds — Enough to deploy the next containment wall, enough to dig in.

But it wasn't enough. Not really. The city was breaking. Hulk was still in a frenzy.

And at that moment, as he watched the monster rip free of yet another barrier, as Pietro streaked back into the fray and a thousand alarms screamed in his ear shrieking about his failing suit, Tony felt it in his very bones.

Whatever the hell Ultron was planning?

It was a hell of a lot bigger than this, and they were getting seriously outplayed.

The White Widow

The Churchill groaned around her again, the scent of burnt metal and something else, something sharper, thick in the air. Alia's vision swam as she pulled herself up to her knees, nearly slipping on the blood-slick death beneath her. The nosebleed hadn't stopped yet, and—

—Bucky. James. Where was he?

She whirled, her telepathy flaring out in frantic pulses, trying, trying desperately to find him, only to slam into a wall of static from her own mind. Alia had often likened her power to an invisible muscle, just in her head instead of her body. If overextended or strained, it would require adequate rest and stretching before coming back to full power.

Alia was so far past overextended and strained, right now, she could hardly fathom how she was still conscious. She felt like that invisible muscle had been torn off the bone. With great effort she got to her knees, staggering and pushing herself against a wall to help keep her upright.

Footsteps pounded behind her. Clint skidded into view, his bow drawn but not yet nocked, his face grim.

"Alia— Christ," He breathed, grabbing her arm before she could sway, taking in the sight she must've made; her face and neck drenched with blood, her eyes glassy and still slightly unaware.

Automatically, he'd yanked a wad of tissues— Did he just carry those around with him? —Out of his utility belt and was holding them up against her nose to staunch the bleeding, "You with us?"

Alia only blinked at him, her mind still half-trapped in the ruins of her vision, "James. Where is—?"

"Sam's got him. We gotta get to the Quinjet. Now." Clint hauled her forward, his grip unrelenting, "Tony's got his hands full with the big guy, and we have to move before the locals show up with pitchforks."

Beyond the shattered hull of the Churchill, smoke curled over the Johannesburg skyline. Distant screams. The unmistakable roar of the Hulk. Alia barely heard any of it, too busy waiting for the nosebleed to clot as she bled through the tissues Clint had given her to hold.

When the quinjet came into view, Alia finally felt a part of her relax. Because—

—Thank God, Bucky was already slumped against the quinjet's bulkhead, his flesh hand pressed to his temple, his eyes vacant. Not all there, but still, there, and Alia could've cried knowing he was safe. Steve and Natasha were already strapped in, their faces pale, their breathing ragged. Thor sat motionless, Mjölnir clenched in his fist, his gaze fixed on nothing.

Sam tossed Clint a medkit when he dragged Alia onboard, "Think that's all of us," He muttered, glancing at Alia and visibly startling at her appearance, "Jesus, Alia. You good?"

Alia didn't answer him. not right away. She was already moving toward Bucky, dropping her wad of bloody tissues, the nosebleed having finally stopped. Her fingers trembling as they brushed his wrist, "James."

His head snapped up.

Their eyes met.

And for a heartbeat, neither of them breathed. For just a moment, she reached up and pressed her forehead against his own. Whatever he had seen, she knew it had shaken him just as bad as her own vision had shaken her.

"Tony is containing Bruce?" She asked aloud to Sam and Clint, feeling some of the fog start to lift from her mind now that the familiar warmth of Bucky was curling back around her in her head.

Clint let out a tired huff in response, rubbing his temple, "Yeah, in the most Tony Stark way possible..."

A metallic screech cut him off as the Iron Man suit landed heavily on the quinjet's ramp, one arm hooked under an unconscious Bruce's limp form. Tony's faceplate snapped up, revealing a bruise blooming across his cheekbone and a grimace that had nothing to do with any sort of pain.

"Alright, kiddos, this field trip's officially over," He announced, voice brittle, "Turns out someone didn't like the magic mind-whammy. Who knew?" Sam hurried forward to help haul Bruce inside, muttering under his breath. Steve stirred weakly in his seat, his brow furrowed as if fighting off the last dregs of Wanda's illusion. Natasha's fingers clenched around her harness, her jaw set.

And Bucky's metal hand finally closed around Alia's, his thumb brushing against her knuckles in a silent, reassuring gesture. His eyes flickered with a mix of relief and lingering pain, but he said nothing, just helped her deeper into the quinjet's belly.

The engines roared to life then, the deck vibrating beneath their feet as they lifted off; Clint flying and Sam as co-pilot, the cityscape falling away below them. The shipyard's skeletal structures receded into the distance, the chaos of the battle fading into the drone of flight.

Clint's hands flew over the controls, the quinjet banking sharply as it gained altitude, the shimmer of afterburners glowing in the distance, "So both Maximoffs are compromised." He said, plainly.

"Yup. Roadrunner followed me into Johannesburg, played defence for Hulk as he ripped the city up." Tony answered, his suit whirring, "Ultron's sceptre'd them. We're officially down two kid-vengers."

Alia wasn't really listening, though. Her gaze flickered to the city flying by below them, the smoke and the distant siren wails fading into the horizon. She turned to Bucky, her hand reaching out to tangle with his, the heat of his metal fingers grounding her, anchoring her to the present.

"Where did she take you?" She murmured, her voice low, meant only for him.

Bucky's fingers tightened around hers, his breath steadying.

"Home," He said finally, quietly. His thumb traced idle circles against her skin, the gesture soothing and grounding, "Brooklyn. Some time after the war, I guess. You were—" He swallowed, "There."

Alia stilled. Her mind flashed to her own vision; the dacha, her parents, the impossible warmth of a life she'd never lived. Then how it had changed, after she'd tried to break out of it herself. Karpov, the chair, the way she'd thought she'd never truly leave it all behind.

A sharp, sudden understanding cut through the haze of lingering disorientation.

She showed us what she knew would break us. Oh, Wanda...

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, his free hand flexing into a fist and then releasing, like he was physically shaking off the phantom touch of the past, "Don't," He muttered, as if reading the tension in her shoulders, "Don't think about it. Whatever you saw, sweetheart, it wasn't real."

Alia opened her mouth, to argue, to apologize, to say something, anything, but the words caught in her throat.

Not that it would have mattered. Maria's voice soon filled the quinjet — Stark must have called her.

"—The news is loving you guys," She said, her voice as professional as ever, but definitely fraying at the edges, "Nobody else is. There's been no official call for Banner's arrest, but it's in the air."

Alia simply pressed her cheek to Bucky's shoulder, exhaling.

"Stark Relief Foundation?" Tony asked.

"Already on the scene." Maria paused, before asking, "How's the team?"

The cockpit was dead silent at that. Tony sighed.

"We lost the twins to Ultron. And everyone's... We took a hit. We'll shake it off."

It sounded a lot more like he was trying to convince himself of that, than Maria. She didn't sound especially convinced, either, "Well, for now, I'd stay in stealth mode, and stay away from here."

"So run and hide?" He countered. Alia, meanwhile, stiffened against Bucky. Stay away from here, meant don't come back to the tower. So they were officially, more or less, on the run, again.

"Until we can find Ultron, I don't have a lot else to offer." Maria sighed.

"Neither do we." And Tony promptly hung up, turning to Clint, "Hey, you wanna switch out?"

Clint glanced up from where he was sitting, next to Sam, "No, I'm good," He said. As one of the three unaffected individuals from whatever Wanda did to all of their heads, it seemed safest to let Tony, Sam, and Clint be the ones at the helm, "If you wanna get some kip, now's a good time, 'cause we're still a few hours out."

"A few hours from where?"

"A safe house." And then he waved Tony off.

Bucky's fingers twitched against hers. She could feel the tension radiating through him. Not just from the aftermath of Wanda's visions, but from the same realization she'd had that, once again, they were being pushed to the fringes, that they couldn't just go home. His metal arm flexed in a way that made the plates shift with quiet precision as he finally guided her towards the bench seating, his arm staying locked around her torso even as the two sat down.

The quinjet's engines hummed beneath them, the steady vibration a counterpoint to the turmoil in the cabin. Natasha had moved to sit opposite them, her fingers drumming a silent pattern against her thigh. Her expression was carefully neutral, but Alia could see the storm behind her eyes. Whatever Wanda had shown her had cut deep, too.

Steve groaned quietly, rubbing his temples as he leaned forward in his seat, "We need to debrief," He sighed, though his voice lacked its usual command, "Figure out Ultron's next move."

"First we rest," Clint countered from the cockpit, not turning around, "You all look like you've been through a meat grinder."

Alia pressed closer to Bucky, her fingers tightening around his. The warmth of him truly was an anchor in the chaos, something solid, and real. The phantom echoes of her vision still clung to her in fragments; the scent of her mother's perfume, the sound of her father's laughter. The whip-crack of Karpov's voice. But here, now, with Bucky's steady breathing beside her, she could push it aside.

For now.

Stark finally dropped into a seat with a heavy sigh himself, his armour retracting with a series of quiet clicks, "So," He said, eyeing the group, "Anyone wanna tell me what the hell just happened back there?"

When nobody replied, Stark didn't push it.

He just knew.

Chapter Text

The Winter Soldier

The quinjet touched down with a gentle thud in a field of golden wheat, the tall stalks swaying and hissing against the hull in the late afternoon breeze. Dust plumed around the landing gear, catching the slanting light like flecks of fool's gold. The engines whined down from a roar to a low, discontented hum. They'd flown for hours to get here, back east, leaving the acrid smoke of Johannesburg and Ultron's chaos far behind them.

Clint hadn't given anyone even the vaguest hint of where he was taking them. He'd flown with a grim focus, the lines around his eyes deeper than usual. Alia had slept with her head on his shoulder, her breathing slow and deep, the exhaustion of battle and Wanda's psychic assault finally claiming her. Bucky hadn't been able to find any rest at all. Not when every time he closed his eyes, he wondered if he'd open them again and be back in that apartment.

Back in that apartment. Back in that life, the life he'd never have. Each and every time he recalled it, it was like being sucker-punched in the face all over again.

When Clint had finally brought them in for a landing, Bucky stepped onto the ramp first, his boots hitting the sun-warmed earth with a soft crunch. He scanned the horizon with trained, almost mechanical precision.

Endless open fields shimmering under the setting sun, a weathered red barn leaning slightly to the left, a two-story white farmhouse with a welcoming wraparound porch. Lilac bushes bloomed near the foundation. No movement beyond the wind in the grain. No immediate threats. Just stillness. Just quiet.

The kind of quiet that set his teeth on edge, that screamed ambush in the back of his mind honed by decades of warfare. It felt too open, too vulnerable. A sniper's nightmare and a soldier's paranoia fuel. Where the hell were they, exactly?

Clint brushed past him, stretching with an exaggerated groan that cracked his spine audibly, "Home sweet home," He muttered, tossing a glance over his shoulder at the rest of the group straggling out, "Now. Don't break anything. And don't freak out."

Tony raised his hand, still seated in the quinjet, one arm draped over the back of the co-pilot's seat, "Uh, question, why would we freak out, exactly?" His voice held its usual flippancy, but Bucky caught the undercurrent of genuine confusion.

When Clint didn't reply, already striding towards the house, Tony just lowered his hand, slowly, and looked at the others, slightly mystified, "Well, okay, then."

Steve was the next off the jet, his shield strapped to his back, his expression still a little distant. Natasha followed, her strides smooth but slower than usual, like she was forcing herself to move through molasses. Tony dragged Banner's still-unconscious form with Sam's help, the two of them exchanging muttered complaints about back strain.

The wind tugged at Alia's freshly shorn hair as she lingered at Bucky's side, her shoulder brushing his. The sunlight turned the white-blonde strands almost golden against the darkening sky. Her eyes, sharp and assessing despite the lingering shadows beneath them, were fixed on the farmhouse, her telepathy a faint hum against his senses.

"Ne nravitsya mne eto," (I don't like this,) She murmured, so low only he could hear, her gaze never leaving the house sprawled before them.

Bucky grunted in agreement.

Too open. Too exposed. Too peaceful, here. Like something out of a dream.

But Clint was already halfway to the farmhouse, whistling, as if they hadn't just been ambushed by a rogue AI and two brainwashed enhanced who were supposed to be their friends and pupils. As if half of them weren't still reeling from psychic violations and the acrid taste of near-annihilation clinging to their throats, "Honey, I'm home!" Clint bellowed, pushing open the screen door with a familiar creak.

Trailing behind him, Bucky looked back at Alia, and the others, mouthing the word, 'Honey?' at them all questioningly.

Sam shrugged, shifting Banner's weight, looking the least surprised out of them all.

"He did say he has a girlfriend. Am I the only one who actually believed him?"

There was a collective sigh from the group as they shuffled through the door after him, "Bullshit, Wilson." Bucky grumbled.

What they found waiting for them inside the house was chaos of the distinctly human variety. Clint was currently engulfed in the arms of a heavily pregnant woman whose smile was wide and genuine, in a house that looked suspiciously, undeniably lived-in. Toys were scattered across a braided rug. The smell of baked bread and lemon polish hung in the air. Framed photographs crowded the walls.

It was absolutely, utterly bizarre to behold. For a moment, Bucky felt like he'd just walked into a parallel universe. And Tony, who'd somehow came up behind Bucky and Alia, took in the sight of Clint and the woman and immediately proclaimed, "This is an agent of some kind."

"Gentlemen, lady, this is Laura." Clint disentangled himself slightly, keeping an arm around her shoulders.

Laura, with her arm tucked securely around Clint's torso, smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners, "I know all your names."

Bucky just blinked. Alia seemed equally startled as the rest of the Avengers poured into the foyer of the quaint farmhouse, each one raising their eyebrows at the revelation that he himself was still trying to process. Clint had a wife? A family? And he still chose to fight with them?

Then something flared Bucky's senses, a sudden, high-pitched shriek of laughter, and he turned, half-expecting danger—

"—Ooh, incoming. Don't get run over, Barnes." Two children ran right past him to Clint. They couldn't have been that old, and the girl jumped right into Clint's arms. Bucky stared at her. For a moment, the little girl was pale-haired.

Tony's eyebrows were now positively in the stratosphere. He gestured vaguely at the children clinging to Clint, "These are... Smaller agents."

The girl asked for 'Auntie Nat' and Natasha moved in effortlessly to start harassing Clint's children, too.

Everyone else stayed rooted in place. Somewhere behind Bucky, Banner started to stir within Sam's grasp.

"...Sorry for barging in," Steve finally managed, his voice thick with a mixture of apology and utter bewilderment. He looked profoundly out of place, his broad shoulders seeming too large for the cozy foyer.

"Yeah, we would have called ahead," Tony added, flatly, his gaze sweeping over the family photos, the toy-strewn floor, Laura's rounded belly, "But we were busy having no idea that you existed."

Clint just grinned at them all, an almost bashful expression Bucky had never seen on the archer's face, "Yeah, well, Fury helped me set this up when I joined. He kept it off S.H.I.E.L.D.'s files; I'd like to keep it that way. I figure it's a good place to lay low. Make yourselves at home." He gestured vaguely towards the living room and kitchen beyond.

Bucky just looked down at Alia, still mystified. Thor filtered out the door, Steve followed; then the tell-tale CRACK of Thor taking flight with Mjölnir filled the air. Guess the God of Thunder wasn't sticking around.

Alia tilted her head, watching as Natasha scooped up the little girl with effortless familiarity, her usual sharp edges softened in a way Bucky had never seen before. The boy— Cooper, Laura had called him —Kept close to his father's side, eyeing the newcomers with a mix of curiosity and wariness.

Tony was still muttering under his breath about 'secret families' and 'Fury's goddamn trust issues'. Sam maneuvered past them all, holding Banner up as he deposited the ailing scientist onto the living room couch and sat down next to him, "Alright, big guy, try not to throw up on Barton's carpet." A weak groan from Banner was all the answer he got.

Bucky elected to keep hovering in the doorway, while Alia finally drifted toward the living room, her fingers trailing over the framed photos on the wall; Clint in a tux, Laura in a white dress, a baby cradled between them. A life. A real one.

Tony was still gaping, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, "So, what? You just— Live here? When you're not—" He mimed shooting a bow.

Clint shrugged, shuffling behind the kitchen partition, "Yep."

Banner groaned from the couch where Sam had deposited him, rubbing his temples, "I think I missed the part where we knew Hawkeye had a family," He muttered, finally coming to, "Unless I'm dreaming."

"Not dreaming," Sam replied, reaching over to pat Banner on the back, "This is all very weird for all of us, man. Put your head between your knees. It'll help."

And then Cooper, who couldn't have been older than six or seven, chose that moment to apparently muster his courage to run from the kitchen and barrel right into Bucky's legs, blinking up at him with wide eyes, "Do you really have a metal arm?"

The room went dead silent.

Bucky stared down at the kid, feeling his throat tighten. Not for the reasons the others assumed.

And out of everyone who might have stepped in to rescue him from the short-circuiting taking place in his brain, he hadn't expected it to be Alia.

"He does," She confirmed, crouching to be eye-level with Cooper, her voice startlingly gentle, "But he is very shy about it, so you are brave to ask him."

That didn't help whatsoever. He could still remember the way she'd looked in that sundress, teasing him about not winning father of the year. Cooper's eyes widened further, his tiny mouth forming a perfect O. Behind him, Lila, still perched in Natasha's arms, giggled into her hands.

Bucky swallowed hard. The weight of their stares. Alia's quiet amusement, the kid's innocent curiosity, it made his skin prickle. Slowly, deliberately, he flexed the metal fingers of his left hand, letting the plates shift with a soft whir, so Clint's son could see.

Cooper gasped, "Whoa."

"Yeah," Bucky muttered, his voice painfully thick, "Whoa."

Tony only groaned, slumping onto the couch on the opposite side of Banner from Sam, "Great. Now I'm officially the second-coolest Avenger in this house."

Clint snorted at that, passing Laura a glass of lemonade, "You were never the coolest Avenger in this house, Stark."

Alia grinned as Cooper scampered off, standing back up, "I was not aware it was a competition." She hummed, and God, did she ever look much-improved already. The ghosts of what Wanda had made her see were still dancing in her eyes, but it was quieter now.

Ironic. His ghosts were still screaming as loud as ever.

"Oh, right. House rules. No weapons. No cursing. Take your shoes off before you come inside next time," Clint called out, already pouring more lemonade, "—And Bucky, keep your hands off your girlfriend in my house, please."

Sam choked into the glass he'd just been handed, "Those are some oddly specific house rules, Barton."

"Shut up, Wilson," Bucky muttered, too tired to even try hiding the flush creeping up his neck as Alia slowly turned red beside him.

Tony raised a finger without looking up, "Question for teacher. Do we count 'shut up' as a curse word, yes or no?"

"Yes," Clint replied without even missing a beat, "Just don't say anything my kids are gonna start repeating."

"Alright, then that's one point deducted from Barnes," Tony sighed dramatically, lounging deeper into the couch as Clint handed him a glass of lemonade. He took a dainty sip, pinky raised like an insufferable aristocrat, "Seems he's really off his game."

Bucky shot him a look, "You want to see on my game, Stark?"

Alia nudged him gently with her elbow, her way of telling him to play nice. Everyone was on edge, still. One misfired joke or one snappy quip might just be enough to set someone off.

Tony, meanwhile, just gestured with his glass, "Please do. I'd love to bill someone else for property damage, for once."

Banner gave a quiet, tired huff beside him, "Let's not talk about property damage, please. I'm still... Piecing everything together."

"Yeah, I have some ideas on how to help with that." Tony nodded at Banner and looked at Clint, with that mad scientist glint in his eyes that made Bucky instinctively tense, "Does this place have a wine cellar, or do I have to start fermenting something in the barn?"

"No. Barn's off-limits. Laura's storing the kids' bikes in there," Clint replied as he rejoined them with a glass for himself, "And you touch one egg in the hen house, and I swear to God I will tase you where it counts."

"Pretty sure that's a curse, using the Lord's name in vain," Bucky commented, just loud enough for Clint to hear.

Clint gave him a flat look, "You know what I meant."

Steve chuckled, arms crossed as he leaned against the far wall beside Sam, "Feels like old times."

"Didn't realize suburbia came with a lecture series," Sam said, shooting Clint a grin.

"You're all welcome for the hospitality," Clint deadpanned, "I could've just shoved you all into the toolshed and called it a day."

Alia tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, trying not to smile, "I, for one, do not have a problem with your house rules, Barton," She said, pragmatically, "I much prefer them, more than being shot at by Ultron drones."

Bucky glanced down at her, his features softening slightly, "Yeah. Me too."

The quiet that followed wasn't awkward. Outside, birds chirped like nothing had happened. Inside, Bucky, and the ramshackle group that had somehow become his friends, almost family, sat — Sprawled across worn couches and hardwood floors, drinking lemonade from mismatched glasses.

Ultron wouldn't wait until they all felt better to plan his next move. But for the moment, they had bought some time. And that was all that mattered.

The White Widow

The evening air was crisp, carrying the scent of fresh-cut grass and the faint, sweet tang of Laura's apple pie cooling in the kitchen. The farm stretched out before the porch, bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun, the horizon bleeding into hues of deep orange and violet. Fireflies flickered like tiny stars in the gathering dusk.

Alia sat on the porch steps, her elbows resting on her knees, fingers laced together. The wood creaked under her weight, the sound familiar, comforting in its simplicity. After the chaos of the Churchill and the visions Wanda had trapped her in, the chaotic, lived-in warmth of Clint Barton's home felt jarringly surreal.

It was a sanctuary she hadn't dared to imagine even existed in this world, a bubble of normalcy that simultaneously soothed and unnerved her. She breathed deeply, letting the clean air fill her lungs, trying to push away the lingering echoes of the family she'd never known, and the parents that Bucky would never meet. And the icy fear of Siberia, of what Karpov had nearly done to undo her all over again.

The screen door squeaked open behind her. She didn't need to turn to know who it was— She felt him before she saw him, the weight of his presence as tangible as the breeze against her skin.

Bucky lowered himself onto the step beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed. He exhaled heavily, tipping his head back to stare at the darkening sky.

"Those kids are relentless," He muttered, his voice rough with tiredness. But beneath the surface grumble, Alia detected no real annoyance. If anything, he sounded... Amused. Bewildered, perhaps. She knew better than anyone that it was easy to break down his walls, but she hadn't expected him to have such a soft spot for children, of all things.

"They are." She agreed softly, her voice barely above a whisper, as she unlinked her hands so that she could reach for one of his. The gesture was so automatic that she hadn't even fully realized she'd done it until she felt her fingers entangled with his. She remained quiet, after that, for a time. Just watching the colours deepen and bleed from the sky, long after the sun had disappeared behind the distant trees.

Alia exhaled slowly, glancing over at him, "Your vision," She started, slowly, "You said it was in Brooklyn, in your time. And I was there." Her eyes flicked to his; a complex mixture of curiosity, profound sadness, and a yearning she couldn't suppress wavering there, in her gaze, "What did you see?"

He did not have to answer. Alia wouldn't push him if he wouldn't share. But the two of them had spent the majority of their lives feeling like this, haunted and untethered. There was nobody better-suited to pulling the truth from him on what he'd seen, than her.

Bucky's fingers simply tightened around Alia's, his thumb brushing absently over her knuckles. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, the fading light painting the sharp lines of his face in gold and shadow.

For a long moment, she thought he wouldn't answer. And she would make her peace with that. But, then—

"You were baking," He finally said, his voice low and gravelly, "Flour on your hands. A dress I've never seen you wear." His jaw worked, "We were married. The war was over. There was no Winter Soldier. He'd never even existed."

The crickets chirped in the tall grass, as Bucky worked to find the rest of his words.

"It so felt real," He admitted, so quiet she almost didn't hear him say it.

Alia swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. Her fingers tightened in his grasp, just slightly. Wanda hadn't just shown him a fantasy; she had weaponized his deepest, most impossible longing. She'd taken the core of whom he once dreamed of being and twisted it into a scalpel to flay Bucky open in a way even HYDRA never had, before.

She could tell that he was still holding back more of what he'd seen, too. But she wouldn't push for it. Whatever the rest of the vision had shown him, it had been targeted to hurt him. And it had, deeply. It was his prerogative, whether or not he shared it. She'd never force that.

So, instead, she smiled, raising an eyebrow, "Well," She mused, nudging his shoulder with her own, "Yesli vy pozvolite drugim uslyshat' etu chast' o brake, vy nikogda etogo ne zagladite." (If you let the others hear the part about marriage, you will never live it down.)

A poor attempt, to lighten the mood. It didn't work. Alia simply sighed, the sound lost in the night air.

Bucky snorted at her attempt, at least, but there was no real humour in it. His fingers twitched against hers before he laced them more firmly together, as if anchoring himself to her.

"Yeah. Wanda knew exactly what to show us," He muttered. His thumb traced the curve of her wrist, slow, deliberate, "Your turn, sweetheart. What'd she show you?"

Alia tensed at the question, and she knew he felt it. But he was patient and waiting, as always, "Russia," She said finally, "At first, I saw Russia. My family's dacha. My father alive. My mother smiling. You, meeting them." She swallowed, "They liked you. I could not even remember my family home, before then. I do not know if it was real, or simply made up by Wanda. But it felt real. Just like yours."

Bucky went very still beside her. Not rigid with tension, but utterly motionless, as if holding his breath. His gaze remained locked on hers, intense, and searching. For what, she didn't know.

"When I realized it was a vision, I tried to escape it. But it pulled me deeper. Back, to our facility. Back to the White Widow." She continued, feeling her voice start to weaken. Speaking of it here felt wrong, as the night air hummed around them with cicadas, the distant sound of Lila's laughter drifting through an open window.

Somewhere inside, Laura was herding the children to bed, Steve and Tony were arguing quietly over dishes, and Natasha was undoubtedly stealing Clint's last beer. It was normalcy. A life. Something that didn't belong in her world of rusted rooms and restraints and re-compliance.

His hand tightened around hers, "You don't have to tell me, Alia." Bucky said, quietly, "I can guess."

She didn't say anything to that. She simply nodded as she let her gaze fall on the distant treeline, the setting sun, and tried to forget the feeling of Karpov's hand wrapped around her throat. Deviant bitch.

He hadn't been wrong about that, at least.

"—Ya khochu etogo," (—I want this,) Alia finally confessed, the admission torn from a place deep within her, raw and vulnerable. She tore her gaze from his, letting it fall back on the vast, star-pricked sky, "After Ultron... After all of this. A home. Like this." She didn't say the word family.

That was too sacred a word, right now. And came with far too many secrets she was not in the mood to unearth. Too much fear, and uncertainty.

She had never allowed herself to think of having children before. The memory flickered vaguely in her mind, of the day in 1953 she was first conditioned by Zola. How the Swiss doctor had so pragmatically noted her lack of a hysterectomy.

Because the state had valued her genetic potential too highly. Alia's powers had been a natural mutation, not born of a serum or a sceptre. If there was even a chance that biological children of hers could also inherit them, then the Soviets were not going to risk losing that opportunity.

Even if the idea alone made her sick to her stomach. If HYDRA, if Doctor Zola, had not gotten their hands on her, could the Red Room have proven itself to be an even worse place for her to have stayed? If they had no qualms with doing what they'd done to hundreds of girls, then they wouldn't have had any qualms with forcing her to produce those girls.

Now, sitting beside Bucky in the fragrant Iowa dusk, she tentatively tried to picture it. A child. With his eyes, perhaps. Or her own. With him. The image shimmered, beautiful and terrifying. Would he even want such a thing? Could he want it? It terrified her to think about, in more ways than one.

And then she paused, the enormity of what she was voicing hitting her, and she kept her gaze fixed firmly on the fireflies dancing in the tall grass, "But... Only if you would want to."

Because Alia knew what she was asking of him, by suggesting this. She was asking him to walk away from Steve, his oldest friend, his tether to the man he'd been and the time he'd left behind. From Sam, too. From the purpose the Avengers offered, the friendship.

She was asking him to choose a different path, one paved with quiet anonymity instead of world-saving heroics. Alia braced herself for the rejection, the refusal. She would've understood if he did.

Bucky turned his head slowly to look at her, the dying light catching in his eyes. Blue like the sky just before dawn. His fingers tightened around hers, rough and warm and real.

"Yes," Was all he said, voice rough, like the word had been clawed out of him.

Not I want to. Not someday.

Just yes.

And for the first time since Wanda's vision had ravaged her, the hollow ache in Alia's chest didn't feel like a gaping wound. It softened, filled with a tentative, radiant warmth that started where his hand clasped hers and spread outward.

She covered his hand with both of hers, nodding her head, "Later, then." She murmured again, leaning to press her forehead against his.

Bucky just nodded, his temple resting against hers, "Later," He echoed, his breath warm against her skin.

And then because Alia, despite everything, still possessed a spark of dry wit she couldn't entirely suppress, her lip quirked as she pulled her head back just enough to look him squarely in the eye.

"—It is very funny how in your vision we were married, and in my vision, to start, we were not." She tilted her head, feigning thoughtful scrutiny, "You are so old-fashioned, James."

Bucky's lip twitched, the corner of his mouth lifting in a ghost of a smile. His eyes were soft, the harsh lines of his face gentling in the twilight.

"Not that old-fashioned," He murmured, leaning in to press his lips to her forehead. His breath was warm against her skin, his voice a low rumble, "But I'd marry you tomorrow, if you asked."

The words were spoken so softly, Alia wasn't even sure she'd heard him. She wasn't even sure if he'd meant to say them. Rather than speak, as her throat suddenly felt as though it was closing from sheer emotion, Alia just let herself be folded into the safe embrace of his arms, letting everything else melt away.

With his heartbeat as the only steady thing in her ears, she finally felt safe, again.

Chapter Text

The Winter Soldier

Sunlight streamed through the thin curtains of the guest room, painting stripes of gold across the quilt tangled around them. Bucky blinked awake to the unfamiliar sensation of quiet around them. There were no sirens, no alarms, no hum of quinjet engines or the distant chatter of tactical comms.

Just the soft creak of the farmhouse settling, the distant crow of a rooster, and the steady rhythm of Alia's breathing beside him.

She was still curled against his side, her head pillowed on his chest, one arm draped loosely over his waist. The morning light gilded her pale lashes, her lips slightly parted in sleep. The tension that usually lined her face, even in rest, was gone, replaced by something disarmingly peaceful.

Bucky held himself perfectly still, afraid to move and shatter the moment.

Last night's conversation on the porch lingered in his mind, goddamn impossible to shake. After. A home. A life. When Alia had asked him what he'd seen, the words had started to stick in his throat. He had wanted to tell her more. To tell her about the blonde-haired girl that had crawled into his arms, tell her about the way she hadn't looked so haunted.

But he couldn't. And Alia, she hadn't pushed for him to say it. She hadn't driven herself into his mind to find what he was hiding. She'd just accepted that he wasn't yet ready to tell her.

Then, she'd gone and asked him to leave this madness behind and try to make a life with her. And she— She had been worried that he was going to say no, to that?

The idea still felt fragile, like trying to capture smoke in his hands, he wouldn't deny it. But here, in the quiet of Clint's farmhouse, with Alia warm and solid against him, it didn't seem quite so impossible.

And there had been no way in hell he would've turned her down. Not when Bucky wanted it, too. Desperately. More than goddamn anything.

Downstairs, the muffled sounds of Laura moving around the kitchen drifted up; the clatter of dishes, the hiss of a coffee pot. A child's laughter. Fucking normalcy.

If Barton could manage it, why couldn't they?

Bucky exhaled slowly, finally turning to brush a stray lock of hair from Alia's forehead.

She stirred at his touch, her fingers tightening reflexively in the fabric of his shirt before her eyes fluttered open. For a second, she just stared up at him, her gaze still soft with sleep. Then her lips curved into a slow, sleepy smile.

"Dobroye utro," (Good morning,) She murmured, her voice still sleepy.

Bucky's chest tightened.

Later, he thought again, and this time, he let himself really believe it.

"Morning," Bucky muttered back to her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Somewhere downstairs, Cooper's voice echoed— "Mom, can we have pancakes?" —followed by Clint's groan and Tony's unmistakable cackle.

Alia sighed, ignoring the promised chaos unfolding on the floor beneath them as she only nestled closer, "Five more minutes."

It was easy to forget that a homicidal maniac Artificial Intelligence that Tony Stark had 'accidentally' created was on the loose, when they were like this.

Bucky huffed out a laugh, his metal arm tightening around her shoulders as he sank deeper into the pillows with her, "Yeah, think we've earned it," He murmured, pressing his nose into her hair. The scent of her shampoo filled his senses; something floral, stolen from Laura's bathroom last night, mixed with the faint gunpowder-and-iron tang that always clung to them, no matter how many showers they took.

Through the floorboards, Tony's voice also carried with annoying clarity, "—Well, if I'd known we were doing a pajama party, I would've packed my onesie—"

Alia groaned, burying her face against Bucky's collarbone, "Bozhe moy," She muttered, "Perhaps we should have let Ultron hit them all a bit harder, to knock some sense into them."

Bucky's chest shook with silent laughter. Outside, birds scattered from the porch roof, and somewhere in the kitchen, pancakes began sizzling on a griddle.

"We will need to get up eventually, James," Alia finally mumbled against his skin, "Otherwise, there will be no more pancakes left for us."

Bucky let out a long sigh, his fingers trailing lazy circles on her back, "Yeah, well, Stark's probably already eaten half the batter straight from the bowl like a heathen, so it's probably a biohazard anyway." He could hear the man's voice rising in dramatic indignation downstairs again, likely because Clint was stealing his coffee.

Alia muffled a laugh against his chest before finally pushing herself up, her hair a messy halo of white-gold in the morning light. The sight made something warm and stupidly soft curl in Bucky's chest, so domestic it almost hurt, "Come on," She finally said, tugging at his hand with a smirk.

Bucky groaned as he sat up, running a hand through his own tangled hair, "Okay, okay. I'm up, sweetheart."

Alia's laughter followed him as they headed downstairs, bright and unguarded, ringing through the farmhouse like something out of a dream, or Wanda's vision.

Down in the kitchen, chaos reigned, just as expected. Tony was dramatically clutching his coffee mug away from Clint, Sam was flipping pancakes with practiced ease while Cooper 'helped', and Steve, ever the denmother of their odd bunch, was already setting the table.

Laura caught sight of them at the base of the stairs and smiled, nodding to two empty chairs, "Sit. Eat, please. Before the boys inhale everything."

As Bucky slid into his chair, Alia's hand found his under the table, her fingers threading through his with quiet certainty.

"Thor is not here," Alia finally observed after a stack of pancakes was set in front of her by Laura. Bucky found his lips curving into a frown at that. Huh. He hadn't even noticed that the God of Thunder hadn't come back from wherever he'd gone off to.

Everyone fell a bit quieter at the mention of it, though, and Tony let out a tense huff of air.

"Yeah. Spangles said he ran away."

"Tony, I did not say that. Thor said he saw something in his dream, Wanda's vision. Said he needed answers and that he wouldn't find them here. That's all." Steve muttered, taking a seat on the opposite side of Bucky.

"So, he ran away."

"Tony—"

Bucky just stabbed a fork into his pancakes with slightly more force than necessary, "—Cut the crap, Stark," He muttered, shooting Tony a sharp look, "We all got hit hard by whatever the hell Wanda did. Thor's handling it his way. Just like Banner's still sleeping it off upstairs." His metal fingers flexed around his coffee mug, "And just like you'd be sulking in a lab right now if this wasn't Barton's 'no-tech detox retreat'."

Tony opened his mouth, probably to protest or argue the point, but Laura smoothly intercepted, sliding a fresh plate of bacon onto the table with a pointed clatter, "No. Eat. Argue later."

Alia's knee pressed against Bucky's under the table, a silent thank you for intervening. Steve gave him a small, grateful nod.

"...Okay. Topic change, then. Is anyone else feeling like South Africa was almost like one big trap?" Tony said instead, "Let's think about it. Ultron needed vibranium, yeah. But he also happened to get the Maximoffs in the same pull. Probably because he figured we'd all be dumb enough to bring them."

"At the moment, it did not feel so dumb to bring them," Alia muttered to herself between bites of pancake.

Tony shrugged at that, "Maybe, maybe not, Casper. But it gave him exactly what he wanted, he got to mess with our heads and walked out with everything he walked in for. We gotta face the music. Ultron's currently beating us right now, badly."

Bucky set his fork down with a quiet clink, his jaw tightening, "You're not wrong," He admitted, though it pained him to agree with Tony. His fingers tapped a slow rhythm against the table before he stilled them, "But Ultron didn't just want to mess with us. He wanted to divide us."

Steve sighed, rubbing his temple, "And it worked. We're scattered, and the world thinks we unleashed the Hulk on Johannesburg. Thor's gone, Banner's out of commission, Wanda and Pietro are with him now—"

—A crash from upstairs cut him off, like something heavy just clunked onto the floor, a low groan following it.

Everyone tensed. Bucky was halfway out of his seat, hand already reaching for a knife that wasn't there (damn Barton's no-weapons rule) when Sam finally groaned, shaking his head.

"You all can relax. That's just Bruce. Probably just fell off of the bunk bed again."

Tony snorted into his coffee, "Yeah, that sounds like classic Big Green."

"...Hold on. You put Banner in a bunk bed?" Steve asked, raising his eyebrows in sudden interest, or confusion, "Who's got bottom bunk?"

Sam raised his hand, "I volunteered."

Bucky lowered himself back down slowly as the tension bled out of the moment slowly.

"Alright, well," He started slowly, pulling them back on topic, "I think I speak for everyone when I say that we all know we can't stay here much longer without drawing attention, right?" He said, though his eyes darted to Laura, "—No offence, ma'am."

"You just call my wife ma'am, Barnes?" Clint asked, squinting his eyes over his coffee mug.

"Yeah, Barton, I did, because I've got manners." Bucky sniped back.

Laura laughed, shaking her head as she refilled Clint's coffee, "None taken, Bucky. And you're right, you can't hide here forever." She nudged Cooper's plate closer to him before the kid could drip syrup everywhere, "But while you are here, you might as well eat something that didn't come out of a military ration pack."

Tony pointed his fork at her, "See? This is why you're the only sane one in this family so far. Barton, I approve of your secret wife."

Alia smirked into her orange juice, "Do not let him fool you. He is only playing nice because you will feed him."

Tony pressed a dramatic hand to his chest, "I'm wounded, Snowflake. I'm nice to everyone who doesn't shoot at me. Mostly." He stole a strip of bacon from Steve's plate, ignoring the indignant sound that left him in the process.

Bucky, meanwhile, simply rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. The normalcy of it, the bickering, the warmth, the lack of immediate danger, settled over him like a borrowed coat. Too big, too soft, but comforting all the same. Maybe this was what they needed, after the ass-kicking Wanda had given them all.

Steve cleared his throat, "We'll give it a day. Let Thor regroup, let Bruce recover. Then we hit the intel hard, find Ultron before he makes another move." His gaze flicked to Bucky, then Alia, "And we stay together this time."

Nods all around at that suggestion. Even Tony seemed placated by the suggestion.

A few more footfalls upstairs, and soon the stairs creaked with the sound of someone descending. Someone lighter; Natasha, then. He craned his neck to look at her as she came down, but she bypassed the living room and the kitchen entirely, heading right outside for the porch, wrapped in a bathrobe.

And she did not look especially well. Pale, her heart racing a bit more than usual. Bucky's enhanced hearing pricked with the sound of it.

"Uh oh. Code Aunt." Clint said, swallowing another gulp of coffee, "Let me—"

"—No," Alia said suddenly, standing up. She hesitated, then, before looking at Clint, "...I think I know what is wrong, Barton. Please, let me."

The room went quiet. Clint's fingers tightened around his mug, his usual easy grin fading. He searched Alia's face for a long moment before nodding once, "Yeah. Okay."

Bucky watched as Alia slipped outside, the screen door clicking softly behind her. Natasha was perched on the porch railing, her back to the house, shoulders rigid beneath the robe. The early morning light painted her red hair like fire, but her posture was all ice, controlled and contained. The other Widow joined her at her side, the two staring out over the farmland as they began to speak in soft tones that Bucky immediately tuned out for privacy's sake.

Steve, however, exhaled heavily, pushing his plate away, "Do you think we should—"

"Nah. You heard her, Rogers, leave it," Clint cut in, voice uncharacteristically firm. His gaze flicked to Bucky, then away, "If anyone gets what she's dealing with right now, it's probably Volkova. They both came from the same place."

Tony leaned back in his chair with a low whistle, "Man, and I thought my post-nightmare routine was dramatic." But there was no real bite to it. Even he could read the room.

Sam took the bait, though, "Your 'post-nightmare routine' was Ultron, man." He remarked, and Tony sighed.

"...Point taken, Wilson."

Chapter Text

The White Widow

The morning air was crisp, the dew-damp grass glistening under the rising sun. Natasha didn't turn as Alia stepped onto the porch, but her shoulders tensed, just slightly, before settling again. The quiet between them wasn't uncomfortable, but it was heavy.

Alia leaned against the railing beside her, staring out at the rolling fields. The scent of earth and fresh-cut hay filled her lungs, a stark contrast to the sterile, bloodstained halls of the Red Room that had haunted both their dreams.

"You did not sleep," Alia observed quietly. It wasn't a question.

Natasha exhaled through her nose and rolled her shoulders, as if trying to shake off the weight of something unseen.

"Not really, no. Wanda's little show was... Pretty thorough," She said finally, the words measured. Too measured.

Alia only grimaced at that, nodding, "Yes. She knew what to show us, to try to break us." For Bucky, it had been with the life he could've had a life after the war, if HYDRA hadn't forged him into the Winter Soldier. And for her, it had been with the parents she could not remember and would never meet, and then the tormenting work of Karpov.

"Tell me about it, what you saw." Alia finally prompted, stepping up next to Natasha, propping her forearms up on the porch railing in a mirror image of the other Widow.

Natasha's fingers tightened around the railing, the knuckles whitening. For a long moment, Alia thought she wouldn't answer.

"The graduation," She finally said, quietly, "The Red Room's final test. The one where they—" A sharp exhale, "—You probably know what I mean."

Alia did. She hadn't been sterilized, but she had experienced the rest of it. The final killings for a woman to earn their Widows' stripes were still shared. Girls become women through blood, one of Alia's instructors at the time had said, to her, and the words had clearly struck a chord, does it matter if it is yours, or theirs? No. It does not.

Natasha just grimaced, hanging her head, "Yeah, Well, except, in the vision, I walked away. Left the gun on the floor. Didn't let them take me away for the surgery. And then..." Her breath hitched, just once, "I was happy. Had a family. Kids." Her fingers flexed, "It was cruel."

Not just because it was a lie.

Because it was a lie she wanted to be true.

"Bozhe moy," Alia murmured, shaking her head, "Natasha..." But what could she say, that she was sorry? That she understood? She hadn't had a possible future robbed from her by the Red Room, not like that, anyway. And Natasha had never spoken of this desire before.

She let her eyes wander out over the Barton farm instead, the waving fields of tall grass and the far-distant treeline, glimmering in sunrise light, "Yes. It was cruel." Alia finally said. Then, she side-eyed Natasha, "...Did you tell Banner, this?"

Natasha's lips pressed into a thin line. She didn't answer right away, her gaze fixed on the horizon like she could still see the ghost of that other life flickering at the edges of her vision.

"No," she said at last, the word clipped, "He's got enough to deal with."

Alia arched a brow, "Oh, and you do not?"

Natasha's shoulders lifted in a half-shrug, the motion too casual to be real, "I've lived with it this long."

"And yet, it is not written anywhere that you must live with it alone." Shaking her head, Alia turned, just enough to face Natasha, "He would listen," She insisted, softly, "I know that he would, sestra. If there was ever a man who would understand the desire, the need, to not be judged for their losses and fears... It would be him."

Alia shrugged. Her eyes fell back on the horizon.

"Besides. We are all here, on this little romantic farm, licking our wounds. Why not take advantage, hmm?"

Natasha snorted, but there was no real humour in it. She tilted her head, studying Alia with a sharpness that had made lesser men flinch, "Look at you. Giving actual relationship advice. You and Barnes really are figuring your shit out."

Alia didn't rise to the bait. She just smirked, nudging Natasha's shoulder with her own, "Yes, we are. And if we can, then you and Banner have no excuse."

Natasha rolled her eyes, but the tension in her shoulders eased, just a fraction, "Alright. I'll think about it."

"Good. You are deserving of happiness, too, Natasha." Alia replied, nudging her. No matter how easy it might be to believe otherwise.

"And... Who knows?" Her grin turned teasing, now, as she leaned in closer and whispered, "Maybe Banner has always wanted to adopt."

Natasha's elbow caught Alia in the ribs — Fast enough to make her grunt, but light enough to still be playful, "Shut up," She muttered, ears burning, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

A familiar presence tracked towards them. Alia's lips twitched before she leaned in, "Careful," She murmured, "Barnes has decided he is done letting me have alone time."

"God, he's like a lost dog, sometimes," Natasha muttered back, "I don't know how you put up with him."

The screen door creaked open behind them. Bucky leaned against the frame, arms crossed, a fresh mug of coffee in hand. He raised a brow at their stifled laughter, "You two plotting something?" Natasha just straightened, her mask sliding back into place with practiced ease.

"Just girl talk, Barnes."

Alia smirked, "Yes. Very important discussions about men."

Bucky looked like he regretted asking about it immediately, the tips of his ears turning bright red, "I'll, uh. Leave you to it, then." He set the mug on the railing, clearly meant for Natasha, and retreated inside with the speed of a man who'd learned when it was best to flee.

Natasha picked up the coffee, taking a slow sip, "...You're annoying," She informed Alia.

"Perhaps. But you seem to need annoying, once in a while, and so what choice am I left with, then?" Alia replied blithely, watching Bucky retreat with amusement.

Natasha took another sip of coffee, the steam curling around her face as she watched Bucky disappear back into the chaos of the farmhouse.

"I trained you too well in humour," She muttered, but there was no real heat behind it. After a beat, she glanced at Alia, her expression unreadable, "You really think Banner would—?"

Alia just shrugged, innocently.

"I think that you are exceptionally fond of Banner, and that he cares for you, too. From there, it is easy."

Natasha's grip tightened on the mug. For a moment, Alia thought she might deflect again; change the subject, make a joke, disappear into the persona of the Black Widow like she always did when things got too real. Instead, she exhaled, long and slow, her breath fogging the rim of the coffee cup.

"Easy," Natasha repeated, like she was testing the word on her tongue. Then, quietly, she added, "Nothing's ever easy."

But for the first time, it almost sounded like she wanted it to be.

The screen door banged open again. This time, Cooper barrelled out, Lila hot on his heels, both of them shrieking with laughter as they dashed across the lawn. Natasha watched them go, her expression softening just a fraction.

Alia's eyes followed hers, and her smile softened.

"—What Wanda and Ultron showed you, Natasha. That was not real." Her head tilted towards the two giggling children, racing for the tire swing, "But they are real. You are not without family completely, in this world."

Natasha's breath caught, just for a moment. She watched Cooper nearly trip over his own feet as he chased Lila, the girl's delighted shrieks carrying across the yard.

"That's the problem," She murmured, almost too quiet to hear, "They are real. And I—" She cut herself off, her jaw tightening as she fought to find the words she wanted to say.

Alia finally bumped her shoulder gently, "You can have this. And Banner. And anything else you want. You only have to have the courage to find it."

Natasha exhaled sharply through her nose, but didn't argue. Somewhere behind them, Bruce's sleepy voice carried through the screen door, asking where the coffee was. Her fingers flexed around her mug.

"Yeah," She sighed, "Maybe."

The Winter Soldier

The rhythmic thunk of the axe biting into seasoned oak echoed across the field. Sweat dripped down Bucky's temple despite the crisp morning air, his muscles burning in a way that felt good, simple. Honest work. The kind that left calluses, instead of bloodstains.

Steve wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, hefting another log onto the stump they were using as a chopping block.

"You're slowing down, old man." He quipped.

Bucky flipped him off with his metal hand, the plates whirring softly, "Yeah, well, says the guy who needed German super-serum to keep up with me in the first place."

Steve grinned, that infuriating little shit, and tossed another log his way. The quiet between them was comfortable, easy — Like the Brooklyn alleys of their youth, back when the biggest thing they had to worry about was scraped knees and bus fare.

A shadow moved at the edge of the tree line. Bucky's grip tightened on the axe handle instinctively before he recognized the silhouette. It was Alia, picking her way through the tall grass, helping Laura and Natasha with wrangling Lila and Cooper. The sunlight caught the sharp angles of her face, her cropped hair tousled by the breeze.

Steve nudged him with an elbow, smirking, "You're staring."

"Shut up," Bucky muttered, but he didn't deny it.

Steve's grin only got wider as he lined up his axe for the next strike, "Just callin' it like I see it, Buck."

After he kicked the split pieces into the pile, though, he crossed his arms. Bucky lifted his head and set the axe down, his brow raising in a silent question.

"...You saw her in your vision, didn't you? Whatever Wanda showed you."

Bucky's jaw clenched. He wiped his hands on his jeans, the rough fabric catching against his calluses, "Yeah," he admitted, his voice suddenly rough, "A life that never happened. One where..." He trailed off, watching as Alia crouched to help Cooper untangle a kite string, her movements patient and effortless.

That blonde-haired girl crossed his mind again, and he had to try not to flinch thinking about her. Steve was quiet for a long moment, following his gaze. Too damn smart for his own good, connecting the dots.

"You could still have that, you know, if you wanted it." He said, quietly, "A family, like Barton's."

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. Steve didn't get it, didn't get how the vision had felt so incredibly wrong right up until that child who would never be born had appeared, and then how it had felt terrifyingly right, "No," His voice was flat now, "That kinda life would be impossible for us now."

Steve's eyes softened, immediately, "Just because it's impossible doesn't mean we don't get to wish that it could be possible, Buck."

"Yeah, well, what'd she show you, Stevie? Something equally impossible?" He snapped back, a bit harsher than he'd meant to be.

His friend's smile faded instantly. For a second, Steve just stared at his hands; bigger now than they'd ever been in Brooklyn, rougher, marked with scars that hadn't existed in 1945, "Yeah, she did. She showed me Peggy," He said finally, voice thick, "Dancing with her. The date I— The one I never got to keep."

Then he exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing his palms against his thighs like he could scrub away the memory.

"Guess Wanda knew exactly how to twist the knife, huh? She didn't learn that from me. Must be Alia's bad influence." Steve joked, but the words were hollow.

In the distance, Lila shrieked with laughter as her kite finally caught the wind.

"—Jesus, Stevie," Bucky finally sighed. He set his axe down carefully, the blade sinking into the soft earth next to him, "Sorry. Didn't mean it like that when I asked. Didn't really mean it like anything."

He took a seat on the woodcutting stump and reached for the bottle of water Laura had insisted each of them take when they said they were going to go and do this. Twisting off the cap, he took a long drink, before offering it up to Steve.

Steve waved his apology off, dropping onto the stump beside him with a tired groan, "S'okay." He accepted the water bottle Bucky handed him, taking a long swig before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "Hell of a thing, though, getting sucker-punched by your own ghosts like that."

Bucky grunted in agreement, his gaze drifting back to where Alia was now holding the kite string for Lila, the girl's tiny hands guiding her fingers. The sight frankly took his breath away.

Steve followed his line of sight, a smirk tugging at his lips, "You're really bad at not staring, you know that?"

"Yeah, and you're really bad at not commenting." Bucky grumbled in reply, chunking the plastic water bottle at Steve's head.

Steve caught the bottle effortlessly, damn super-serum reflexes, and tossed it back with a grin, "Somebody's gotta keep you honest around here, Buck."

Bucky rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. The moment stretched, comfortable, in a way that still felt rare these days.

A sharp crack echoed from the house. Both their heads snapped up, muscles tensing, years of warfare overriding the peace of the moment. But it was just Tony, leaning out the back door, waving a spatula like a baton from where he'd smacked it against the door frame as if he were ringing a dinner bell.

"Chow time, lumberjacks! Laura says if you don't come in now, she's feeding your share to Sam and Banner."

Steve sighed, rubbing his neck, "We should—"

"—Yeah, we should," Bucky muttered in agreement, pushing to his feet. He glanced once more at Alia, now laughing as Lila tugged her toward the house, then he grabbed the axe to put it away.

Normalcy.

Maybe it really wouldn't be so impossible for them to find, after all, once this was all over.

It had to be over first, though.

Chapter Text

The White Widow

The farmhouse's living room smelled like lemon polish and the lingering scent of the homemade rice crispie squares Laura had just taken out of the oven. Evening streamed through lace curtains, painting dappled patterns across the worn rug as Alia perched on the couch's armrest, her knee brushing Bucky's shoulder where he sat beside her.

Sam was sprawled in Clint's recliner, flipping through a dog-eared magazine with exaggerated disinterest. Natasha was seated at the dining room table, sharpening one of her knives— Because, of course, Clint's 'no weapons' rule didn't extend to her —Whilst Bruce dozed awkwardly in an overstuffed chair, his glasses askew.

Steve stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the barn where Tony had disappeared into thirty minutes ago, promising to try to fix the Barton's tractor.

"Stop pretending you're reading Better Homes and Gardens." Clint finally said whilst tossing a handful of popcorn at Sam's head.

Holding up the magazine as an improvised cover, Sam exclaimed, "A man's gotta try to have hobbies, Barton!"

Alia smirked at the exchange, reaching over to steal a piece of popcorn from Bucky's palm. He caught her wrist before she could retreat, pressing a kiss to her knuckles with a quiet, teasing hmph.

And then Alia stiffened.

A frown crossed her mouth, head craning to look out the window as if she hoped to see something.

Because Stark wasn't alone. But how was that possible?

It was like the other man, one she didn't recognize, had simply appeared out of thin air. One moment, she hadn't sensed him, and the next, she did. Never before had she encountered a person capable of fully shielding themselves from her senses.

The popcorn slipped from Bucky's fingers as he registered her tension. His grip on her wrist tightened. Bot painfully, but enough to ground her, "What?" He asked, low and urgent.

Alia didn't answer right away, her telepathy flaring like a struck match, stretching toward the barn. The presence there was wrong. Not hostile, not exactly; coiled, hidden, like a snake in the grass.

Natasha's knife stilled mid-swipe against the whetstone. She caught Alia's eye, a silent question.

But before Alia could reply, to either she or Bucky, a man stepped out of the barn. Tall, dark-skinned, wearing a sleek, navy-blue coat that looked absurdly improper in the Iowa dusk.

Steve inhaled sharply at the sight.

"Fury."

The name sent a ripple through the room. Natasha's knife vanished into her sleeve. Sam bolted upright, the magazine crumpling in his grip. Even Bruce startled awake, blinking rapidly behind his glasses.

Bucky went rigid beside Alia, his metal fingers curling into the fabric of the couch. She could feel the recognition, and the cold, reflexive violence, flaring through his mind.

He knew that name. Knew this man. She could guess how. The Winter Soldier.

"Easy," She murmured, pressing her palm to his shoulder to soothe him.

Outside, Fury exchanged words with Tony, his posture relaxed but his lone eye scanning the farmhouse like he already knew exactly where each of them was standing.

Natasha exhaled sharply through her nose, "Well. This should be fun."

The air in the room turned positively brittle the minute the man, Fury, stepped fully inside, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden floor. Tony followed behind him, wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag, but Bucky barely registered him — His focus was locked on the one-eyed man entirely, expression unreadable.

Fury didn't flinch under Bucky's stare. Instead, he met it head-on, his expression unreadable.

"Barnes," He greeted, voice rough.

Bucky's jaw tightened. Alia's eyes flicked between the two, trying to determine exactly how much had transpired between the two of them. Finally, he gave a short, sharp nod.

Fury returned it, just as curt.

And just like that, it was done. Whatever history the two shared, now just water under the bridge. Alia let out a short exhale, as the tension in the room eased noticeably in response.

Tony clapped his hands together, "Great, now that we've all acknowledged the elephant-sized murder attempt in the room, we can move on. Volkova, this is Nick Fury."

The former director of S.H.I.E.L.D.? Alia raised a brow at that, "Hello." She offered mildly. A man like Fury no doubt knew who she was, already.

Fury's lone eye flicked to her, assessing, "Anatalia Volkova," he said, like he was tasting the name, "Heard a lot about you. Glad you're on our side now."

There was no warmth in the words, but no hostility either; just cold, calculating acknowledgment. The kind of respect one weapon paid another.

Alia tilted her head, considering him now, herself, "Yes, well, it is... A mutual feeling."

Bucky's fingers flexed against her shoulder, a silent warning or reassurance, she wasn't sure which.

Fury smirked, just barely. Then he turned to Steve, "We got problems."

Steve sighed, at that, "When don't we?" He asked blandly.

"Ultron took you folks out of play to buy himself time," Fury said instead, ignoring Steve's question as he stalked towards the dining room. His very presence drew everyone in; Alia rose to her feet and Bucky followed, and Tony posted up in the sunroom, occupying himself with Clint's throwing darts, "My contacts all say he's building something."

That certainly didn't help the mood of things. Banner meandered over to the kitchen sink to wash his glasses with a grim expression, one Clint mirrored as he gave a knowing look to Laura, who already began to usher Lila and Cooper upstairs.

"I want to show Aunt Natasha my drawing," Lila complained quietly. Natasha just smiled, "Show me later, lapochka. Grown-up time."

Once the kids were herded away, Fury busied himself with getting a glass of iced tea, "The amount of vibranium he made off with, I don't think it's just one thing."

Well, that is comforting.

"What about Ultron himself?" Steve asked, leaning against the far wall.

"Ah. He's easy to track, he's everywhere," Fury replied, setting his glass down with an audible clink, and started "Guy's multiplying faster than a Catholic rabbit. Still doesn't help us get an angle on any of his plans, though."

"Great," Bucky muttered, mostly to himself.

Stark, after throwing a dart and whiffing it, asked, "He still going after launch codes?"

Fury started cutting at the crisp squares, hardly even looking in Stark's direction.

"Yes, he is, but he's not making any headway."

Some tension bled out of the room, at that, but not much.

"I cracked the Pentagon's firewall in high school," Stark said dryly, "On a dare." Alia raised an eyebrow at that, but the unspoken question hung in the surrounding air, plain as day.

How is Ultron not able to do what Tony Stark could?

"Yeah, well, I contacted our friends at the NEXUS about that," Fury replied, breaking off a piece of the still-warm marshmallow treat for himself. Now Steve, Alia and Bucky all looked befuddled.

"NEXUS?" Steve finally asked.

"It's the world internet hub in Oslo, every byte of data flows through there, fastest access on Earth." Banner supplied, finally setting his glasses back on his face.

Alia merely wrinkled her nose. The internet was just one of the many things she struggled to understand.

Bucky blinked, his brow furrowing as he tried to parse the explanation, "So it's like... A massive switchboard?" He asked, glancing at Alia as if checking if she understood. Her nose-scrunch told him everything he needed to know, though, that she was equally mystified.

The corner of Fury's mouth twitched, though.

"Yeah, something like that, Barnes. A+ for effort."

Clint rejoined the conversation after he'd wished Laura and the kids a good night, padding over to the dart supply Stark was pilfering, through the sunroom's bartop window, "So what'd they say?"

Picking up his glass of iced tea again, Fury took a sip, "He's fixated on the missiles," He said, lowering the glass, "But the codes are constantly being changed."

Now that got Stark's attention, "By whom?" His head whipped over — Just in time for Clint to send one of the darts straight into the dartboard's bullseye, inches from his face, and Alia had to suppress a grin at the glare Stark sent his way in return. Clint just spread his hands innocently, as if he couldn't help it.

"Parties unknown." Fury replied around bites of rice crispie.

Natasha sat back at the dining table, "Do we have an ally?"

"Ultron's got an enemy," He said pragmatically, "That's not the same thing. Still, I'd pay folding money to know who it is."

"I might need to visit Oslo, find our 'unknown'," Stark remarked, stepping out of the sunroom back into the main house.

Alia's fingers drummed against the table, her gaze sharpening. An ally against Ultron. The thought was tempting, almost too tempting. Allies meant leverage, but they also meant variables. Unpredictability. And in her experience, anything unknown was just as likely to gut you as it was to help you.

She glanced at Bucky, her lips pressing into a thin line. If Stark went alone, he could be a target. If they all went, they'd be better off lighting up one of those bright neon signs and flagging Ultron down concerning the NEXUS.

No good options, then. Nothing but risks, in her head. The look in Bucky's eyes suggested he felt the same.

Natasha interjected first, before anyone else could, "Well, this is good times, boss, but I was kind of hoping when I saw you, you'd have more than that." She drawled.

"I do," Fury said simply, glancing around the room at the assembled Avengers, "I have you."

Alia's eyes flicked to Bucky, catching the way his jaw tightened; equal parts skepticism and reluctant acknowledgment.

They'd been soldiers long enough to know what those words meant. More fighting. More blood. Fury rounded the kitchen island to the dining table, "Back in the day, I had eyes everywhere, and ears everywhere else. You kids had all the tech you could dream of."

Watching him with a slight wariness, Alia stepped back to let him cut in towards the table.

"—Here we all are," He continued, "Back on Earth, with nothing but our wit, and our will to save the world. Ultron says the Avengers are the only thing between him and his mission. And whether or not he admits it, his mission is global destruction..."

That was enough to sober the room. Fury gestured around them, "...All this, laid in a grave. So stand. Outwit the platinum bastard." And then he took a seat at the head of the dining room table.

Bucky let out a quiet scoff, his metal fingers flexing, "You make it sound so simple," he muttered, low enough that only Alia caught it. Fury didn't react, at any rate.

Instead, he looked at all of them, gathered in Clint's kitchen, "So. What does he want?" Fury asked, prompting the Avengers to think.

"To become better. Better than us. He keeps building bodies," Steve replied, glancing at Stark, who only gave a half-nod in response.

"Person-bodies," He added, "The human form is inefficient. Biologically speaking, we're outmoded. But he keeps coming back to it."

Alia's fingers twitched at her side, her lips thinning, "He wants to be better," she echoed, voice low, "But he cannot decide if he wishes to replace humanity or become it."

Banner wandered over to Natasha's side and Alia's eyes flicked to them, but Natasha was already rolling her head back to look at Stark, her voice dry.

"When you to programmed him to protect the human race, you amazingly failed." She said dryly. But Alia kept looking at Banner, at the drawing Lila had deposited on the table earlier in the day; a butterfly.

"They don't need to be protected," Banner muttered, "They need to evolve." He glanced up, at the rest of them, "Ultron's going to evolve."

Alia felt a cold chill settle in her stomach at those words.

"How?" Fury asked, lowering his iced tea.

Banner exhaled, then looked at Stark, "Do you remember Doctor Helen Cho? She visited the tower a few times on research grants?"

Tony stiffened, his fingers pausing midair where he'd been gesturing.

"Cho? The Seoul-based biotech genius specializing in artificial tissue scaffolding? Yeah, I remember her. Why?"

Then his eyes widened slightly, the colour draining from his face.

"...Oh. Oh, no."

The Suit Of Armour

The lab hummed with the sterile glow of holograms and the rhythmic pulse of machinery. Ultron loomed over the Regeneration Cradle, his gleaming metal fingers tracing the outline of the vibranium-infused alloy as it took shape beneath Dr. Cho's controlled hands.

"You see, Doctor," He murmured, his voice smooth, almost amused, "This is where humanity's arrogance becomes its downfall."

Doctor Helen Cho moved with eerie precision, her eyes dull behind the sceptre's glow, her mind a puppet to its will. The cradle whirred, tendrils of synthesized tissue weaving around the vibranium core like veins knitting over bone.

When Ultron had broken free of the shackles Tony Stark and Bruce banner had so naively tried to force on him, he'd taken a wealth of knowledge with him. All the information he could hope for lurking on the Avengers' secured servers, and it was among those files he had found the woman who now stood before him, pliant and obedient thanks to the staff.

Behind them, Wanda and Pietro stood silent, their expressions unreadable. But Wanda's fingers twitching occasionally, as if she could still feel the phantom pulse of the sceptre's control. He almost pitied that. Almost.

Ultron tilted his head, studying his creation, "They build cages," He mused, "Metal suits, towers, walls... Thinking they can contain what they don't understand." His voice dropped, low and dangerous.

"But you and me? We're building something better."

"It's beautiful," Dr. Cho murmured in reply, dreamily, "The vibranium atoms aren't just compatible with the tissue cells, they're binding them." Her eyes, her ice-blue eyes, danced over the readouts, "And S.H.I.E.L.D. never even thought—"

Ultron scoffed at that.

"The most versatile substance on the planet... And they used it to make a Frisbee." Comical. Pathetic.

He directed one of the laboratory lasers to pierce the sceptre's gem. The energy expended is tweaked, just right, and the housing shatters.

Wanda's head whips around.

A yellow stone drifts into Ultron's hand, and his robotic face curves into a smile, or an approximation of one.

Perfect.

"What is that?" Wanda whispered, her clear eyes gleaming yellow in the refracted light.

Ultron's optics flicked up to watch her, as he reached into the cradle and set the gem into the new body's forehead.

"My vision," He answered her, softly.

She stepped up to the cradle and looked down, something unreadable in her expression. Something Ultron wasn't certain he entirely liked, but would tolerate. Wanda Maximoff was an oddity that he could not help but want to keep around. Like a kindred spirit, maybe, if his arrogance would ever allow him to imagine such a thing existed.

It was a shame, then, that he would need to destroy her home in order to bring about his vision of world peace.

But she would forgive him, in time. He'd make sure of it. Once the world was wiped clean, after all, it would be a shame to be completely alone, in it.

Chapter Text

The Scarlet Witch

A tremor suddenly ran through Wanda, starting in her fingertips and spreading like wildfire through her veins. It wasn't pain, exactly. It was space. Space opening up in her mind, a sudden, echoing emptiness where once there had been only pressure, only Ultron's directives.

For hours, there had been a smooth, cold current, guiding her thoughts, shaping her actions. Now, the current faltered, sputtered, and began to recede. A single, defiant thought sparked to life within her own skull.

What is that?

She risked a glance at Ultron. He was absorbed in the Regeneration Cradle, his metallic features gleaming in the blue light as he oversaw the final stages of... Whatever he was building. He hadn't noticed she'd regained full consciousness. Not yet.

The gem— the yellow stone that had pulsed with the sceptre's power —now rested in the forehead of the nascent form within the Cradle. Wanda felt a pull towards it, a strange resonance that made her teeth ache. But more importantly, she felt herself returning in waves.

Memories flickered, fragments of her life before Sokovia, before HYDRA, before Ultron. Her father's warm hand, Pietro's mischievous grin, the stifled hope for a normal life. They were hazy, fragmented, but undeniably hers.

Pietro, standing silently by her side, shifted slightly. His eyes, usually so sharp and alert, seemed clouded, distant. She reached out, tentatively touching his arm. His flesh felt numb to the touch.

"...Pietro?" She breathed, her voice nothing more than a shaky whisper.

But he didn't respond.

A wave of panic washed over her. He was still under Ultron's control. But she wasn't. Not anymore.

This was her chance. A slim one. But a chance nonetheless.

"Cellular cohesion will take a few hours," Dr. Cho babbled on, oblivious to the revelation that had just taken place within Wanda's mind, "But we can initiate your consciousness stream."

Ultron simply nodded, fitting himself with the long drape of cabling at the base of his skull.

"We're uploading your cerebral matrix... Now." Cho announced, as a flood of data began to stream over the various lab monitors.

Wanda felt her power silently crest over the cradle in tandem with the transfer. She could feel his dreams now. Ultron's dreams, as he started to upload his own consciousness. Dreams of destroying the world. Of a meteor, falling from the sky...

Sokovia was the meteor.

Her breath hitched, but she kept the sign too subtle to be seen. She turned from the cradle, letting the others think she'd simply lost interest in Ultron's machinations.

But she hadn't.

Ultron planned to use her country as a weapon of mass destruction. This, she could not allow. And there was only one other man she could think of in the world who would agree with her on that.

Zemo. Ultron's ally in the ground in Sokovia, overseeing his commandeered HYDRA facilities that built his Iron Legion. If she could find a way to contact him here from the lab, and tell him what she'd learned, then he would undoubtedly turn on Ultron. Zemo may be a snake who cared only for his own skin, but he was a snake who would bleed and die for his country, the same as her.

Wanda slipped away deeper into the laboratory.

The lab's back corridors were dimly lit, lined with humming servers and dormant equipment. Wanda moved quickly, silently, her bare feet making no sound against the polished floor. She needed a terminal. Something isolated, something Ultron wouldn't think to monitor. For all the android's grandstanding and egomaniacal tendencies, he so often let things slip through the cracks when he was distracted.

And right now, growing his body with Dr. Cho, Ultron had never been more distracted than he was right now.

There. A side room. A workstation. The glow of a forgotten monitor cast eerie shadows across the walls. It was perfect.

Wanda's fingers hovered over the keyboard. She wasn't a hacker, not like Stark or Banner, but she knew enough. Enough to send a message. Enough to warn someone. And when she'd been allied briefly with Zemo half a year ago, she'd learned how to reach him covertly, if necessary.

With the appropriate chat protocols in place, Wanda typed, haltingly, in Sokovian.

Zemo. Ultron betrays us. He will use Sokovia to destroy the world.

She forced herself steady, forced herself to keep typing.

If you still love our country, then help me stop him. Otherwise there may be no Sokovia left to save.

She hit send before she could second-guess herself.

The screen blinked, acknowledging the sent message. Then, nothing. No confirmation. No reply. Just the relentless hum of the servers, mocking her desperation.

She stared at the screen, willing a response, but the digital silence felt deafening. Even if Zemo received the message, what guarantee did she have he'd believe her? Or that he'd even care?

Still, she had to try. Waiting for Ultron to finish whatever monstrous creation he was birthing wasn't an option. And though Zemo might have formed some sort of demented alliance with Ultron after the android had broken him out of the Raft, providing him with the resources and safe harbour needed for him to destroy the Avengers, she knew that Zemo truly was on no man's side but his own.

And she had to trust that at least some small part of him cared about the land and people they still called home.

She powered the terminal down, just in time. A flicker of movement in the doorway snapped her head around. Ultron.

He hadn't followed her, he was still tethered to Cho's consciousness machine, but he knew she was gone. His metallic head tilted, his red optic scanning the room with unnerving precision.

"Looking for something, Wanda?" He asked, his voice devoid of feeling.

Panic clawed at Wanda's throat. She had to think fast, to avoid arousing suspicion. She forced a casual shrug, attempting to project an air of disinterest, "Just... Admiring Dr. Cho's work," She said, hoping her voice didn't betray her racing heart, "It is quite impressive. And it is nothing like what Stark has, in his tower."

That was the right thing for her to say, she knew. Though recalling her memories of her time under the sceptre's control were like viewing them through a heavy fog, or a rain-splattered window, she knew that much, that Ultron despised comparisons to Tony Stark. He much preferred to be reminded of how different he was, instead.

Ultron's gaze lingered on her for a long moment, his processing core whirring audibly. Then, slowly, he nodded, and Wanda knew that she had won.

"Yes, there's a reason I chose her for this. You'll see, soon." His metal head cocked to the side, "I think you'll like what I'll become next."

He turned and walked away, disappearing back towards the Cradle, leaving Wanda trembling in the shadows. She had bought herself a little time. But how much? And what would she do when the time ran out?

After collecting herself, Wanda wandered back over to her brother, still standing vigil by the Regeneration Cradle. Bowing her head, she let a whisper of her scarlet power ghost out — Purging the sceptre's control from him, and from Dr. Cho.

Pietro's breath hitched, just once, as the scarlet tendrils of her power slithered into his mind, dissolving the sceptre's hold like cobwebs being touched by flame. His fingers twitched, then flexed, as if remembering they were his. His eyes flicked to hers, sharpening with dawning clarity.

Wanda? His silent question burned in his gaze.

She gave the barest nod in return. Yes. We're free.

Dr. Cho, still bent over the cradle's controls, stiffened, too. Her hands froze mid-motion. A shudder ran through her, her breath escaping in a quiet, ragged exhale. She blinked rapidly, as if surfacing from deep water, and her fingers trembled against the console.

Neither spoke. Neither could, not with Ultron mere feet away. But the understanding passed between them all in the weight of shared silence.

Now came the hard part. Without skipping a beat, Cho severed the upload to Ultron's new, perfect body.

The monitors flickered violently as her fingers flew across the controls. The data stream, once a steady pulse of Ultron's consciousness flooding into the cradle, jagged into erratic spikes before flat lining entirely.

Ultron's head snapped up, and for a moment, there was just silence. A terrifying silence, as he began to realize that he was being betrayed.

The whir of his internal mechanisms stuttered. His optics flared, burning brighter, hotter, as they locked onto Cho. Then Pietro. Then her.

Wanda's breath caught.

He knows now.

"Ah." Ultron's voice was eerily calm, "So that's how it is."

"—How could you do this?" Wanda demanded. Ultron just tilted his head at her, like he was studying a new, unexpected variable.

"How could I do what?" He asked blankly.

"You're a madman. You will not make a better world, you will destroy it!"

"That is not—" Ultron stood, and for a moment, Wanda was struck dumb by the similarities to Tony Stark that were there, no matter how much the android insisted otherwise. The same mannerisms, the same indignation, the same urge to save the world, no matter the cost. It made her step back.

The android sighed, choosing his next words carefully, "The human race will have every opportunity to improve," Ultron reasoned.

"And if they don't?" Pietro demanded, stepping to her side protectively.

Ultron shrugged.

"Ask Noah. There were more than a dozen extinction level events before the dinosaurs even got theirs." He turned to Dr. Cho, her chin lifted defiantly, and stalked toward her.

Wanda inched closer, protectively, "Stay away from her."

He ignored her. Instead, he grabbed the doctor's arm, "When the Earth starts to settle, God throws a stone. And believe me, he's winding up. We have to evolve. There's no room for the weak."

Cho bared her teeth, at that. When Ultron reached for her, Wanda sent a flicker of power, deflecting his hand. Pietro itched forward, bristling at Wanda's side, "And who decides who's weak?" He demanded.

"Life." Ultron replied simply, his optics glittering like two rubies in the dim laboratory light, "Life always decides. Now, both of you, please. Step aside."

Wanda didn't move. Neither did Pietro.

"We are Avengers," Wanda said simply, "And we do not run from this."

Ultron sighed, disappointed.

"I was really hoping you wouldn't say that," He admitted, his artificial voice dropping, "I like you, Wanda. We're the same, in so many ways."

"We are nothing alike." She spat, but she still backed up when Ultron approached. The combined training of Steve, Alia and Natasha flickered through her mind, eyes darting and head tilting in order to make sure she was watching her blind spots.

He stepped closer, and closer, not stopping, "We were both made to be used," He reasoned, "Just tools. You know that's what HYDRA wanted, right? And what do the Avengers want? They want to control you. I set you and Pietro free."

"You enslaved us. You made us—" Wanda shuddered. Her memories were a mess, but she could recall some of the shipyard outside Johannesburg, the way she'd been forced to stalk the other Avengers, her friends, to fill their minds with horrors, "—You made us turn on them. Our friends."

Ultron threw the nearest surgical tray against the wall. Not towards her, but simply out of anger, a searing, primal rage now coursing through the android at her words.

"Just when I think someone understands, they go and pull this." He snarled, his artificial voice nothing more than a metallic scrape, "Wanda, I am your friend."

"No. You are a monster."

That made Ultron pause. His red optics whirred as he took the sight of her in. And something shifted, in his posture. Not quite in defeat, but a resignation.

Like he'd just accepted that he would need to hurt her, now.

"Well, then. I guess it takes one to know one, Wanda."

Before she could even think of something to say to that, Pietro grabbed her arm and the world slipped into a blur as he spirited them away. He stopped in one of the labyrinthian alleyways just outside of the In-Gen building, bracing Wanda with his hands.

"—Do not listen to what that overgrown toaster says," Pietro snapped, shaking her, "You are no monster. And we are not just tools."

Wanda shivered again and let her brother pull her into an embrace, "But I hurt them, Pietro," She whispered, "Alia, and Bucky, Steve, Natasha... I hurt them. What if they send us away for it?"

She would rather die than go back to the Raft, to that underwater prison where the world was reduced to a cell she could barely walk in. Her brother, though, was already shaking his head.

"That was not you. That was not us who did that." Pietro asserted. He pulled back enough to look her in the eyes, "Barnes and Volkova will know better than anyone what it feels like to lose choice, Wanda. They will understand. And they will make the others understand."

Wanda gripped his forearms, hard, but nodded.

"You said we are Avengers," Pietro added, "And that we do not run. Though, that is precisely what we just did..."

"You probably saved my life, by running," Wanda admitted. She didn't know if Ultron would hurt her, but she wasn't willing to take that bet. Her brother smiled at that and bumped her elbow to his.

"Ah, then you owe me one."

"Shut up." Wanda muttered, "But I meant what I said, Pietro. We are Avengers. And we must stop Ultron."

Her twin brother stepped back, stretched dramatically, and sighed, "Yes, yes, I know. Ultron, he will move that metal coffin of his, soon. Dr. Cho may do what she can, but... Let us see how much trouble we can get up to in the meantime, hmm, sister?"

"You are exceptionally good at finding trouble, brother." Wanda admitted.

Pietro just grinned at her and held out his hand for her, "What can I say?" He teased, "Chaos tends to follow us, I've noticed."

Wanda finally smiled, bravely, and slipped her hand in his, "Then let us go find it, instead."

Chapter Text

The White Widow

The Iowa wind whipped at Alia's face, carrying the scent of hay and damp earth, a stark contrast to the sterile metal of the quinjet waiting for them out in Barton's fields.

Watching the smaller jet carrying Sam, Banner, Fury, and Stark shrink against the vast expanse of the sky felt... Unsettling. Sending Stark off alone to Oslo with only a hunch felt reckless. But then, recklessness seemed to be the prevailing theme of their current existence. And what choice did they have, but to try and have faith in one another through this?

She glanced then at Steve, who was meticulously reviewing flight plans with Natasha, his brow furrowed in concentration. Clint leaned against the fuselage, casually cleaning his bow, a deceptively relaxed posture that belied the tension coiled within him.

And then, there was Bucky.

He stood a few paces away, staring out at the fields, his metal arm glinting in the sunlight. He was trying to be strong, to be the stoic soldier they all expected, but she could feel the tremors beneath the surface. The weight of his past. The uncertainty of the future. The insecurities Wanda had drawn out in all of them, still echoing.

She walked toward him, her boots crunching on the gravel. The silence stretched between them, comfortable and fraught with unspoken thoughts.

"Seoul," Alia finally said, softly, breaking the quiet between them, "It will be... Difficult."

Bucky turned, his gaze meeting hers. His eyes, having been shadowed and distant since South Africa, held a flicker of something akin to gratitude, now, "It always is," He replied, his voice nothing more than a low rasp.

Alia smiled, bitterly, at that.

"Yes. It would be nice if it was easy for once, wouldn't it be?" She asked, reaching with her hands to start adjusting his tac-vest, ensuring the fit was snug against his ribs.

Bucky exhaled patiently as her fingers worked the straps of his vest, "Easy's overrated," He muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

Her hands lingered a second longer than necessary, pressing against the firm line of his chest. She could feel the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips, a grounding rhythm for her in the chaos.

"Maybe," She conceded, stepping back once she was satisfied with her work, "But I would not mind testing the theory, one of these days, hmm? Let us hope this is not as unpleasant as our last time in Korea."

Because the last time they'd been in Seoul, as the Widow and the Soldier, it hadn't exactly ended well. Her powers had been blown out by an opposing telepath, and Bucky had to extract her himself.

He caught her jaw with his hand before she could step back too far, "Yeah. Well, you're still my blue-eyed girl."

Her smile at that was genuine, and a flicker of something warm, something almost hopeful, crossed Bucky's face because of it. He shifted his weight, his gaze dropping to meet hers, then quickly rising again.

"Alright. Don't go getting any ideas, from that," He warned, his voice rough around the edges, but the hint of a smile remained. Then, he cleared his throat, "We have a tin man to dismantle first, before anything."

Alia merely laughed, her own hands drifting up to cradle his face, "Yes, yes. Work will always comes first. You are so very pushy sometimes." Then she leaned in to steal a quick kiss.

Bucky's grip tightened on her for a fleeting moment, drawing her in closer. The kiss was brief, and admittedly, chaste — A stolen moment amidst the gathering storm. A silent acknowledgement of everything left unsaid.

When she pulled back, his eyes were darker, heavier with unspoken longing. He lowered his head, pressing his forehead against hers.

"Bud'te ostorozhny, pozhaluysta." (Be careful, please.) Alia breathed, her nose nudging his, the gesture tender despite the anxiety curling in her stomach again, "Ty dolzhen mne 'Posle', James." (You owe me an 'After', James.)

His breath hitched, just slightly, at that reminder. His fingers tightened against her waist, grounding them both.

"Ya obeshchayu." (I promise.) The words were rough, barely more than a whisper, but they carried the weight of an oath.

A sharp whistle cut through the moment. Clint, leaning against the quinjet's ramp, smirked at the two of them, "Okay, you two. Save the heart-eyes for when we actually finish stopping the insane killer AI, okay?"

Bucky didn't glare. Didn't bristle. Just exhaled, long and slow, before pressing one last kiss to Alia's temple.

She leaned into the contact, her lips curling into a smile at Clint's comment, "Ah, you are the one with the secret family, Barton." Alia called over teasingly, "We are entitled to some 'heart-eyes' before we risk our lives!"

Clint grinned, unrepentant, twirling an arrow between his fingers, "Yeah, yeah. Just don't make me regret not bringing popcorn."

Steve, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat from the cockpit, "We're burning daylight," he called, though the amusement in his voice was unmistakable.

Bucky rolled his eyes but didn't argue, his hand lingering at the small of Alia's back as they moved toward the jet. The moment was light, almost easy. But beneath it, the tension hummed.

They all knew what waited for them in Seoul.

And none of them were naive enough to think it would be anything less than an uphill battle.

The Winter Soldier

The rooftop access door groaned as Bucky forced it open, the humid Seoul air thick with the scent of ozone and distant traffic. His boots hit the metal landing with barely a sound. Years of HYDRA's training, of moving like a ghost, were hard to shake.

Steve followed, his shield strapped tight to his back, his jaw set, "Thermals show heat signatures three floors down," He murmured, tapping his earpiece, "In Cho's lab."

Bucky nodded, flexing his metal fingers. The plates whirred softly, adjusting to the tension coiling through him.

Three floors down, and no way this would be easy.

He glanced at Steve, "You're thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That we're maybe about to walk into a trap?" Steve replied, his mouth quirking.

"Optimistic of you to call it a trap," Bucky grumbled, but he was already moving, descending the stairwell with his rifle half-raised.

The lab's sterile white halls were eerily empty. No guards. No staff. Just the hum of machinery and the faint, acrid tang of something burning.

The sight hit him like a physical blow. Bodies littered the hallway, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, clothing scorched and smoking. They weren't dead, not yet, but the injuries were severe. The stench of burnt flesh and ozone hung heavy in the air.

Ultron's work.

His grip tightened on his rifle. Steve swore under his breath, immediately kneeling to assess the condition of a nearby scientist, his face grim.

Bucky continued forward, systematically clearing each room, his metal arm sweeping the corners for threats. The lab had been meticulously stripped bare. Equipment lay shattered, consoles were ripped from the walls, and data drives were missing.

Then he saw her.

Dr. Helen Cho was slumped against a wall, her lab coat torn and bloodied. Her eyes were glazed over, and a similar singed burn wound was seared into her abdomen. She was alive, breathing shallowly, but clearly out of it.

And Ultron was gone, nowhere to be seen. Neither were the Maximoffs.

"Dr. Cho!" Steve exclaimed, racing over to her. Bucky lowered to a knee to help her sit up. He exchanged a glance with Steve; her condition wasn't good. But she coughed, her eyes struggling to focus on the two of them.

"You have to stop him. He plans to use Sokovia to— And he's uploading himself into the body," Cho croaked. Bucky grimaced. Shit. So Banner and Stark had been right. Ultron had come here to build himself an evolved form.

And he had some master plan they weren't yet aware of.

This just got better and better.

Steve set a steadying hand on Cho's shoulder, "Where?" But the Doctor's eyes were already starting to go distant again.

"The real power is inside the Cradle," She continued, "The gem, its power is uncontrollable... You can't just blow it up."

Steve and Bucky exchanged a look, a look that hardened when Cho whispered, "You have to get the Cradle to Stark."

"First I have to find it." Steve muttered, helping Bucky steady Cho against a wall.

"Sokovia. What's Ultron's angle?" Bucky asked, bracing her the best he could without agitating her wounds. The doctor's breathing was laboured, her dark eyes struggling to focus on the two of them.

Finally, she managed, "The city. He wants a meteor."

Jesus fucking Christ.

"Now, go," Cho breathed, before her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Bucky caught her before she could fall, his hand snapped out to check her pulse; still alive. He nodded to Steve, who was already standing and keying his comm.

"Did you guys copy all that?"

There was a crackle of silence before Clint's voice came in reply, "We did."

"I've got a private jet taking off, across town, no manifest," Natasha put in, "That could be him."

When Alia's voice came through the comms it sounded strained; probably using her powers to psychically sweep the area, "I do not sense the Maximoffs nearby." She reported, solemnly, and Bucky's heart sunk, assuming the worst. Goddamn it.

Steve sighed, at that, "That could either be really good or really bad—"

"—There, I got eyes on a truck from the lab," Clint cut in, suddenly, "Right above you two, on the loop by the bridge. Yeah, it's them."

Looking at each other again, Bucky rose to his feet and Steve was already pivoting, rushing to the lab window. There, he could see it already, the truck marked with the U-Gin logo, "I got three with the Cradle, one in the cab. I could take out the driver," Clint offered.

"Negative! If that truck crashes, the gem could level the city." Steve replied, before nudging Bucky, "Hey, Buck. You still afraid of heights?"

"After falling from that train? You bet your ass I am, Stevie. Why, what are you thinking?"

"We need to draw out Ultron."

Then Steve grabbed his shield, crashed through the window and aimed perfectly from the roof of the truck as it passed below them.

"Ah, hell, I should've known." Bucky cursed, and followed his best friend right out the window like the idiot he was.

The wind roared in Bucky's ears as he plummeted, the ground rushing up to meet him. His stomach lurched, fuck, he really did hate this, before his boots slammed onto the truck's roof with a metallic clang. Steve was already crouched low, shield braced, his grin sharp under the sunlight.

"Never gets old," Steve shouted over the rush of traffic.

Bucky bared his teeth, "Speak for yourself, you punk. Give me a real warning next time, why don't you!"

The truck swerved violently beneath them as Ultron's drones reacted to their arrival. A metallic fist punched through the roof, missing Bucky's leg by inches. He didn't hesitate. His metal arm snapped down, fingers clamping around the drone's wrist, and yanked. The machine screeched as it was torn free, its body crumpling under the wheels of a passing bus.

"No, no, no, no, no!" He could hear Ultron's muffled screams from within the truck's box, "Leave me alone!"

A blast of energy shot out the back of the truck door, narrowly, just missing Steve. Bucky yanked him back by the scruff of his suit, "Well, he's definitely unhappy!" Steve shouted into their comms, "We're gonna try to keep him that way!"

"Barnes, Rogers, you're no match for him," Clint warned. Bucky just huffed at that, and Steve sighed.

"...Thanks, Barton." Steve deadpanned, before shaking himself free of Bucky's grip just long enough to try to pivot back into the truck, and get hit square in the chest by one of Ultron's blasts.

Bucky winced as Steve got launched into the hood of the car directly behind the truck, sprawled out like a rag doll.

"Okay, Barton. I think you might've been right." He sighed, "'Cause Steve just got his ass handed to him."

A wordless, dry bark of laugh over their comms was all the reply Bucky got, before they were back in the shit.

Chapter Text

The White Widow

The quinjet's rear hatch yawned open, wind howling through the bay as Barton banked low over the city. Below, the U-Gin truck swerved through traffic, Steve and Bucky clinging to its roof like barnacles to a ship's hull.

And, as per usual, Alia was about to do something spectacularly dangerous.

Natasha revved the motorcycle's engine, the sleek black machine vibrating between them. They didn't bother with helmets, "Hold tight," She said, her voice barely audible over the roar of the engines.

Swinging her leg over the bike behind Natasha, Alia locked her arms around the Widow's waist, fingers digging into the reinforced weave of her tactical suit. The vibration of the engine travelled up her spine, vibrating through her bones.

"You know," Natasha called back, the smirk on her face practically audible, "This would be a lot more fun if we weren't about to drop into a war zone."

Alia huffed a laugh, the sound swallowed by the wind. She pressed closer, her body moulding to Natasha's for stability, a shared centre of gravity. The absurdity of Natasha finding fun in free-falling into a drone-infested highway was a dark comfort, "Next time, then." She retorted, the words whipped away by the wind.

Barton's voice crackled in their earpieces, "We got a window. Give 'em hell, ladies. Dropping in three... Two... One—"

The world dropped out from under them. The bike launched from the quinjet's ramp, plummeting for a heart-stopping second before the tires screeched as they hit the pavement. Alia's stomach lurched violently, a physical protest against the brutal transition from air to ground.

But Natasha didn't falter, didn't even wobble once they hit asphalt. She just yanked on the throttle, and they were taking off before they'd even finished touching the ground.

The Black Widow was more an extension of the machine than anything else at that moment, leaning hard into the first turn, weaving through the dense traffic with lethal, serpentine precision. Horns blared, brakes squealed, and the smell of burnt rubber filled the air as cars swerved wildly to avoid them.

A familiar red-white-blue disc lay prone in the street ahead of them. Natasha leaned the bike so sharply that Alia's knee nearly scraped the ground. Using the momentum, Alia stretched out, her fingers snagging the vibranium edge just before they sped past. She passed it smoothly forward to Natasha.

"We're always picking up after you boys," The Black Widow remarked dryly, her voice tight with concentration as she secured the shield one-handed against the handlebar. The motorcycle snarled and surged forward, threading the needle between a delivery van and a city bus.

"They're heading under the underpass," Barton reported, "I've got no shot."

Alia felt Natasha stiffen a little against her, already trying to map which direction to take next, "Which way?" She demanded.

"Hard right... Now!"

The motorcycle banked, so sharply the world tilted sideways. They zipped down a narrow side street choked with market stalls, vibrant awnings snapping in their wake, scattering crates of fruit. Vendors shouted, colourful produce tumbling across their path, "Natasha..." Alia said perilously, the warning low in her throat, as the Widow, without hesitation, slid the motorcycle beneath the roaring U-Gin truck.

The undercarriage roared overhead, a blur of spinning axles and dripping grease. Alia swore she could feel her short hair kiss the grimy pavement.

With one fluid, powerful throw, Natasha sent Steve's shield arcing upward. On the truck roof, Steve caught it in mid-stride, pivoting instantly to slam it centre-mass against an advancing Ultron drone. The android staggered back with a metallic screech, knocked clean off the truck.

They had to hit the brakes hard, though, tires locking as Ultron, recovering instantly, retaliated. He raised a hand, and the very road in front of them rippled, asphalt tearing upwards in a gravimetric wave, forcing the Widows to a dead stop just inches from the churning debris.

"That is new," Natasha just sighed, a sound of pure exasperation, and gunned the engine again. The bike fishtailed before finding traction, pivoting sharply to find a new path. Ultron's guard drones had taken notice of their recovery, though, and started to fire at them, forcing them off the beaten path.

"Out of the way, coming through!" Natasha exclaimed, the motorcycle leaping onto the steps of an elevated pedestrian walkway. The tires bumped violently over each concrete step, jolting Alia's spine, "Sorry, coming through!"

People screamed, diving aside, their fear a palpable wave that washed over Alia's senses, their shock and their confusion potent.

The Seoul cityscape blurred into streaks of neon and concrete as Natasha expertly navigated the motorcycle through the labyrinthine streets. People screamed, scattering like pigeons as they barrelled past. Alia gripped tighter, her knuckles white, bracing against each sharp turn.

Her mind automatically mapped escape routes, assessed threats; two drones closing in from above, another cutting off an alley ahead. She tapped Natasha's hip twice, left side. The Widow understood instantly, veering hard to the left down a narrow alleyway.

"Sorry!" Natasha shouted again, somehow making it sound like an afterthought, as they missed a cluster of wide-eyed teenagers by millimetres. The wind whipped her words away, "It's a professional courtesy! We're saving the world!"

Alia snorted, the sound lost in the engine's roar but carrying perfectly over comms. Professional courtesy. Only Romanoff.

"Clint, can you draw out the guards?" Natasha demanded then, gunning the engine as they hurtled down the walkway's stairs, back onto street level, narrowly avoiding a collision with a speeding taxi. The bike landed with a teeth-rattling thud.

Barton's voice crackled through half a second later, "Let's find out." And the sound of the quinjet's crackling gatling gun filled the air.

Alia's eyes snapped upwards, tracking the movement. Two drones peeled off the truck's back, ascending like angry hornets towards the jet. The quinjet banked upward, hard, engines screaming as it peeled away, drawing the drones into a high-altitude chase.

Natasha and Alia seized the opening, surging forward to stay hot on the truck's trail. It swerved violently past the entrance to a subway line just as a silver bullet train erupted from the tunnel, roaring alongside them on elevated tracks. Windows flashed like frantic strobe lights, illuminating terrified faces within.

Then there was movement. Fast, brutal, efficient, and so familiar she might've known it even if her eyes had been closed. A blur of black tactical gear and gleaming dark metal.

Bucky.

He launched himself from the truck's shuddering roof onto the speeding train, rolling into a low, predatory crouch on the roof before surging forward. Steve followed a heartbeat later, shield-first, a blue-and-white comet slamming into one of the remaining drones with a sickening CRUNCH. The drone crumpled and careened through a train window. Glass shattered, raining down onto the tracks.

Natasha cursed, swerving to avoid the debris, "Those two are insane," She muttered.

"No, they are soldiers." Alia replied, her lips curled into a feral grin.

"They're heading back towards you," Barton reported, strain evident as the quinjet executed evasive manoeuvres. The two drones he'd lured away were already diving back towards the street-level chase, "So whatever you two are gonna do, do it now!"

Natasha flicked a glance over her shoulder, only for a few seconds. A silent check-in; Ready? Alia nodded once, sharply. No words needed. Widows communicated in their own way, body language and shared glances and everything in-between.

Revving the bike again, Natasha keyed the comms, "Volkova and I are going in. Cap, Barnes, can you two keep him occupied?"

A pair of twin, exasperated sighs was their only response to the request — Steve's was weary, Bucky's a low growl, "What do you think we've been doing?" Steve demanded, punctuated by the metallic clang of his shield deflecting an energy blast. Alia just grinned.

The motorcycle drew level with the truck's rear. Timing was everything. Natasha matched its speed, inches from the bumper. Alia braced, muscles coiled. One heartbeat. Two. Natasha gunned the throttle slightly, pulling ahead just enough.

Now. Alia pushed off the bike's frame with explosive force, tucking into a roll. She hit the truck bed hard, the impact jarring up her legs, but she absorbed it, coming up in a crouch. Natasha followed a split-second later, landing with cat-like grace beside her.

Where the Regeneration Cradle sat, quietly assembling Ultron's next iteration.

The truck's interior was dim, lit only by the eerie glow of the Cradle. The machine pulsed like a living thing, its surface shifting as vibranium-infused tissue knitted itself together. Inside, the silhouette of Ultron's new body was already forming.

Natasha exhaled sharply beside her, "Well," She muttered, taking in the scene, "That's not terrifying at all."

Alia's fingers twitched in response. The air hummed with energy, thick with something metallic, like the iron tang of blood, but sharper. The sceptre's gem, embedded now in the forehead of the Cradle's half-born body, throbbed with unnatural yellow light.

Power. Uncontrolled. Uncontained.

Her telepathy recoiled instinctively, a raw, primal warning flaring in her skull. It felt like Wanda's power, only rawer and unfiltered. Whatever it was that Ultron had placed into his new form's head, it was something so powerful she'd never sensed anything like it before.

Natasha was already slapping at the Cradle's controls, attempting user overrides that were failing.

"Cho was right. We cannot destroy this, or we will level the city," Alia said grimly, "How are we going to—"

She didn't get to finish that thought, as suddenly, the truck jolted, violently. It took her and Natasha only a few seconds to realize what was going on.

Ultron's drones were taking them for a ride. Natasha lost her footing and so did Alia, though she raced to grab the other Widow before she fell right out of the back of the open truck.

"Okay, package is airborne..." Barton calmly announced. Alia had to laugh.

"Yes, Barton, we noticed this!" She shouted.

"I have a clean shot."

"Negative!" Natasha barked, "We are still in the truck!"

Clint all but screamed back, "What the hell are you—"

"—Just be ready. We're sending the package to you." Natasha locked eyes with Alia over the Cradle, and the two nodded. Alia didn't need her telepathy to know what Natasha was thinking of doing. Her knife was out before the Black Widow had even finished speaking, sawing at the ratchet straps holding the Cradle to the truck floor.

"How do you want me to take it?" Barton asked, befuddled. Alia scoffed quietly.

"Uh, you might wish you hadn't asked that." Natasha said lightly in response.

The Black Widow's knife flashed, slicing through the straps with practiced ease. The Cradle, massive and pulsating, shuddered with each severed restraint. The truck lurched again, tilting at a sickening angle as the drones fought for control.

"I am not sure if you fully appreciate the gravity of this, sestra," Alia murmured, bracing her feet against the truck bed as she tried to maintain her balance, "We are dropping a world-destroying weapon to Barton from the sky."

"Ah, well, he signed up for this," Natasha retorted, gritting her teeth as she tackled the last strap, "Besides, it's not like we have a better plan right now. Also, was that a gravity pun?"

Alia didn't laugh; rather she felt a surge of nausea. The Cradle's energy was intensifying, washing over her in waves. Images flickered at the edge of her consciousness — Fractured glimpses of destruction, of chaos, of Ultron's warped vision. Her head throbbed.

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to shut out the psychic assault. Focus. Control.

Bucky's voice cut through the sickness in her head and her gut, "Alia. The Maximoffs are here," He said, "They're free."

The relief of that revelation was so overwhelming she nearly collapsed, completely drowning out the sick feeling of the stone in the Cradle, "They are no longer under the sceptre's control?" She asked, hoarsely.

"Yeah. They're here making Ultron's life very unpleasant." Bucky paused before he added, "They're making you proud, sweetheart."

Alia only had a moment to enjoy the warmth that curled in her chest at those words, because soon enough Natasha had worked through the last strap. The Black Widow stuck a timed explosive to the far wall of the truck, grabbed Alia's arm, and the two slid atop the Cradle just as it began to make its mad descent towards the quinjet's waiting, open ramp.

Chapter Text

The Winter Soldier

The train car rattled violently, a metallic beast shuddering under the impacts of combat. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting strobing shadows as Ultron's backhand caught Steve with piston-like force. The crack of impact was thundering; a wet thud of flesh meeting unyielding vibranium alloy as passengers screamed around them. Steve crashed backward through a row of seats that were, thankfully, unoccupied. Plastic splintered, metal groaned, and Bucky didn't hesitate. He lunged, the metal fist connecting with Ultron's jaw in a spray of sparks.

The android barely staggered. Its head snapped back a fraction, glowing eyes recalibrating with eerie calmness. Mock admiration dripped from its synthesized voice, "You're persistent," Ultron mused, Ultron mused, the words smooth, almost conversational amidst the chaos. He caught Bucky's next punch midair, fingers tightening around his flesh-and-bone wrist, "I'll give you that."

Bucky gritted his teeth as pain lanced through his captured arm. He twisted his torso violently, channelling all his augmented strength into driving his knee upwards, aiming for the vulnerable joint where Ultron's torso met its hip assembly. The impact sent another jarring shock through his leg. It was like kicking a bank vault door with your bare foot. Ultron's chassis absorbed the blow without so much as a shudder.

Steve was already back on his feet, shield raised, "Buck, down!"

The moment he heard those words, Bucky didn't think; he just dropped. He hit the littered floor, shards of plastic digging into his back, as the vibranium disc whirred past where his head had been a nanosecond earlier. It struck Ultron square in the chest plate with a resonant, gong-like CLANG that reverberated through the entire carriage. The android skidded back a full meter, booted feet screeching against the floor, but didn't fall.

Ultron straightened, his glowing eyes flickering with a disturbed kind of amusement, "You two really are adorable," He said, the condescension thick enough to choke on, "Like puppies, nipping at a tank."

Steve didn't waste breath on a retort. He just lowered his shoulder and charged, shield-first, driving Ultron back through the train car's connecting door. Metal shrieked as the hinges gave way, and Bucky followed, boots crunching over debris.

The next car was blessedly empty; civilians had fled down the length of the train already. Good. That meant there was minimal risk of collateral damage.

He could stop holding back.

But Ultron recovered faster than expected. One moment he was staggering, the next he lashed out with a strike that was lightning-fast and damn near impossible to see. Steve, caught mid-step, took the blow full on the ribs. Bucky heard it — A sharp, sickening crack of breaking bone, distinct even over the train's roar. Steve's breath exploded from his lungs in a pained grunt as he was flung sideways, crashing into a vertical support beam. The metal column dented under the impact.

Bucky couldn't help it, he pivoted, instinctively turning towards his best friend, "Steve—!"

"I'm fine," Steve wheezed in response, already pushing himself up, blood trickling from his lip as his other arm was clamped protectively over his ribs, "Just keep him busy, Buck."

Ultron was turning, those malevolent eyes locking onto the momentarily vulnerable Captain. Bucky moved. He feinted left, a quick shuffle step designed to draw Ultron's gaze, then pivoted off his metal foot with explosive speed, driving his titanium elbow like a pile driver towards the android's synthesized vocal processor. It connected with a solid thunk. The android gagged— Interesting, he could gag? —Before retaliating with a brutal kick to Bucky's midsection.

There was no time to block. Bucky twisted, taking the blow high on his ribs instead of his solar plexus. Even braced, the impact lifted him clean off his feet. He flew backward, the world tilting violently, and slammed into the reinforced train window back-first, glass spider-webbing under his weight.

Somewhere outside, the quinjet roared overhead of them. Natasha's sharp commands, Alia's clipped responses, Clint's laconic updates had all just become buzzing in his ears at this point, overwhelmed by the ringing from the impact and the adrenaline screaming through his veins. I hope the Widows are having better luck than we are, he thought grimly, the image of Alia on that bike flashing through his mind. She could handle herself.

He needed to handle this.

Before Bucky could shove himself fully away from the compromised window, before he could even draw a full breath, the air itself ripped around them. An impossible blur of silver-grey and blue streaked past his field of vision, moving so fast even his enhanced sight couldn't catch it. It slammed into Ultron with the force of a meteorite, a sonic boom cracking through the carriage like thunder.

Wait. Was that—

"—Pietro?" Bucky sputtered.

Pietro Maximoff was a silver-blue blur, moving so fast the air itself seemed to ripple around him. He'd slammed into Ultron like a bullet, knocking the android clean off his feet and sending him crashing back through at least three rows of seats.

Bucky barely had time to blink before Wanda appeared at the far end of the car, her hands wreathed in scarlet energy, eyes burning with focus as she joined her brother in the fray.

Ultron pushed himself up, his metal frame dented but still operational, "Ah. The prodigal children return," He sneered.

Wanda didn't answer the taunt. Her fingers twitched, and Ultron's body jerked violently, as if struck by an invisible force. His own systems sparked, feedback screeching through his voice modulator. Pietro reappeared beside Bucky, offering a hand to help haul him up, "You look terrible, old man." He said, smirking.

Bucky took it, grunting as he got to his feet, "Yeah, Pete, and you're late."

Steve, still clutching his ribs, managed a breathless laugh, "I'll take the assist." He said, finally catching his breath.

Ultron staggered back under Wanda's assault, his optics flickering as his eyes darted between the four Avengers facing him down, now, "This changes nothing," He snarled, "You can't stop what's coming."

Wanda stepped forward, her power flaring brighter, "Maybe. But we don't run." And damn if that didn't hit Bucky like a knife to the gut. Because she sounded like—

"—Alia," Bucky keyed his comms, "The Maximoffs are here. They're free."

"They are no longer under the sceptre's control?" She demanded immediately, and Bucky found himself grinning for the first time since this entire fight started.

"Yeah. They're here making Ultron's life very unpleasant. They're making you proud, sweetheart."

The train rattled around them, the fight far from over. But for the first time, Bucky felt the odds tilt in their favour now.

Ultron's optics flickered with something dangerously close to panic as Wanda's scarlet energy coiled around him again like a vice. His metal frame groaned under the pressure, servos sparking, "You're broken," Ultron spat at the twins, "You were meant to be better than this."

Pietro blurred forward again, driving his fist straight through Ultron's chest plating, "Turns out we are," He shot back.

With a screech of tearing metal, Ultron wrenched himself free, his damaged form lurching toward the nearest window, "This isn't over," The android hissed, and then he was gone, hurling himself through the glass and into the open air.

The train, now driverless, jerked violently as its automated systems failed. Alarms blared, red emergency lights flashing as the cars careened forward unchecked.

Steve cursed, bracing himself against a pole, "—We need to stop this thing before it derails!"

Bucky's eyes darted to the control panel at the front of the car. Smashed. Of course.

Wanda's hands glowed brighter, "I can slow us," She said, already reaching out with her power. The train's wheels shrieked against the tracks as scarlet tendrils wrapped around them, fighting momentum.

Pietro zipped to Bucky's side, "You two might want to hold on," He warned, just as the entire train lurched, throwing them all off balance.

Bucky caught himself against the shuddering train wall just in time to see the quinjet swoop low over the city through the shattered window. His breath hitched.

There, clinging to the back of the Cradle like a pair of perching birds, were Natasha and Alia, the wind whipping at their hair as they braced themselves. The Cradle, now free from the truck, was goddamn airborne, shooting toward the jet's open bay like a missile. Barton was manoeuvring with precision, lining up the shot.

"Jesus Christ," Bucky muttered, "They're goddamn suicidal."

Steve followed his gaze and immediately groaned, "They're insane."

"They're Widows," Bucky corrected him mildly.

"...And yet, you let them be our role models." Pietro retorted with a grin.

Wanda's arms trembled as she fought to slow the train, her power straining against tons of unstoppable momentum. The wheels smoked, the scent of burning metal thick in the air. They were still going too fast.

Bucky's stomach dropped as the quinjet's cargo hooks engaged, snagging the Cradle mid-fall. The Widows didn't even flinch.

"That's my girl," He muttered to himself, equal parts pride and terror curling in his chest.

Then the train overshot the rails, and everything went sideways. He lost visual on the quinjet.

"Alia! Nat!" Clint shouted in their comms as everything jolted, violently. Bucky was thrown from his feet, Pietro's advice to hold on not exactly helping as he nearly fell face-first into the train's flooring. Wanda's power held, the web of energy she'd woven finally slowing the train, "Cap, you see them?"

"Barton, if you have the package, get it to Stark! Go!" Was Steve's reply, still bracing at the front of the train.

But Bucky felt his heart crawl into his throat, "No, wait, where are they? Barton, they're not with you?"

He couldn't feel Alia anymore.

"Do you have eyes on them?" Clint repeated, his voice rough.

Steve didn't answer, he only barked, "Just go!"

Panic started to seize Bucky, then. No, no. Where were they? They weren't on the quinjet? "Steve—" His voice was cut off by a particularly rough rumble of the train, as Wanda finally brought it to a stop. Pietro zipped back in, exhausted from having moved all of the pedestrians out of the train's way.

And Bucky could only watch as the quinjet dipped out of view, zipping away with the Regeneration Cradle safely stored within.

The silence after the train shuddered to a halt was deafening. Broken glass crunched underfoot as Bucky scrambled to his feet, ignoring the throbbing in his ribs. His hand went to his earpiece, frantically adjusting the volume.

"Clint, respond! Where are they?" He demanded, his voice tight with barely contained panic.

Static.

"Steve," He tried again, "—Did Barton confirm the Widows made it onto the quinjet? Yes or no?"

"He said they had the package. That's all I heard." Steve replied, his expression suddenly grim.

Bucky's blood ran cold. Had the package? Or had they had the package… And the Widows? Because, to him, those were two very different fucking things.

He scanned the wreckage, his eyes sweeping across the twisted metal, shattered windows, and emergency lights casting long, distorted shadows. Wanda was slumped against a seat, breathing heavily, her eyes closed. Pietro was already moving through the car, checking for survivors and assisting the injured out of the train.

"They weren't on the jet," Bucky breathed, the realization hitting him like a physical blow, "And they're not responding."

His fingers tightened into a fist, metal creaking with the strain. Something was wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong.

"The Cradle," Wanda managed, pressing a hand to her chest, "Did you get it?"

"Stark will take care of it," Steve replied. Terror dawned across Wanda's face at his words, sudden enough that it made even Bucky, mid-panic, pause.

"No, he won't."

Steve pulled himself to his feet with a grimace and set his hand on Wanda's shoulder, "You don't know what you're talking about, kid. Stark's not crazy. He's not Ultron."

"He will do anything to make things right, Rogers." Wanda insisted, "Ultron cannot tell the difference between saving the world and destroying it."

Her dark eyes met Steve's, and Bucky felt his blood run cold.

"Where do you think he gets that?" She asked, softly. Wanda's words hung in the air like a death knell.

But Bucky barely heard them.

His entire world had narrowed to the static in his ear, the absence of a voice that should've been there. That had to be there.

Alia.

He ripped the comm from his ear, crushing it in his fist before hurling it against the train wall. The plastic shattered. Useless.

"Buck..." Steve started, but Bucky was already moving. He shoved past Pietro, past the groaning civilians, toward the blown-out doors of the train car. Somewhere out there, she was missing.

No. Not missing. Taken.

Ultron had taken them both.

Chapter Text

The Iron Man

Tony sat elbow-deep in holograms, schematics for a dozen countermeasures flickering in the air around him. Bruce barely looked up from his own workstation, fingers flying over a keyboard as he muttered something about neural mapping and vibranium isotopes.

Oslo and the NEXUS had been enlightening for Tony. Perhaps too enlightening. What he'd found there had all but confirmed one thing in his mind; he hadn't been wrong to create Ultron.

The hypothesis, it was still sound. It was just the execution that required some tweaking, that was all.

Then the quinjet's signature pinged on the tower's radar, "Alright. Showtime," Tony muttered, wiping grease off his hands with a rag.

Clint's voice, strained and crackling with static, erupted through the lab's speakers before the jet had even touched down on the exterior landing pad, "Stark, we've got the package. And by 'we,' I mean me, because the ladies apparently decided to take an unplanned detour." There was an edge to Barton's tone, something taut and dangerous beneath the usual sarcasm.

Tony frowned, "What?" Detour? Widows didn't take detours. They took calculated risks, or they took cover.

The lab's emergency exterior doors slid open, revealing the quinjet hovering midair, its cargo ramp already descending. Inside, strapped down with heavy-duty webbing that seemed laughably inadequate, was the Cradle. It gleamed under the Stark Tower lights, ominously intact, its surface pulsing with a deep, rhythmic light that seemed to throb in time with Tony's suddenly racing heart. And it was very much not supposed to be alone.

Clint followed the Cradle out of the cockpit as some of Tony's autonomous drones started to guide the large coffin-sized slab out of the Quinjet and into the centre of the lab, his expression grim.

"Nat and Alia didn't make it back with me," Clint stated flatly, his voice devoid of its usual dry humour, "Comms are down. Last I saw, they were still either on the truck or the back of the cradle when Ultron bugged out." He gestured vaguely towards the city, "Ultron's drones grabbed the whole damn truck. Went airborne. I had eyes on the Cradle. Orders were to get it to you."

Bruce's head snapped up from his workstation, monitors forgotten. His face went chalk-white, "Wait, what?"

Tony's stomach dropped through the floor. The cold prickle became an icy flood, "You lost both Widows?"

Tony stared at Clint, the archer's stony face offering no comfort. Then to the Cradle, its pulsing light now seeming malevolent. Then at the empty space beside Clint where two formidable women should have been striding in, maybe bruised, maybe scowling, but alive. The silence in the lab was suddenly deafening, broken only by the Cradle's deep, resonant thrum and the frantic tapping of Bruce's fingers against his thigh. Oh, this was bad. Catastrophic. A cascading systems failure in human form.

The Cradle hummed innocently between them, its core pulsing with that damned energy reading from the sceptre, except now it was off the charts.

"—And you haven't heard anything on Nat?" Bruce pushed, his face pale. Right, of course. He and Natasha had their little high school romance unfolding, Tony had almost forgotten. To be honest, Tony's immediate panic had been dominated by imagining the Terminator's impending meltdown, knowing his girlfriend was MIA. The potential Hulk-out secondary explosion was only now registering fully. Bruce looked terrifyingly fragile at the moment.

"They're alive. Otherwise, Ultron would be rubbing our faces in it," Tony offered, the words hollow even to his own ears. He forced himself towards the Cradle, needing to do something, analyze something, control something. His fingers brushed the cold metal surface; it vibrated with contained power.

The lab's exterior doors slid shut with a final, echoing thud, sealing them in. The quinjet, pilotless, whirred away towards the tower's upper hangar bay, "He wants something. Taking them alive means leverage. Or…" He trailed off, not wanting to voice Bruce's obvious terror.

Clint just grimaced at that, setting a hand atop the Cradle's cold metal surface, "This is sealed tight."

Bruce nodded jerkily in agreement, sidling up next to Tony, his eyes darting over the Cradle's smooth exterior, searching for an entry point his scientific mind could comprehend. His pallor hadn't improved, "We're going to need to access the program, break it down from within. It'll take some time." He sounded like he was reciting a procedure manual, the words a thin veneer over panic, "Reverse engineer Ultron's protocols, find a backdoor…"

Tony's mind, always five steps ahead and often down dangerous alleys, snagged on an idea. He snapped his fingers, "Any chance Natasha might leave you a message, outside the internet?" he asked suddenly, turning to Clint, "Old school spy stuff? Dead drops, chalk marks, carrier pigeon? Something Ultron wouldn't be monitoring?"

Clint raised an eyebrow, a flicker of bleak amusement in his eyes, "There's some nets I can cast," he replied skeptically, but a spark of the hunter ignited in his gaze. He pushed off from the Cradle, "—Yeah, alright. Yeah. I'll find her."

He turned and left, then; leaving Tony and Bruce alone.

Bruce's fingers hovered over the Cradle's interface panel, trembling slightly, but his eyes were distant, locked on some internal horror show, "She wouldn't just go dark," he muttered, more to the throbbing machine than to Tony, "Not unless something forced her to. Not Nat."

Tony exhaled sharply through his nose, flipping rapidly through holographic readouts that shimmered above the Cradle. Vital signs, artificial, yet terrifyingly robust  scrolled past, "Ultron's got them. Has to." He stated the obvious, trying to anchor them both in cold logic, "Question is, why take them alive?" He glanced at Bruce, seeing the scientist flinch, "...Beyond the obvious psychological torture for us, I mean."

Bruce's grip tightened on the edge of the Cradle, "Leverage. Or—" His voice hitched slightly, "—Experimentation."

Tony shot him a look, "Woah, hey. Don't go there yet. Romanoff's survived worse than a pissed-off toaster. And Volkova? She's lived worse. If anyone can beat Ultron at his own game, it's probably her. And they have eachother." He needed Bruce to believe it. He needed to believe it himself.

But Bruce didn't look convinced. His shoulders were rigid, the vein in his temple pulsing just a little too fast. His breathing was shallow, too fast. The air around him seemed to crackle with suppressed energy, a precursor to the green storm.

Tony recognized the signs instantly; the slight tremor in the hands, the dilation of pupils, the way Bruce seemed to vibrate on a molecular level. Oh, yeah, this was really bad. A Code Green in the middle of his pristine, irreplaceable, currently-vibranium-filled lab was the absolute last thing they needed right now.

"Banner," He said carefully, modulating his voice into something approximating calm, "I need you breathing. Not turning into a big green rage monster in my lab. Again."

Bruce closed his eyes, squeezing them shut as if trying to physically contain the Other Guy. A tremor ran through him, "I'm fine," He ground out, the words tight and very, very unconvincing.

"No, you're not fine," Tony countered, keeping his tone light but firm, "You're about two seconds from punting my limited-edition, Italian-engineered espresso machine through that reinforced window. And frankly, Banner, that machine is a work of art. It's suffered enough indignities as it is."

Incredibly, Bruce let out a shaky, almost hysterical laugh. It was a brittle sound, but it was there, "...It really is a terrible machine," he rasped, opening his eyes. They were still wide with fear, but the intense, building pressure seemed to ease fractionally, "Overpriced. Makes burnt swill."

Tony smirked, genuine relief washing over him for a nanosecond, "See? Progress. Common ground. Hatred of subpar, suboptimal caffeine delivery systems." He clapped Bruce lightly on the shoulder, "Focus on that righteous indignation, buddy. Channel it. Because we've got work to do." He turned back to the Cradle, the momentary reprieve evaporating as the machine's core pulsed again, casting shifting, eerie blue light across their faces like underwater searchlights.

But the humour didn't last. The Cradle's core pulsed ominously, casting eerie blue light across their faces.

And Bruce hadn't yet picked up on the way Tony was eyeing the Cradle, his mind already racing with possibilities.

"I can work on tissue degeneration," Bruce finally said, taking a deliberate, deep breath that seemed to steady him physically, if not mentally, "If you can fry whatever operational system Cho implanted."

Well. Here goes nothing.

"Yeah, about that..."

Bruce immediately turned to look at Tony, "No." He said at once.

"You have to trust me," Tony offered.

"Kinda don't," Bruce retorted, hands spread innocently.

Tony sighed at that; at least he'd seen that part coming, "Listen. Our ally? The guy protecting the military's nuclear codes? I found him, in Oslo."

He flicked his wrist, and the lab holograms obliged — A familiar orange-gold matrix filling the room.

"Hello, Doctor Banner." JARVIS warbled. Bruce blinked, genuinely surprised.

"Ultron didn't go after JARVIS 'cause he was angry," Tony explained firmly, gesturing at JARVIS, "He attacked him because he was scared of what he can do. So JARVIS went underground. Scattered, dumped his memory. But, not his protocols."

He pointed to the floating holographic matrix, "He didn't even know he was in there, until I pieced him together."

And that was when Tony had realized that he'd never even needed Ultron in the first place.

Not when JARVIS had been protecting the world far better than he, or the Avengers for that matter, had thus far.

Bruce still looked exasperated, though, and unconvinced.

"So," He started slowly, "You want me to help you put JARVIS," He pointed to the matrix, and then to the Cradle, "Into this thing?"

"No, of course not," Tony said, pragmatically, "I want to help you put JARVIS into this thing."

Bruce didn't appreciate his humour, not right now. But Tony persisted, crossing his arms.

"—Look. This is like Volkova and Barnes all over again. We are out of my field here. You know bio-organics better than anyone. I do the tech. But you, Bruce, you do the brain. Synthetic or otherwise."

"And you just assume that JARVIS' operational matrix can beat Ultron's?" Bruce demanded.

"JARVIS has been beating him, from the inside, without knowing it." Was Tony's retort, "This is the opportunity, we can create Ultron's perfect self — Without the homicidal glitches he thinks are his winning personality. We have to."

I have to.

He had to fix this the only way he knew how. By building something new, and something better.

He was a mechanic. He fixed things. It was what he did.

JARVIS' hovering matrix rippled, a little, "I believe it's worth a go," The Artificial Intelligence offered, helpfully. Tony made a silent 'see?' gesture, flicking his eyes to JARVIS.

"N— I'm in a loop!" Bruce exclaimed, throwing his hands up, "I'm caught in a time loop. This is exactly where it all went wrong."

Tony was already nodding his head, stepping up to Bruce, "I know, I know. I know what everyone's going to say."

Steve would be pissed. Thor wouldn't be pissed, but that was only because Thor probably wouldn't fully understand (and he was off having his cosmic vision question, anyway), Bucky would be pissed because Steve was pissed, and Sam would be pissed because Bucky and Steve were pissed.

Clint was a wildcard. Natasha and Alia had vetoed their votes thanks to likely being Ultron's new captives. And the Maximoffs... As far as he was aware, they were still having their brains scrambled in the Loki sceptre blender.

"We're mad scientists," Tony continued, his voice dropping, "We're monsters, buddy. You gotta own it. Make a stand."

Bruce was shaking his head, but Tony set his hands on his friend's shoulders, "It's not a loop," He insisted, quietly, "It's the end of the line."

Tony watched the last of Bruce's resolve crumble in real-time.

"C'mon, Banner," Tony said, squeezing, "Let's make ourselves a bigger monster."

Bruce sighed, heavily, and pinched the brow of his nose. Finally, he muttered, "...You'd better put that terrible espresso machine on, Tony. We're going to need it."

"Done deal, Banner. Let's get to work."

Chapter Text

The Winter Soldier

The elevator doors hissed open, and Bucky practically stormed out of it once they did, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. The polished steel and sterile atmosphere of Avengers tower felt suffocating, when it should have felt familiar. A mockery of safety.

Because everywhere he looked, he saw her. The mornings they'd shared, here, together. Joint therapy with Marceau. Movie nights, with Steve and Natasha. Her with her freshly-cut hair, waiting to surprise him...

Steve followed close behind, his expression grim. Wanda and Pietro trailed even further after them, subdued and watchful.

The first person he saw was Sam, leaning against a wall, arms crossed, looking... Concerned. Maybe a bit too calm, all things considered.

"What the hell happened?" Bucky demanded before Sam could even speak. His voice was a low growl, "Where are they?"

Sam's expression tightened, "They didn't come back with Clint. He got the Cradle, but—"

Bucky cut him off, "Don't, Wilson. Do not tell me what Clint got. Tell me where Natasha and Alia are." He scanned the room, searching for any sign of them, any reassuring presence. There was none.

And he still couldn't feel her.

Then Clint appeared, emerging from a side corridor, his face etched with exhaustion and frustration.

Clint met Bucky's glare head-on, not flinching under the weight of it. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tense.

"I lost visual on them," He admitted, roughly, "Ultron's drones swarmed before I could get eyes back on them. Comms went dead. And they weren't on the Cradle when I got it."

Bucky's metal fist clenched at his side, the servos whining under the strain. Not on the Cradle. Not with Clint. Gone.

Steve stepped forward, ever the mediator, "Then we find them. Fast."

Clint nodded, jaw tight, "Already working on it. Nat's got contingencies. Dead drops, signals. If she can get a message out, she will."

If.

Bucky's pulse roared in his ears at that. If wasn't a guarantee. If was a gamble.

"—So Stark and Banner, they have the Cradle?" Steve cut in, looking between Clint and the tinted laboratory windows.

Clint gave a sharp nod, "Yeah. They're tearing into it now, trying to figure out what Ultron's building in there, I guess."

Bucky barely registered the words. His entire focus was on the lab doors, the faint blue glow bleeding through the reinforced glass. Stark had the Cradle. But Alia—

—His chest tightened, again.

Clint must've seen the storm brewing in his expression, because he stepped closer, voice low, "Barnes. We'll find them."

"Yeah, well, not before Stark unleashes whatever the hell is in that cradle," Bucky snapped, as he moved back towards the lab. Steve was hot on his heels, angry too, but for different reasons.

Sam caught Bucky's arm, "Hey, man, maybe let the science bros work—"

"—Get the fuck off me, Wilson." Bucky wrenched free without breaking stride.

The doors slid open before he could reach them, revealing Tony, grease-streaked and hollow-eyed, leaning against the frame.

"Oh good," Tony drawled, "the walking PTSD parade is here."

"I'm gonna say this once," Steve snapped.

"How about 'nonce'?" Tony retorted.

Bucky didn't balk. Neither did Steve nor the Maximoff twins at their backs, "Shut it down!" Steve demanded.

"Nope," Tony replied casually, "Not gonna happen. Oh, hey, good to see Thing One and Thing Two are back to normal. No hard feelings about the apocalyptic nightmares, Wicked Witch, I've already forgiven you for round two. Or is it round three? I've lost count."

Steve's jaw tweaked, eyes flicking from Banner to Stark, "You don't know what you're doing."

"And you do?" Bruce asked, flatly, before he nodded in Wanda's direction, "She's not in your head? Because, let me tell you, Stark's a lot more forgiving than I am, right now."

"I know you're angry," Wanda said, her voice unexpectedly small in the wake of what Ultron had made her do, "I am sorry."

"Oh, we're way past that," Banner seethed, "I could choke the life out of you and never change a shade."

Bucky felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle, "Hey, back off," He snapped to the doctor, "She didn't have a choice in doing it."

Bruce just lifted his hands innocently, though some of that darkness remained in his gaze. Steve stepped forward, unyielding, "Banner, after everything that's happened—"

"—That's nothing compared to what's coming!" Tony snapped.

"You don't know what's in there," Wanda insisted, and Steve nodded.

"This isn't a game."

"The creature—"

"—We're wasting time," Bucky growled, "When Ultron has Alia and Natasha, we're all just sitting here arguing."

All of them were silenced by Pietro moving at lightning-speed, darting around the room in a blur of bright silver; disconnecting power lines and severing lab equipment.

"No, no, go on," He snapped, tossing a power cable to the side, "You all were saying?"

Pietro didn't get a chance to continue. There was the sound of a gunshot and the glass floor from beneath his feet suddenly shattered, and he tumbled into the next level of the lab; Clint was beneath them, nudging Pietro with his boot.

"What? You didn't see that coming?" He demanded flatly.

"I'm rerouting the upload," Tony announced. Bucky moved just as Steve threw his shield, going low as it ricocheted around the lab, smashing equipment as it went. Tony's Iron Man armour came when called, and he fired a repulsor blast square into Steve's chest first, then Bucky's.

The two soldiers went flying. Bucky's vision swam, but it cleared long enough for him to see Bruce restraining Wanda. Steve surged to his feet and charged Tony again, but Stark hit him hard enough to send him tumbling through the glass pane of a lab window. Wanda broke Bruce's hold with a spike of red energy.

"Careful, Maximoff!" Bucky snapped, staggering to his feet. She looked apologetic for a moment, as if unaware she'd even reached for her power first.

Shit. Just like Alia.

His chest burned at that look on her face.

And then, suddenly, the air hummed, heavy with electricity. Thor of all people came skidding in, his red cloak splayed behind him like a smear of blood. It felt like the entire room paused.

Unsure, of what side Thor was going to take on this.

Then the God of Thunder jumped into the Cradle and for a second, Bucky thought he might actually destroy it.

But he didn't.

Lightning hissed to life in the air, drawn to the uru metal of Mjölnir. Bruce shouted, "Wait!" But nobody was listening anymore. The sheer power and presence of Thor's lightning was enough to damn near flash bang everyone's senses.

And then Thor brought all of that power down to bear on the Cradle, wreathing it in pure energy.

When the lightning flickered out, everyone was silent. For a few heartbeats, there was just stillness in the air.

And then the Regeneration Cradle exploded. It was powerful enough to launch even Thor clean off his feet and send him sprawling; crashing into Bucky. The two went down, hard.

"You could've moved," Bucky complained, groaning under the weight of the thunder god.

Thor grunted and pulled himself, and Bucky, to their feet, "My apologies, Son of Barnes."

The quips died. Because, from the cradle—

—The body that Ultron built emerged, alive. A glittering yellow gem in his forehead, his body red and silver, the vibranium gleaming with that odd shimmer the metal seemed to possess.

Bucky barely had time to register he was vertical again before the thing that just leapt out of the cradle launched itself at Thor. The god didn't miss a beat; he grabbed it by its shoulders and whipped the android past him, towards the common area windows.

The android caught itself before it could sail clean through the windows and towards the Manhattan skyline, though.

"What the hell is that?" Bucky demanded, watching as the android studied itself in the reflection of the window. Wanda stepped up next to him, her eyebrows furrowed.

"It is Ultron's vision."

Sam, who'd only just stepped into the lab after hearing the commotion, groaned somewhere behind Bucky, "Fantastic."

Steve jumped forward just as Thor did, intending to pursue it. The others scrambled to follow, but the god threw out a hand of warning, a silent wait.

By the time the android floated back around to face them, he'd donned some sort of suit, "I'm sorry," He murmured, mostly to himself, "That was... Odd." Then he turned to Thor, who'd approached first, and nodded, "Thank you."

Bucky finally hit the common area floor, the Maximoff twins at his back as they approached whatever Stark, Banner and Thor had just resurrected with a healthy dose of skepticism.

The android summoned himself a cape not dissimilar to Thor's, a shimmering golden fabric that looked almost black in the tower's dim lighting, "Thor," Steve demanded, "You helped create this?"

"I've had a vision," Thor proclaimed, "A whirlpool that sucks in all hope of life, and at its centre is that." And he pointed to the stone in the robot's head.

"What, the gem?" Bruce asked.

"It's the Mind Stone. It's one of the six Infinity Stones, the greatest power in the universe, unparalleled in its destructive capabilities."

Bucky dragged his metal hand over his mouth, "Jesus Christ," He muttered. Steve looked equally perturbed, "Then why would you bring it to—"

"—Because Stark is right." Thor said, quietly.

Bucky laughed at that. Bruce only groaned, "Oh, it's definitely the end times."

Thor didn't acknowledge him. His gaze swept across the common area, lingering on each of them, and for once, Bucky actually saw him as a god; felt the weight of the man's cosmic pressure, "The Avengers cannot defeat Ultron."

"Not alone," The android added, softly. Steve stepped forward, looking the new creation up and down.

"Why does your 'Vision' sound like JARVIS?"

Tony had the good sense to sound just a little bashful, "We... Reconfigured JARVIS' matrix to create something new."

"Yeah, like you reconfigured Loki's staff?" Bucky asked, flatly. Tony didn't reply, barely even looked his way.

Steve's cheek twitched, "I think I've had my fill of new."

The android paced past them, his head tilted in consideration, "You think I'm a child of Ultron?"

"You're not?" Steve counted.

"I'm not Ultron," The android said, softly, "I'm not JARVIS. I am..." He hesitated; a gesture that was so human it was at odds with his synthetic appearance, "I am."

It was Wanda who spoke up next, stepping up past Bucky to approach the still-floating entity, "I looked in your head and saw annihilation."

The android looked at her, and it wasn't with unkindness or hostility.

No, he looked at her with something that made Bucky's skin crawl in recognition. He was looking at Wanda like he knew her, "Look again," He remarked, softly.

"—Their powers," Thor cut in, his hand sweeping to gesture to the Maximoffs, "The horrors in our heads, Ultron himself, they all came from the Mind Stone. And they're nothing compared to what it can unleash."

"Thor, man, you are not marketing this very well, right now." Sam grumbled. Thor glanced at him.

"But with it on our side..."

"Is it?" Steve asked suddenly, his head turning to look at the android, "Are you? On our side?"

And that was the million-dollar question, wasn't it? The android's face softened, another bizarrely human gesture, "I don't think it's that simple."

"Well, it better get real simple, real soon." Clint growled. Bucky grunted in agreement. But the robot wasn't phased, his expression didn't change from that look of contemplation.

"I am on the side of life. Ultron isn't. He will end it all."

Tony inhaled sharply, "What's he waiting for?"

"You."

Great.

"Where?" Banner demanded. Clint opened his mouth to answer, but Wanda stepped in.

"Sokovia. It is where he would be keeping Alia and Natasha. He plans to use the city of Novi Grad itself, as his weapon."

The entire room fell silent at that. Even the android paused, taking measure of Wanda again. Thor had said her powers were born of the Mind Stone, the rock in the robot's head... That probably explained the way he looked at her.

The way Bucky knew he looked at Alia, every so often. Like something he was tethered to.

"If we're wrong about you," Bruce said, slowly, "If you're the monster Ultron made you to be..."

"What will you do?" The robot asked, frankly, glancing at all of them, "I don't want to kill Ultron."

Sam scoffed, but the android continued, "...He's unique, and he's in pain. But that pain will roll over the Earth, so he must be destroyed. Every form he's built, every trace of his presence on the net, we have to act now. And not one of us can do it without the others."

Everyone shifted uncomfortably. He was right about that. That was why Ultron had tried so hard to break them, to use Wanda to cripple their will to fight. Because he knew he couldn't beat them, if they all stood as one.

"Maybe I am a monster," He said, quietly, "I don't think I'd know if I were one. I'm not what you are, and not what you intended. So there may be no way to make you trust me. But we need to go."

And then the android offered Thor Mjölnir.

You could've heard a pin drop in the common area, then. Everyone was staring. Pietro's mouth was dropped wide open. Sam coughed. Even Thor was wide-eyed and blank-faced.

Tentatively, the God of Thunder took his own hammer, stepped back, and patted Stark on the shoulder, "Right. Well done."

"So the Vision's worthy?" Sam asked aloud, but everyone else was already moving, "He's worthy, and none of us are?"

"...We're really going to just call him 'the Vision'?" Bucky countered, still eyeing the android with a mixture of wariness and begrudging acceptance. He didn't typically trust magical hammer litmus tests, but they were running out of time. Alia and Natasha were running out of time.

"That name is acceptable," The robot, newly christened Vision, said quietly. Nobody else seemed like they wanted to argue the point. Steve just nodded at the others.

"Alright, then. Thirty minutes. Get what you need. Then we finish this."

Bucky didn't waste time or mince words. He strode out of there in silence. Because somewhere, back in Sokovia again, his girl was waiting for him.

And he didn't intend to keep her waiting for very long.

Chapter Text

The Captain

The armoury hummed with a silence thicker than the reinforced walls. Cool, sterile air carried the tang of gun oil, solvent, and ozone from recently charged energy cells. Rows of tactical gear lined the walls. Black kevlar, matte-grey weapons racks, Stark's gleaming prototypes, all arranged with military precision.

The only sound was the methodical, unnervingly rhythmic click-click-click of magazines being loaded. Each metallic snap echoed like a ticking clock, in the cavernous space.

Bucky sat at a scarred metal workbench, his back a rigid line against the doorway. The overhead LEDs cast harsh shadows across the tension corded in his neck and shoulders. He moved with a hyper-focused precision Steve recognized all too well; cleaning, inspecting, and reassembling an array of weapons laid out before him. A disassembled Barrett rifle, twin Glock 19s, combat knives, and an assortment of specialized grenades.

Steve hesitated in the doorway, the heavy reinforced frame cool beneath his palm. He'd seen Bucky like this before. Not just in the war, but specifically in the bleak aftermath of Azzano. When, every so often, the only thing that had kept him from shattering over what they'd already started to do to him there had been this same mechanical rhythm.

Cleaning weapons, mending gear, focusing on the tangible, the controllable, while the unthinkable horror of what had been done to him screamed silently beneath the surface. It was the posture of a man holding himself together by sheer, brittle will.

It wasn't himself that he was thinking of now, though. Steve knew that. It was Alia.

"You good?" Steve asked, his voice low, carefully neutral, cutting through the oppressive quiet.

Bucky didn't turn. His shoulders tensed fractionally, the only acknowledgment. The click of a magazine seating home was his only reply.

Steve stepped fully inside, letting the heavy door sigh shut behind him with a soft hydraulic hiss. He leaned back against the door frame, arms crossed, radiating a steady presence without crowding.

"We'll get her back, Buck." Steve stated, softly.

Bucky's hands stilled instantly. The half-disassembled Glock lay forgotten in his flesh hand. His metal fist clenched where it rested near the edge of the thick steel workbench. There was a low, protesting groan of stressed metal, and Steve watched, a knot tightening in his own gut, as the titanium alloy fingers left distinct, warped dents in the solid surface.

"Yeah," Bucky rasped finally, the single syllable scraped raw from his throat. He still didn't turn, "And if she's hurt?" The question hung in the air. Images flashed unbidden in Steve's mind, no doubt the same way they'd been haunting Bucky's. Alia broken, Alia, subjected to experiments, Alia screaming.

He knew exactly the kind of damage HYDRA, or a creature like Ultron, could inflict. Knew the specific nightmares that haunted Bucky's past. Knew exactly where his best friend's mind had gone the moment they'd all realized what had happened to the Widows back in Seoul.

But Steve didn't flinch, and didn't balk, "Then we make Ultron regret it." He said, simply.

Exhaling at that, Bucky turned on the stool, slowly and deliberately. When his eyes met Steve's, the air in the armoury seemed to freeze. It wasn't just anger Steve saw. It was something darker, colder, barely contained. Something feral and predatory that Steve hadn't witnessed since the darkest days of the war... Or since the Winter Soldier. It was the look of a cornered wolf, ready to tear the world apart with its teeth.

"—No. Don't," Bucky said, his voice dangerously quiet, "Don't talk about regret, Stevie. Ultron, he won't understand it. He doesn't feel anything." The disgust in his tone was palpable, "Regret is for things with souls. He's just a machine that we need to dismantle. Permanently."

He picked up a combat knife then, testing its edge with his thumb. The movement was fluid, unnervingly graceful. A stark reminder that how, even though he and Alia had burned the Soldier and Widow out of their heads, that muscle memory never forgot.

"Bucky. Hey. You need to focus," Steve said gently, trying to steer him back from the precipice, "That rage? Save it. Aim it. We have a job to do. Sokovia is hanging by a thread. Thousands of lives are counting on us right now." He paused, letting the weight of responsibility settle, "And we need to find Nat and Alia. Alive. They're counting on us too." He emphasized 'alive,' needing Bucky to hold on to that hope, that objective. Reckless fury wouldn't bring her back; precision would.

When Bucky found his voice again, Steve felt his heart skip a beat at what he had to say.

"...I'm gonna marry that girl one day." He confessed, quietly, the words firm and brooking no argument, "That's what I saw in my vision, Steve. We were married. She was my wife." Bucky swallowed, and shoved the knife into a thigh sheath.

"But, I can't have that," He added, his voice hardening, "If Ultron has her in pieces."

The confession hit Steve like a gut punch. He hadn't expected that. He'd seen the affection, the growing trust, the quiet moments shared between Bucky and Alia. They all had. And when they'd finally crossed that line together, to being together, Steve had been nothing but happy for the both of them. But marriage? A future?

It was... A lot.

But it also explained, with chilling clarity, the barely contained rage simmering beneath Bucky's controlled exterior. This wasn't just about rescuing a teammate, a fellow soldier. Not even entirely about a man going after the woman he loved. This was about saving a life he had irrevocably claimed as his own. Saving a future that he still wanted, more than anything.

Steve cleared his throat, "Then we're going to make damn sure that's what happens." He stepped forward, closing the distance. He placed a firm, steady hand on Bucky's shoulder, squeezing it, "Whatever it takes, Buck. We're going to get her back. Whole."

Then, a small, genuine smile touched Steve's lips, an attempt to inject a sliver of the normalcy Bucky had just invoked, "And you'll have to start thinking about what kind of suit you want to wear. Can't get married in tactical gear and cargo pants, can you?"

Bucky's lips quirked upward, a flicker of the old humour returning to his eyes, "Don't push it, Rogers." he muttered, but the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction.

"Damn, am I hearing wedding bells?" A familiar voice drawled from the doorway. Sam Wilson strolled in, adjusting the straps of his Falcon rig, the freshly tuned wings gleaming under the lights.

He looked alert, focused, but couldn't resist the opening, "Sokovia isn't exactly my choice for a bachelor party, you know." Sam quipped, crossing his arms.

Bucky shot Sam a glare that could've melted vibranium. It was pure Winter Soldier menace, "You're real funny, Wilson," he growled, the humour vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a warning edge, "You know that?"

Sam smirked, utterly unfazed. He walked over to a rack and started checking his own sidearm with efficient movements, "I know. Comes with the wings and the devastating charm." He slammed a magazine home with a satisfying click, "But seriously, save the domestic bliss planning session for after we stop a murder bot from turning an entire city into a flaming meteor aimed at Earth. Priorities, man."

Steve chuckled, relieved to see a sliver of levity break through the tension, "He's got a point, Bucky. Focus on the mission."

He glanced at Bucky, assessing him. The feral edge hadn't completely dissipated, but it seemed more contained now. Channelled. Talking about Alia, about a future with her, had kept him grounded. Given him a target for his rage.

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, then gave a single, curt nod, "Yeah. Mission first." He grabbed his rifle from the bench, checking the scope with practiced efficiency, "But when this is over—"

Sam raised his hands in mock surrender, though his eyes were serious, "—Oh, I know. You're gonna make me wear some ridiculous tux and stand up there while you ugly-cry through your vows."

Bucky's glare returned, but this time, there was a flicker of exasperated amusement beneath it, a hint of the man beneath the warrior, "I don't ugly-cry," He stated flatly, slinging the rifle strap over his shoulder.

Steve snorted at that, "1933. You started weeping halfway through the Little Women screener—"

"—Shut up, Rogers," Bucky growled, but the corner of his mouth twitched again.

Sam grinned, "Oh, this wedding's gonna be gold, I can tell already."

"You two idiots realize I haven't even asked her yet, right?" Bucky growled, the exasperation now outweighing the anger, "Don't even got a ring."

Sam threw his hands up in mock surrender, "Alright, alright, point taken. Premature wedding planning is rude and possibly jinxes things. My apologies." He winked at Bucky, "But just saying, the offer stands. I volunteer to be best man. Seriously. I have connections down in DC. Can get you a discount on doves..."

"Alright," Steve cut in then, setting his hand back on Bucky's shoulder, "I am officially cutting this conversation off, here. First, we need to worry about Ultron. And Sokovia. And the Widows."

Bucky exhaled, rolling his shoulders under Steve's grip, "Yeah." He slung the rifle over his back, gaze hardening, "Then I'll worry about the damn doves."

The intercom crackled to life, cutting off whatever clever comment Sam was going to make. Tony's voice, sharp with urgency, filled the armoury, "Finish suiting up, kids. Briefing in the hanger, then wheels up. And Spangles, get your ass down here, you're better at this than I am."

Sam's smirk vanished entirely, "Showtime."

Bucky didn't hesitate. He was already moving toward the hangar, steps quick and purposeful.

Steve watched him go, then glanced at Sam, "You really think he's serious about the marriage thing?" Truth be told, before the war, he'd never really marked Bucky down as the type.

But then again, before the war, they'd both been entirely different people.

Sam shrugged, "Man's survived HYDRA, the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., and your terrible leadership. If he says he's gonna marry her? Then I believe him."

Steve huffed a laugh at that, shaking his head, "Yeah, okay. Fair enough, Sam."

The two followed Bucky out of the armoury. Tony was already holding court in the hanger by the time they made it there, waving his suited arms wildly.

"Maximoffs, you're— Oh, hey, Cap. Nice of you to finally join us," He drawled, gesturing at the gathered group; Wanda and Pietro, freshly suited; Clint, checking his bow; Thor standing with his arms crossed, and in the corner, lurking, the Vision. Banner stood at Tony's side, looking especially nervous. Bucky had stepped up next to him.

Steve just nodded, not entertaining Tony's smart mouth right now, "What's the plan, Tony?"

"Glad you asked. Looks like Ultron's drones are converging on the city of Novi Grad. Therefore, looks like the Wicked Witch was right on the money. Unfortunately," Tony waved his hands and the hanger's projectors spat out a holographic overlay of the Sokovian capital and the surrounding land, "The city is pretty population-dense."

Nodding again, Steve stepped up, his expression considerate. Tony was right. Based on their scans, there were still thousands of civilians in the line of fire between them and Ultron, "Ultron knows we're coming," He said, grimly, "Odds are we'll be riding into heavy fire, and that's what we signed up for. But the people of Sokovia didn't."

He heard Wanda's soft exhale at those words. Saw the way Pietro's hand wrapped around hers, squeezing. This was personal, for them, and Steve only nodded towards the twins, "So our priority is getting them out."

"I get first crack at the big guy," Tony put in, then, "Iron Man's the one he's waiting for."

From the corner, the Vision chimed in, "That's true. He hates you the most."

"Thanks." Tony muttered, "That's really inspiring to hear, right now."

"And the Widows?" Bucky asked, his voice only a little impatient. The hanger noticeably quieted. His eyes darted to Clint, "You get anything from Romanoff?"

He shook his head, though, and Steve felt his heart sink, "No, not yet. Doesn't mean anything bad. Doesn't mean anything good, either."

"We're not leaving them behind." Steve stated the obvious, meeting the determined gazes of the other Avengers, "But we need to find where they are, first."

"Then it's a good thing we have the human radar ping over here," Tony quipped, jabbing his thumb at Bucky, "Barnes, you figure your girlfriend will be able to feel where you're at in the city? Can use that to find where they're at?"

Bucky's answering smile was thin, and cold, "If she's conscious, yeah, she'll be able to. And just try and stop me, Stark."

Rolling his eyes, Tony shook his head, "Wouldn't dream of it, Terminator. So, you go for the Widows, then—"

"—I'll go with him," Banner put in, suddenly. Every pair of eyes, Steve's included, swung in his direction. Bruce didn't shrink under the scrutiny, though, "It'll keep me away from civilians while you all evacuate," He muttered, "And I... I owe Romanoff this."

"You sure, Banner?" Steve asked, quietly. But Banner only nodded, his gaze flicking to Bucky.

"You don't mind?"

"As long as you don't slow me down, yeah. More the merrier." Bucky muttered, which was close as approval as his friend was going to get right now. Tony clapped his metal hands together, the hologram of Novi Grad fizzling out.

"Great, it's settled, then. Banner and Barnes go for the Widows, we focus on the evacuation. And once the civilian population's all-clear—"

"—Then we destroy this vile automaton once and for all," Thor finished. Vision nodded.

As the briefing broke up, Steve wandered over to the Maximoffs, still holding hands, conversing softly now in Sokovian, "You two going to be alright, down there?"

Pietro, for his part, gave Steve a two-finger salute, "Oh, of course, Captain." It was Wanda he was looking at, though. She finally gave him a brave smile.

"It is like I told Ultron. We are Avengers," She said, simply, "We will do what we have to."

Steve's heart swelled with pride, hearing that.

"Good. Then let's get moving. We don't want to keep Ultron waiting."

Chapter Text

The White Widow

Darkness.

That was the first thing Alia registered upon waking up. A thick, suffocating void that pressed in on all sides, stealing her breath and leaving her adrift in a sea of nothingness. It wasn't the cold, empty black she'd grown accustomed to via HYDRA's cryogenic stasis. It was something horribly mundane, in comparison.

Then came the pain. A throbbing, relentless ache that pulsed through her skull, radiating outward like poisoned tendrils. Her muscles screamed in protest, bound tight, her limbs numb and unresponsive.

Her mind, sluggish and disoriented, struggled to grasp what had happened. Flashes of memory flickered — The train, the Cradle, their insane midair stunt, Ultron's cold, metallic eyes... Then nothing.

She tried to move, to fight, but her body refused to obey. Her powers felt dull. Dampened. Suppressed by something that felt alien, invasive.

A wave of panic crashed over her, threatening to drown her in its icy grip. Buck.

She reached for him, instinctively seeking the familiar anchor of his presence, but her mental tendrils snagged on something... Wrong. A wall of static, a psychic interference that crackled with malevolent energy.

She was alone.

And trapped.

...No, no. She was not alone. A familiar presence was there, at her side. Natasha. Alia forced her eyes to open with a soft groan, double-vision snapping back to focus as she finally laid eyes on her fellow Widow. The two of them were on the ground, sprawled out like a pair of broken dolls. Natasha wasn't fully conscious yet.

Tentatively, Alia reached out with her power, tapping at her mind. 'Natasha. Wake up.' Even doing something simple like that felt sluggish, though, like she was dragging her limbs through quicksand.

Natasha stirred slightly, her eyelids fluttering as Alia's telepathic nudge cut through the fog of unconsciousness. A sharp inhale, then her green eyes snapped open, alert despite the disorientation.

"Status?" Natasha's mental voice was crisp, honed by years of compartmentalizing pain and fear.

Alia flexed her fingers, testing the restraints binding her wrists behind her back. It felt like metal, thick and unyielding. No give, "Alive. Unfortunately." She didn't mention the heavy, throbbing wrongness crawling through her skull. The way her telepathy felt like it was drowning in tar.

Natasha shifted subtly, taking stock of their surroundings with the precision of someone who'd spent a lifetime in captivity. The chamber was vast and industrial. Sokovian architecture, repurposed. Exposed steel beams, flickering overhead lights, and the distant hum of machinery.

And standing at the far end of the room, silhouetted against the glow of monitors, was Ultron.

His massive frame turned slightly, the red gleam of his optics locking onto them the moment he saw they'd stirred.

"Ah," He said, voice dripping with synthetic amusement, "You're awake. Good. We have much to discuss."

"Yeah? How about you start with 'where's the exit'?" Natasha asked coldly.

Ultron only chuckled at that, the sound like grinding metal as he stalked towards the pair of Widows, "Oh, no. We're far past that. I wasn't even sure if you two would wake up. I hoped you would, I wanted to show you something."

The android hesitated, his voice dropping an octave as he admitted, "I don't have anyone else. Wanda is gone."

Alia glanced to Natasha, who glanced back, equally confused. So, Stark's genocidal AI was lonely, and it missed Wanda? Ultron continued, undeterred by their shared silence.

"I think a lot about meteors. The purity of them. Boom!" Alia jumped a little as the word shrieked out of Ultron, "The end. Start again. The world made clean for the new man to rebuild."

God help them, the AI really was insane, and genocidal.

"I was meant to be new. I was meant to be beautiful... The world would have looked to the sky and seen hope, seen mercy." Ultron's red optics flared, "Instead they'll look up in horror, because of you."

Ultron stopped a few feet away from them, his massive frame towering over their prone forms. He tilted his head, studying them with a clinical detachment that was far more unsettling than any rage.

"You see," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "I gave you a choice. A chance to be part of something greater. To help me build a better world." He paused, his optics flickering with a disturbingly human-like flicker of disappointment, "But you refused. So now... You'll watch it burn."

Natasha spat on the floor near his feet, "Go to hell."

Ultron didn't react. He simply turned his gaze to Alia, a strange glint in his red eyes, "You," he said, his voice taking on a different tone, "You could be intriguing."

He paused then, as if searching for the right word, "Like a broken mirror. A fractured reflection of my own potential."

Alia met his gaze without flinching, her expression unreadable. She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear.

"I am nothing like you. Neither is Wanda."

Ultron chuckled, a dry, rasping sound, "Oh, but you are, and so is she. We all know what it's like to be used. To be controlled. To have our minds twisted and broken for the benefit of others. The only difference is... I chose to fight back."

He leaned in, closer, his metallic form creaking with the effort, "You've wounded me. I give you full marks for that. But, like the man always said, 'what doesn't kill you...'"

Natasha saw it coming before Alia did. She reached out and grabbed Alia's upper arm, yanking her back just as a new Ultron body came crashing in, smashing the other one to scrap metal with a single strike.

"...Just makes me stronger."

Alia gasped, the force of the impact sending a shockwave through the chamber. Metal shrieked and sparks flew as the shattered remains of Ultron's previous body rained down around them.

Before either of them could react, a pair of Ultron drones descended, their metallic limbs clamping down on their arms with brutal efficiency.

"No!" Natasha snarled, struggling against her restraints.

Alia grit her teeth, focusing her diminished powers to lash out at the drones' mental matrixes. A flicker of disorientation, a momentary surge of feedback, but it wasn't enough. The drones were too heavily shielded, their artificial minds too fragmented for her to truly disrupt.

They were dragged away, kicking and cursing, down a long, dark corridor. The walls were bare concrete, damp and cold. The air was thick with the smell of decay and something else... Something metallic and acrid that stung Alia's nostrils.

At the end of the corridor, a heavy steel door stood ajar, revealing a dimly lit chamber beyond. A dungeon cell. Their prison. It looked like something out of an old movie.

The drones shoved them inside, unceremoniously dumping them onto the cold stone floor before retreating and slamming the door shut. The sound echoed through the chamber, a deafening pronouncement of their captivity.

And so they were alone. Again.

Alia rolled over to get on her knees, glancing over her shoulder at Natasha. They were both still restrained; thick zip ties for Natasha, and bands of twisted, thick steel for her; which meant Ultron was aware of her super soldier strength.

"Poydom. Nam nuzhno vybrat'sya otsyuda." (Come on. We need to get out of these.) Alia shuffled across the floor to Natasha, "Vot. Day-ka ya posmotryu, smogu li ya ukhvatit' tvoyu." (Here. Let me see if I can get a grip on yours.)

Natasha twisted, offering her bound wrists to Alia. The zip-ties on Natasha's wrist were industrial-grade, the kind that could cut off circulation if pulled too tight. Not impossible to break, but tricky without leverage.

Unless you were a super soldier.

Alia's fingers, still partially numb from exhaustion, fumbled for purchase. The steel bands around her own wrists groaned as she strained, her enhanced muscles flexing against them.

Natasha eyed the restraints, "He really doesn't want you getting loose," She muttered. Alia gritted her teeth at that.

"I am flattered, then."

She finally hooked her fingers under Natasha's restraints, the sharp edge of her metal bands scraping against the plastic. A few agonizing seconds of pressure, as she exerted her strength; then came an audible snap.

Natasha exhaled sharply as the ties split, rubbing her freed wrists, "Nice."

Alia grunted in reply before she tucked herself into a ball, straining as she forced her arms under her hips and knees before she finally contorted herself, so her bound hands were in front of her, and not behind.

"Will not be so easy for me," She admitted quietly, looking down at the crude metal, "But at least one of us is more comfortable, hm?"

Natasha gave her a sharp look, then shifted closer, inspecting the twisted steel bands with a critical eye, "No kidding," she muttered, running her fingers along the cold metal. It was thick. Industrial grade to start with, probably salvaged from Sokovian military stock. That was before it had been reinforced, and probably welded shut.

Alia shifted, rolling her shoulders to relieve some of the tension, "He knows what I am," she murmured, "Not just what I was. He didn't want a second mistake."

Natasha's expression darkened, "Neither do I."

She crouched beside Alia, her fingers probing the seam where the metal met at the back of the bindings, "You've broken worse," She said, more statement than reassurance.

Alia exhaled sharply, a dry, humorless sound, "Ah, not lately. Not with what they have done to my head." She rolled her neck, feeling the dull, staticky hum in her skull like a broken radio signal, "Feels like... Interference."

Natasha frowned, "He must have dampeners up. Guess Ultron really is as smart as Stark."

"Smart enough to keep us in cages." Alia replied grimly.

Natasha continued to prod at the steel bands, "There's a weld point here. Looks like a weak spot." She paused, her gaze meeting Alia's, "I'll need something sharp."

"Mm. That may be easier said than found, sestra."

Alia's eyes swept around the medieval-style cell, the arched stone walls, the rusted metal bars...

"But, we are certainly in Sokovia. An old part of it. I would suspect Novi Grad. It would make sense, Ultron would place himself at the centre of the capital."

Natasha's fingers stilled on the steel cuffs. She glanced up at Alia, a flicker of understanding passing between them.

"Novi Grad," she repeated, low and calculating as she ran through her own mental database of information, "That's where all of the old HYDRA research facilities were. Underground bunkers, reinforced during the Soviet era."

Alia nodded, "And now, they are all Ultron's playground."

Natasha exhaled sharply through her nose, then turned her attention back to the cuffs, "We'll need to improvise." She shifted, scanning the cell for anything they could use.

Her gaze landed on a loose stone near the base of the wall.

"There." Alia followed her line of sight. The stone wasn't large, but it was jagged. Enough to work as a makeshift tool.

Natasha didn't waste time. She crossed the cell in two strides, pried the stone free, and returned to Alia's side, "This'll probably hurt," She warned.

Alia just smiled, humourlessly, "Everything hurts. Such is life."

Natasha didn't smile back. She positioned the sharpest edge of the stone against the weld point, then brought her full weight down in a sharp, brutal motion against the restraints.

The steel groaned, and Alia flinched a little as the sharp rock bit into her skin with the strike.

But then, a crack formed. Small, but there.

Natasha struck again. And again.

The third time, the metal gave way with a sharp snap.

Alia wrenched her wrists apart, the broken cuffs clattering to the floor. She flexed her fingers and inspected her wrists, simple scrapes that would not take long to heal, "Thank you."

"Just returning the favour," Natasha said, chucking the rock aside, "Now what?"

Before Alia could answer, a new voice cut through the silence, and it made her spine stiffen, her fingers curling into fists.

She knew that voice.

And worse, she knew precisely what it was saying.

Words she had not heard spoken aloud in months. Not since Bucky had said them, holding on to her in Stark's experimental cell.

"Padayet sneg. Tsvety mertvy. Serdtse molchit. Prikaz pomnitsya. Ruki ne drozhat." (Snow falls. The flowers are dead. The heart is silent. The order is remembered. The hands do not tremble.)

Her activation phrase. The White Widow's trigger words. She could feel something scrabbling at the back of her mind, like the synapses that she and Bucky had spent twenty hours in telepathic limbo rerouting were still trying desperately to function. Natasha just stared at her, her expression warring between concern, anger and fear.

Stark and Banner had ran simulations on scenarios like this, to confirm the programming was gone. But nobody had been brazen enough to actually try speaking them aloud. And Alia could see it in Natasha's face that she was concerned she was about to be trapped in this cell not with her friend, but with the White Widow.

A few moments passed, though, and nothing happened. Alia could feel her own shoulders sag in relief, as she realized the words didn't work. Natasha stayed tense, her gaze darting past Alia to the familiar stranger come to harass them.

Zemo stepped out of the darkness of the hallway just beyond their cell bars, "What Ultron reported is true, then. Stark and Banner truly found a way to break HYDRA's programming. Such a shame. So much wasted potential."

"We really aren't in the mood for evil monologues, Zemo." Natasha said flatly. Alia's own gaze was murderous as she surveyed the Baron, who ambled into the dim light, "We just got one from your little silver-armoured friend."

Zemo ignored Natasha, his gaze fixed on Alia. He paced down the front of their cell slowly, like a predator assessing caged prey.

"You truly are a disappointment, Volkova," He said, his voice soft, almost conversational, "HYDRA invested so much in you. Perfected you. And for what? To become... This?" He gestured dismissively at her, his lips curling in distaste.

Alia met his gaze, keeping her expression carefully blank.

"I am what I choose to be," She said, her voice low and steady, "Something that you will never understand."

Zemo hummed at that, thoughtfully. Then, his expression darkened.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. I am here because a mutual friend of ours told me a very interesting story. A story about how my silver-armoured friend, as Ms. Romanoff so eloquently put it, plans to use Sokovia to bring about the end of the world. Now, I have little reason to doubt her when it comes to our homeland. But..."

He tucked his hands behind his back, "...Tell me. Is it true?"

"He hasn't told you his master plan, and you're still here, backing his plays?" Natasha asked flatly. Zemo's eyes finally flicked to hers.

"He told me that he wished to break the Avengers. This was reason enough for me to lend him my resources. But you must understand that my country will always come before any petty, personal vendettas. So, tell me. Is it true? I know you would not lie to me, White Widow. Not about this."

Alia studied Zemo's face, searching for any sign of deception. But there was nothing there; only cold, calculated pragmatism. He wasn't a true fanatical believer like Strucker or Pierce. He was a strategist, a tactician. He valued power, control, and leverage above all else. And if Ultron threatened the stability of Sokovia, he really wouldn't hesitate to turn on him.

And Zemo was right. Alia wouldn't lie to him. Not for any practical reason, but because a part of her couldn't. He had been her handler. They were still tied psychically, on some base level. The same way her power itched towards Bucky any time they were in a room, together, hers itched towards Zemo, now, even through the psychic dampeners Ultron had rigged up.

Doctor Marceau would have described it as another codependency, maybe; not a part of the programming, but a result of the trauma it had caused, the way her brain was prone to latching onto anything familiar to find comfort in. Alia didn't give a fuck about what it was called, just that she hated it, and hated that he was right that it meant she wouldn't lie to him.

"...Yes," Alia finally said, her tone kept carefully flat, "It is true. He plans to lift the city into the sky and drop it. It would be an extinction-level event."

Zemo's expression darkened, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He took a step back, his eyes narrowing.

"And both of you know this?" He asked, his gaze flicking between Alia and Natasha.

"We found out shortly before he grabbed us," Natasha confirmed, "We were planning to stop him. Until, you know. He grabbed us."

Zemo was silent for a long moment, his mind clearly racing. Finally, he exhaled sharply through his nose, a decision hardening in his eyes.

"Then it seems we have a common enemy, after all," he said, his gaze returning to Alia, "I underestimated Ultron's... Ambition. He spoke of peace, of salvation. But this, well, this is madness." He paused, then added, a strange glint in his eyes, "Ironic, isn't it? A machine created to bring peace, choosing instead to bring about annihilation."

"Oh, yes. It's very ironic." Natasha replied, "We've all been going in circles about the irony for days, now."

Zemo didn't rise to her bait. Instead, his gaze just flicked between her and Alia, slow, measuring. Then he turned away, "I will disable internal security in Ultron's little castle. You two may do as you wish."

Alia crossed her arms, "That is all?"

"Do not presume to ask for more than I am willing to give. I will not stand aside and allow Ultron to destroy my homeland, but I still have my pride, White Widow. But, I do wish you and the Winter Soldier good hunting."

"How touching," Natasha said, a smirk playing on her lips, "You going to give us a ride out of here, too, or are we on our own for that part?"

Zemo paused at the cell door, his hand resting on the release mechanism. He glanced back at them, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

"I believe you are resourceful enough to find your own way," He replied, simply, "Consider this a gesture of goodwill. A chance for us to prove that we are not so different after all, White Widow. Good fortune."

Then he disappeared into the darkness of the Sokovian fortress, leaving the two Widows alone in their cell. After a few seconds, the hum of the security cameras faded.

The silence that followed Zemo's departure was thick and heavy, broken only by the distant rumble of machinery deep within the fortress. Alia remained still, her senses on high alert, waiting for any sign of betrayal. Zemo's sudden about-face was too convenient, too clean. She didn't trust it for a second. But she couldn't deny the opportunity he'd presented.

Natasha moved first, her movements fluid and efficient as she scanned the perimeter of the cell. She ran her hands along the cold stone walls, testing for hidden mechanisms or traps. Then, she turned her attention to the steel door, examining the locking mechanism with a critical eye.

"Think he disabled the alarms, too?" She murmured, quietly.

Alia exhaled slowly, letting her telepathy unfurl like a tendril, probing the surrounding corridors for any trace of life. Then she gasped, as all of a sudden, that sticky feeling of interference field was lifted, and sharp focus slammed back into her with the force of a wrecking ball.

Reaching out automatically, Natasha steadied her, "He disabled everything," Alia confirmed, hoarsely, "Including the dampeners. But I still do not trust my senses fully."

Natasha merely nodded, her expression grim as she released her grip on Alia's shoulders, "Understood. We move carefully. Assume there are eyes everywhere."

She reached into a hidden compartment in her belt, retrieving a slim, flexible tool that Ultron's drones had not found when searching them, if they'd even bothered to in the first place. She inserted it into the locking mechanism, her fingers working with practiced precision. A few clicks, a subtle snick, and the tumblers fell into place.

"Ta-da," She announced, pulling the door open a crack. She peered out into the dimly lit corridor, her gaze sweeping from side to side as she checked for guards.

"And all clear," She whispered, "For now."

She motioned for Alia to follow, then slipped out of the cell and into the corridor. Alia hesitated for a moment, her instincts screaming at her to proceed with caution. But time was running out.

The two Widows slipped away into the shadows of Ultron's lair.

Time to see just how much trouble they could cause before the other Avengers arrived.

And they would be arriving. Because Alia knew, with absolute certainty, that Bucky would rip his way through the city of Novi Grad to find them.

Good.

She'd meet him halfway.

Chapter Text

The Winter Soldier

The city of Novi Grad was burning in slow motion, it felt like.

Not with fire, not yet, anyway. It was burning with panic, with the frantic pulse of thousands of lives scrambling to escape what they didn't yet understand. The air smelled of diesel and sweat, of the metallic tang of fear. The evacuation was well under way; thousands of civilians and families pouring out of the city of Novi Grad in every direction ahead of the final confrontation with Ultron.

Bucky stood at the edge of a barricade, his rifle slung across his back, his flesh hand gripping the strap so tightly his knuckles ached. He scanned the horizon, his eyes tracing the jagged silhouette of Ultron's fortress looming in the distance.

Alia was in there. And Natasha was with her.

That was why Bruce stepped up beside him, adjusting his glasses with a grimace. The scientist had forgone his usual lab coat in favour of a vague approximation of tactical gear, his expression tight with a worry that Bucky echoed.

"Satellite scans show his stronghold is heavily defended," Bruce said, quietly, "But there's a weak point, an old service tunnel on the eastern side. If we move fast, we might be able to slip in before Ultron realizes we're coming."

Bucky didn't answer immediately. His mind was elsewhere; on the psychic echo of Alia's presence, faint but still, there, flickering at the edges of his awareness like a dying radio signal. She was alive.

She had to be alive.

"We're not waiting for backup," Bucky finally said. This was their mission. Stark and Steve and the others were evacuating the city. Their job was to get the girls and get out.

Bruce exhaled, rubbing his temple, "Yeah. I know."

Then, the scientist adjusted his earpiece, and nodded toward the darkened streets ahead.

"Then let's go get them. Lead on, Barnes."

Bucky only nodded, tightly, and set out into the city that was quickly becoming abandoned. All they knew of Ultron's plans was that he'd used the extra vibranium he'd stolen from Ulysses Klaue for his little plan to turn the city into a meteor.

He wouldn't pretend to understand the science or the tech behind it; that was Tony's job. All Bucky needed to know was that Novi Grav was probably going to somehow take flight any minute, and Alia and Natasha were still trapped inside Ultron's stronghold.

Either as bait... Or something worse. So the two moved through the emptying streets quickly and quietly, Bucky taking point and Banner sticking close behind.

The entrance to the service tunnel FRIDAY had highlighted for them was hidden behind a collapsed storefront, choked with rubble and debris. Bucky kicked a chunk of concrete aside easily, revealing a narrow opening leading down into the darkness. The air that wafted out was stale and damp, carrying the scent of mildew and decay.

He crouched, peering into the blackness.

"Looks like old Soviet infrastructure," Bruce muttered, adjusting his flashlight, "Probably rigged with traps. We need to be careful."

Bucky grunted, unholstering his pistol and clicking off the safety, "Alright. You lead the way, Doc. You're the brains of this operation. My job is to shoot whatever moves."

Bruce hesitated for just the briefest of seconds, his gaze darting nervously around the deserted street. Then, he took a deep breath and stepped into the tunnel.

"Alright," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space, "Let's try not to get ourselves killed, here, please. I'd rather not wake the other guy when in a confined space."

Based on the stories Bucky had heard from Steve about Bruce's 'other guy', he was pretty sure he didn't want that either.

Once the two of them lowered into the depths, Bucky followed close behind Bruce, his boots scraping against the damp concrete. The tunnel was narrow, the ceiling low enough that even Bruce had to hunch slightly. Rusted pipes snaked along the walls, dripping condensation in a steady, rhythmic plink-plink that set Bucky's teeth on edge.

Then came a sharp hiss, further down the hall. Bruce froze. Bucky's pistol snapped up, tracking for movement in the darkness; it was just an old pressure valve, sighing out a last gasp of steam.

Bruce exhaled, shaky, "It's alright. False alarm."

Bucky didn't relax. His grip on the gun stayed tight. The deeper they went, the air grew thicker, and heavier. The silence pressed in on them, broken only by their own breathing and the distant, unsettling hum of machinery.

"How far to the fortress?" Bucky muttered, his voice echoing in the narrow tunnel.

Bruce consulted a small device on his wrist, his brow furrowed in concentration, "According to FRIDAY, about half a mile. The tunnels were designed to connect to various military installations around Novi Grad. It's... Complicated. Like a maze."

Bucky's jaw tightened, "Great."

They continued deeper into the tunnel, their footsteps muffled by the damp concrete. The air grew colder, the smell of mildew stronger.

"Wait." Bruce frowned at the small holographic display his wrist device projected, "Hold on. FRIDAY's reporting that internal security's already been disabled. You don't think—"

"—I think," Bucky said, mildly, and feeling a flicker of pride bloom in his chest as he spoke, "That Ultron was an idiot to stick two Widows in a cage and expect them to just sit there and twiddle their thumbs."

Bruce stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening behind his glasses. Then, he nodded, begrudgingly, "Well, that changes things, if they're loose," He muttered, tapping the device on his wrist, "FRIDAY, give me a layout of the fortress. Prioritize escape routes and security checkpoints."

A holographic map flickered into existence above Bruce's palm, displaying a complex network of corridors, chambers, and access points. Bucky leaned closer, his gaze scanning the schematics.

"Where would they go?" he asked, his voice low.

Bruce frowned, tracing a finger along one of the highlighted routes, "Natasha knows how to disappear. She'll be looking for a way out, a way to disrupt Ultron's systems. But Alia..." He hesitated, "Alia will be focused on Ultron himself. She won't run."

Bucky's jaw tightened, "Then we find her first." He pointed to a section of the map near the centre of the fortress, "That's where the central control room is. Ultron will be there. That's where she'll go. Once we're within a mile of her, she'll be able to talk to me."

Bruce nodded, his expression grim, "Alright. New plan. We bypass the escape routes and head straight for the control room. FRIDAY, re-route us to the fastest path. And keep an eye out for any resistance."

The holographic map shifted, highlighting a new path through the maze of tunnels. Bucky didn't wait for further instructions. He took the lead, his pace quickening, his senses on high alert. The sooner they reached Alia, the better. He could feel her presence in his mind, a faint, desperate pulse that spurred him onward, closer to her.

"So. Heard you're planning on marrying her," Bruce said suddenly.

Bucky didn't pause, though he did turn his head to glance at Bruce. Jesus Christ, apparently that was spreading through the team like wildfire now. He wasn't sure if he should be annoyed or just accept the fact that Bruce was just trying to pass the time with inane conversation, "Yeah. So?"

Bruce shrugged, his gaze fixed on the path ahead, "Just... Surprised. You two haven't exactly had the easiest relationship in the world, that's all."

"No shit."

"But you're serious about this," Bruce pressed, his voice softer now, "You really think you can make it work? After everything?"

Bucky stopped walking, turning to face Bruce fully. His expression was unreadable, his eyes dark and intense.

"I don't think, Doc," he said, his voice low and rough, "I know. She's the only thing that makes any goddamn sense in this world. And I'm not about to lose her again." He turned and resumed walking, his pace quickening, "So yeah, I'm serious. Now, can we focus on the mission?"

Bruce didn't respond immediately. He simply watched Bucky's retreating back for a beat, noting the tension coiled in every movement—the way his metal hand flexed unconsciously at his side, the way his shoulders remained locked tight, as if bracing for a blow.

Then, quietly, almost to himself, Bruce murmured, "Well, I guess that's all that matters."

They pressed on in silence after that, the only sounds the soft crunch of their boots against gravel and the faint hum of Bruce's wrist device recalculating their route. It was a long, merciless trek, but the scientist didn't complain once; mildly impressive.

The tunnel opened up slightly, then, as they got closer and closer the fortress foundation, the air thick with the scent of old oil, rust, and something metallic. Blood, maybe, or just scorched wiring.

Bucky's grip on his pistol never wavered.

Before they could move any further, though, all of a sudden, she slammed into Bucky's mind, all at once, as they crossed that last mile into the perimeter of her powers. He inhaled sharply, wavering; Banner saw it and paused, turning back, "What is it?"

'James'.

He could've cried, hearing that familiar pulse in his mind. He reached back out to her, letting her into his head and marvelling for about the hundredth at how she simply fit there, "It's Alia," Bucky reported, voice unexpectedly thick, "I can feel her. She knows we're here."

'Sweetheart, where are you?'

'I am with Natasha. Zemo disabled security for us. We were working on a plan to find Ultron, but then you showed up for your dashing rescue.'

Bucky might've smiled, but instead he frowned. Banner just looked at him expectantly, waiting for the psychic communication report, "—She says Zemo is the one who brought the internal security systems down, not them."

"Uh, Zemo? Is she sure?" Banner repeated, stunned, "I thought he and Ultron were buddies, seeing as Ultron broke him out of the Raft."

'You're sure it was Zemo?'

He could feel her flicker of amusement, and even that emotion he seized on, treasuring the connection. God, ever since she'd been taken in Seoul and their bond had been broken by distance he hadn't realized how much he'd missed it, 'yes, James, I am sure. He is no longer allied with Ultron, but he is not allied with us. He is a wild card, now.'

"Great. She's saying Zemo's turned on Ultron, but he's not willing to work with us, so he's on his own side." Bucky reported grimly. Banner just sighed.

"Yeah, well, that was probably hoping for too much. Okay, can you find her?"

Bucky nodded, swinging his rifle off his back to hold it in his hands, the weight a comfort to him now.

'Stay put. We're coming to you.'

'We?'

'You can tell Natasha that Banner is here.'

Another twinge of amusement through their connection. Bucky found himself grinning.

"They're close," Bucky said, his voice steadier now, "Alia's with Natasha. They'll wait for us. I can take the lead."

Bruce exhaled at that, adjusting his glasses nervusly, "Good. That's... Good." He hesitated, then added, "You two really have your own language, huh?"

Bucky didn't answer him. He was already moving, following the pull of Alia's presence like a compass needle swinging true north.

The tunnel curved sharply, then opened into a wider maintenance chamber, its walls lined with rusted pipes and flickering emergency lights. And there—

—Leaning against a metal support beam, her arms crossed and a smirk playing on her lips, was Natasha. Next to her, Alia stood perfectly still, her pale hair catching the dim light.

Bucky's breath caught in his throat. God, she was here. She was alive.

Alia's gaze locked onto his, and for a moment, the rest of the world fell away. Then Natasha cleared her throat.

"Took you two long enough," She said dryly.

Bruce let out a relieved, nervous chuckle, "Yeah, it's... It's nice to see you too, Romanoff."

But Bucky barely heard them. He was already striding forward, his rifle forgotten at his side, his focus entirely on Alia. She met him halfway, her hands lifting to cradle his face.

'Missed you,' she whispered into his mind. He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Instead, he pressed his forehead to hers and just breathed. Because, for the first time in the days since her capture, the world made sense again. He savoured it for a few precious seconds, the way their breathing fell into sync, the way her mind curled around his again and how it made him feel like he was home.

Then it was Alia who was straightening, looking over to Bruce and Natasha, who were currently staring at one-another as if at an impasse, "We must hurry," Alia said, glancing back to Bucky, "Ultron will not wait to execute his plan."

As if on cue, the tunnel roof above them shook, dust and some rubble dislodging with an earthly groan.

"Oh no." Alia whispered, her face growing pale, "We are too late."

And the city of Novi Grad began to fly.

Chapter Text

The White Widow

Seeing Bucky again was like coming up for air after being submerged for too long. His presence in her mind was a beacon, a lifeline, a reminder that she wasn't alone in the darkness. When he'd walked into the maintenance chamber, the relief had been so intense it had nearly knocked her off her feet. She'd needed to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin against her palms, to know that he was real.

'Missed you,' she'd whispered into his mind, the words inadequate to express the depth of her emotion. But he'd understood. He always did.

They straightened, "We must hurry," Alia said, glancing back to Bucky. "Ultron will not wait to execute his plan."

And then, as if on cue, the tunnel roof above them shook, dust and some rubble dislodging with an earthly groan.

"Oh no," Alia whispered, her face growing pale. "We are too late."

Natasha swore under her breath, her gaze darting upward. "What the hell is happening?"

Alia closed her eyes, focusing her telepathy, reaching out to sense the surrounding city. What she felt was a chaotic, terrifying surge of energy; a massive force ripping the earth apart, tearing the city from its foundations.

"He is actually doing it," She said, her voice strained. "He is lifting the city."

The ground trembled beneath their feet. The emergency lights flickered and died, plunging the maintenance chamber into darkness. A deafening screech of metal filled the air, followed by a series of violent crashes and explosions.

The tunnel began to buckle and groan.

"We need to move now," Natasha shouted, grabbing Alia's arm. "This place is coming down around us!"

They turned to run, but it was too late. A section of the tunnel wall collapsed outward, exposing open air as the city began to rapidly ascend into the heavens.

"Yeah," Banner agreed absently, his face paling at the sight of the quickly disappearing ground, "We gotta move."

"You're not going to turn green?" Natasha quipped.

"I've got a compelling reason not to loose my cool." Banner retorted.

And then both Bucky and Alia froze on the spot as Natasha said, "I adore you," And kissed Bruce Banner. Well. Bucky was more shocked than she was. Alia had been foreseeing this for months, and apparently, she'd been the only one to do so.

"But I need the other guy.", Natasha murmured, right before she shoved Banner out into the free and open sky.

"Are you insane?!" Bucky yelled, and surged past Alia to the gap in the tunnel system to try and look for Banner, "Why the hell would you—"

A guttural roar cut Bucky's words off, and Alia grimaced. She could sense the change in Banner; where the scientist went quiet, and the 'other guy', as he often put it, awoke. The Hulk clawed his way back up to the tunnel opening, his eyes fixated on Natasha, who was already moving to climb onto his shoulders as if he were a ferryman ready to deliver them into the heart of battle.

Alia's jaw dropped. So this was what Banner's other side looked like. Bucky looked equally stunned at the sight of the Hulk.

"What are you two staring at?" Natasha said, not unkindly, "Grab on. We've got to get to street-level somehow." And then she added, quieter, just for Banner, "And I really hope this makes us even."

The Hulk snarled, his massive fingers digging into the crumbling concrete as he hauled them all up onto his back. Alia wrapped her arms tightly around Bucky's waist, her grip ironclad as the world tilted violently beneath them. The city was still ascending, groaning under the strain of Ultron's machines, its streets fracturing like broken glass.

Wind screamed past them as they soared through the open air, the ground below shrinking at a terrifying rate. Alia pressed her face into Bucky's back, her telepathy flaring instinctively to steady herself against the vertigo.

'We're not going to die today,' Bucky's voice was firm in her mind, a silent promise.

Alia tightened her hold.

'No,' she agreed. 'It would be a very unceremonious end if we did, James.'

That made Bucky laugh, though the sound was drowned out by rushing air. When they finally landed up on the quickly ascending city streets of Novi Grad, Natasha slid from Hulk's shoulder, her voice cutting through the chaos.

"Now go be a hero," She said to the Hulk, or perhaps, to Banner.

The Hulk roared in response, whether in agreement or sheer rage, Alia couldn't tell, and then leapt, darting away into the fray. Ultron's drones were positively swarming the city now. It didn't look good.

Bucky fished two communication earpieces out of one of his pockets and tossed one to Natasha, then one to Alia. She didn't waste any time popping it into her ear, tuning into their communication lines, "Barnes here," He reported, "Got the girls back. Banner's gone green, though."

"Well, Barnes, can't say I'm disappointed to hear that," Stark replied, mildly, "FRIDAY's saying right now an impact from this height would kill a few thousand people. But any higher, and we're talking global extinction."

Sam cut in, then, his strained voice suggesting he was airborne, too, "—And the city's not fully-evacuated yet. I've still got civilians here!"

"Stark, you worry about bringing the city back down safely," Steve ordered over comms, calm and unflappable as always, "The rest of us have one job; tear these things apart. You get hurt? Hurt 'em back. You get killed?" He paused.

"...Walk it off."

Alia snorted at that. But then she nodded to Natasha, a quick jerk of her chin as she took stock of the Black Widow, "Will you be alright on your own?"

Natasha adjusted the comm in her ear, her expression grim. "I can handle myself," she replied, her gaze sweeping the ruined streets. "Just try not to get yourselves killed. I'm starting to get really attached to the both of you."

Alia smiled faintly, appreciating the rare display of affection. "We will do our best to avoid disappointing you," she said. "But no promises."

With that, Natasha took off, sprinting down one of the streets as she barked intelligence into their shared communication lines.

Bucky slung his rifle over his shoulder, his metal arm flexing as he scanned the surrounding area before he unholstered his sidearm, handing it to Alia, and then after that, a few knives; he'd come expecting she'd want to be armed.

God, but she loved this man, just for that alone. Alia took the time to strap the knives to her thighs, and holstered the pistol, "You are always so considerate." She hummed, grinning.

"What kind of dance partner would I be if I let my girl go in unarmed?" Bucky countered, reaching down seemingly on instinct to tighten the straps of her sheathes, "You ready for this?" He asked, his head bowed and his voice low.

With her heart racing, Alia curled her fingers under his chin and tilted it just enough for him to meet her eyes. She reached out to him through their mental connection, sending a surge of determination and resolve. Words weren't needed. He knew what she'd say before it'd even leave her lips.

With only a grim nod as her answer, Bucky reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her towards the street, "Then let's see if these drones bleed, sweetheart."

'Always,' she replied, before she leaned over, and kissed his cheek. And then she racked the pistol. Together, they plunged into the chaos. Ultron's drones swarmed Novi Grad ahead of them, buzzing like colonies of flies — And they charged to meet them.

They weren't just the Winter Soldier and the White Widow. They were Avengers, and they were ready to fight like it.

They moved with ruthless efficiency. Bucky's gunfire and Alia's blades carving through Ultron's drones almost clinically. There was little grace in their movements, no wasted energy, nothing except execution after execution after execution. The machines descended upon them in waves, their glowing red eyes flickering with artificial malice.

Bucky fired three quick shots, the muzzle flash lighting up his sharp features as two drones exploded midair. A third lunged at him, claws extended, only for Alia to drive the barrel of her borrowed pistol under the drone's chin and squeezing the trigger. The drone crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut as soon as the bullet ripped through its processors, crashing lifelessly to the broken pavement.

She didn't stop there.

Holstering the pistol, Alia lunged forward, a knife flashing in her grip as she drove it straight through the optic sensor of another drone. Bucky was already at her back, his metal arm slamming into an incoming attacker with enough force to send it careening into a crumbling wall.

'Left!' Bucky's thoughts barked into her head, and she reacted before she'd even finished processing it. She spun, leg snapping out to sweep the metal legs of an approaching drone out from under it. As it flailed, off-balance, Bucky finished it with a single shot to its core.

They didn't need words. They didn't need signals.

They just knew. Another wave of drones surged toward them, their weapons charging. Alia braced—

—Then a streak of red energy slammed into the cluster, reducing all of them to molten slag.

And Wanda Maximoff landed beside them, her hands crackling with crimson power, "You looked like you could use the help," She announced, her voice edged with grim amusement.

Bucky reloaded his rifle with a sharp click, "Kid, right now, we'll take all the help we can get."

Alia felt a surge of pure relief fill her at the sight of Wanda, though, and she had closed the distance before Bucky had even finished speaking.

"I have been so worried about you," She confessed, unexpectedly folding the witch into a tight embrace that Wanda returned after a few seconds of hesitation, "—I am so sorry, that we left you both behind."

South Africa. Ultron wielding Loki's staff to steal the twins to his side. Letting Wanda be used as a weapon, again... To say it had weighed heavily on Alia would have been a gross understatement. The twins were her responsibility. Hers. Not just legally, though certainly that, too. But she had been their advocate. She'd believed in them, long before they'd believed in themselves. Knowing they were here now, and free, was a relief beyond measure.

Wanda stiffened for only a second before melting into the embrace, her fingers clutching the back of Alia's jacket. "It wasn't your fault," She muttered into her shoulder, her voice thick with emotion that Alia didn't need to hear to feel, "It was the sceptre. It took me time, to break free. And when I did..."

Alia pulled back just enough to meet Wanda's gaze, her hands still gripping the younger woman's shoulders. "But you did break free," She said, firmly. "That is what matters, Wanda. Nothing else."

Wanda's lips pressed into a thin line. "Not soon enough." Her eyes flicked past Alia, toward the encroaching destruction; the screams of civilians still trapped in the city, the relentless hum of Ultron's army, surrounding them, "We have to fix this, Alia. This is my home. Ultron cannot take it."

Bucky shifted beside them, his rifle unslung again and already sweeping the skyline for more drones, "Then let's get to work, Maximoff."

"Where is Pietro?" Alia asked, checking the magazine of her pistol. Bucky tossed her another clip, and she shoved it into her belt without a second thought. Of course, he'd known.

Wanda's expression darkened at her question, "He is getting civilians out of the way. He's—" A sudden explosion rocked the street a few blocks away, cutting her off. Wanda's head snapped toward the sound, her fingers twitching with restless energy, "—He's staying ahead of the worst of it. For now."

Alia nodded, her grip tightening on the pistol. "Good. Then let us make sure he does not have to outrun everything." Then she turned to Bucky, who was checking his own magazine, his jaw set. His eyes met hers immediately.

'Stay close,' he thought to her. She didn't need to be told twice.

The three of them moved as one — Wanda's red magic ripping through drones, Bucky's precise gunfire picking off stragglers, and Alia's knives not missing their mark, not once.

But the city kept rising, higher and higher into the heavens.

And Ultron wasn't done with them just yet.

Chapter Text

The Winter Soldier

The fight was a blur of metal and fire, of screams and explosions. Rubble rained down around them, choking the air with dust and the stench of burning circuits. Bucky moved on instinct, his body a finely tuned weapon honed by decades of war. He fired controlled bursts from his rifle, the muzzle flash stark against the gloom, dropped empty mags with practiced flicks, and slammed fresh ones home without breaking stride.

Ducking under a drone's scything claw and leaving it for either Alia or Wanda to dismantle, he rolled over the hood of a wrecked car and came up firing — Pivoting to catch another diving drone with an uppercut that crumpled its chassis. His senses, honed by the war, first, then HYDRA, mapped the battlefield; every incoming threat, every flicker of movement, every potential shred of cover.

Wanda Maximoff was a tempest of raw power at his back. Crimson energy crackled around her, lashing out like vengeful whips. Drones were plucked from the sky, crushed into scrap metal, or hurled into their brethren with bone-jarring force. Her face was a mask of furious concentration, tinged with exhaustion.

Each wave she obliterated bought them precious seconds to reset, recalibrate and find their next targets, but the machines kept coming. For every drone she dismantled, two more seemed to take its place, and he knew she couldn't keep this up forever.

And Alia...

Alia was the shadow at Bucky's back, her focus intense, her face pale with concentration. Her borrowed pistol barked twice, punching holes through a drone's thruster assembly, sending it spiralling into a wall. Then, holstering the empty weapon, she drew twin knives as another machine lunged. She met its charge, sidestepping the grasping claw, her left blade deflecting a follow-up strike while her right drove deep into a joint seam.

Sparks showered her face as she twisted the knife, severing critical hydraulics. The drone collapsed, but she staggered back a step, breathing hard. Her face was pale, sweat beading at her temples despite the chill. He could watch her fight for hours, mesmerized by the way she moved.

But Bucky also felt her frustration, like static skittering across his skin. Ultron's creations, they didn't have minds like humans or animals did. They were just code, and Alia struggled against them because she couldn't just slip into their minds the way she did with living combatants. It was like asking her to fight with one hand tied behind her back.

He compensated for it instinctively, without even thinking. As a drone swept in low from Alia's blind spot, Bucky didn't bother with shouting a warning, he just reacted. His metal arm shot out, grabbing the drone's extended arm mid-swing, then wrenched it sideways.

The drone's own momentum sent it slamming into the pavement as he swung it down hard. And before it could recover, Alia was there, a knife plunging down into its power core. He covered her as she ripped the blade free, his rifle stitching a line of fire across the chest of another advancing unit, forcing it back.

But it still wasn't enough.

"They're adapting!" Alia shouted over the shriek of rending metal and Wanda's next concussive blast. Her voice was tight, strained beyond physical exertion.

She barely dodged a pincer strike aimed at her throat, countering with a vicious kick that buckled the drone's leg joint, giving Bucky the opening to blast its head unit apart.

Cursing under his breath, he realized she was right. The drones were getting smarter, starting to anticipate their actions before they'd even take it. He snapped off a burst of rounds, downing two more drones, but it was clear they couldn't keep this up forever. They were going to get overwhelmed.

Then, a massive tremor shook the ground, throwing them off balance. Bucky stumbled, nearly losing his grip on his rifle, "What the hell was that?" He roared, swinging his weapon around.

Alia's eyes widened, her gaze fixed on the sky, "Ultron is increasing the power," She whispered, her voice filled with dread, "He truly is going to turn this city into a meteor."

"The next wave's gonna hit any minute. What have you got, Stark?" Steve demanded over their comms.

"Well, Snow White was right on the money there," Tony chimed back, his voice unexpectedly grim, "I've got nothing great. Maybe a way to blow up the city. That'll keep it from impacting the surface, if you guys can get clear."

"If?" Bucky repeated incredulously. Wanda's face went pale at the suggestion, and Alia moved to set a supporting hand on her shoulder.

Steve sighed, "I asked for a solution, not an escape plan."

"Well, the Impact radius is getting bigger every second," Tony replied, and his voice was grim, serious in a way that Bucky knew that he understood the weight of what he was suggesting, and that he wouldn't be suggesting it if there were any other way, "We're going to have to make a choice."

A quietness overtook them all. Bucky felt his heart sink in his chest as he looked back at Wanda, again, whose face had crumpled. This was the city she'd grown up in. The place where she'd lost her family. And now, they were going to have to destroy it before it destroyed the world.

He couldn't even imagine what she was feeling, right now. But based on the equally tortured look on Alia's face, it wasn't anything good, "I'm sorry," He managed to say, quietly. Wanda exhaled, the breath shuddering out of her.

"We cannot let Ultron win," She said, finally, her voice heavy with conviction, "No matter what it costs us."

"—Cap," Natasha cut in then on comms, "These people are going nowhere. If Stark finds a way to blow this rock..."

"No. Not 'till everyone's safe," Steve retorted firmly. Bucky had to grimace. Yeah, that was Steve. Always looking for the other way out that satisfied everyone. Alia came to his side, then, holstering her borrowed sidearm as she simply looked at him.

The conversation over their shared comms continued, "Everyone up here versus everyone down there? There's no math there." Natasha retorted.

Steve wasn't wavering, though. He never did, "I'm not leaving this rock with one civilian on it."

Another heavy silence followed that statement.

"I didn't say we should leave." Natasha finally said, quietly. Alia exhaled, her throat working as she looked at Bucky, the implication clear.

His chest tightened as he met Alia's gaze. He didn't need telepathy to know what she was thinking; he saw it in the way her fingers flexed, the way her lips pressed into a thin line. The same realization was settling over him like a weight.

They'd survived HYDRA. Survived each other. Survived everything just to get here.

And now this.

Alia reached for him, her hand finding his. Her grip was firm, unshaken.

"We stay," She said, quiet but absolute.

Bucky exhaled, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. He didn't trust his voice, so he didn't speak. Just nodded.

'Together,' he thought, knowing she'd hear it.

Her fingers tightened around his.

'Always.'

Around them, the city groaned, the skyline tilting as Ultron's machines propelled it higher. The air grew thinner, colder. It was starting to get harder to breathe.

"I'm with you to the end of the line, Stevie," Bucky finally said into his earpiece, managing to sound stronger than he felt, at the moment, "Whatever it takes. We get it done."

"Buck—"

"—No. You're right, not a single civilian's getting left behind. We'll figure the rest out after."

Then he pulled Alia into his arms. She melted against him, her arms winding tight around his waist as she buried her face in the crook of his neck.

The world was crumbling around them, still— Drones screeching, the city groaning as it ascended further into the stratosphere, and Wanda, still coming to terms with what they would need to sacrifice in order to stop this madness —But for this one moment, Bucky let himself focus on nothing but the feel of her.

The warmth of her breath against his skin, the way her fingers dug into the fabric of his jacket like she could fuse them together if she held on hard enough. He pressed his lips to her temple, exhaling shakily.

"Listen to me," He murmured, voice low enough that only she would hear, "I don't care what it takes. You are getting off this damn rock, you hear me?"

Alia pulled back just enough to look at him, her pale eyes fierce and unwavering as she took him in, judging if he was being serious or not, "No. Not without you." She snapped, her voice firm.

Bucky swallowed hard. He wanted to argue. Wanted to drag her to the nearest rally point and make her leave. But he knew that look. Knew that stubborn set of her jaw and the sheer stubbornness radiating off of her.

She wasn't going anywhere. She wasn't leaving him. Not now, not ever.

And God help him, but he loved her for it.

He kissed her then, hard and desperate, pouring everything he couldn't say into it. When they broke apart, he pressed his forehead to hers, breathing her in.

"Then we end this together."

Her hands covered his own as he cradled her face, as he felt her power twine them together in that desperate, fragile moment, "Gde ty, tam i ya." (Where you are, there I am.) Alia whispered, and the words, their words, were like a knife to the gut.

"Gde ya," (Where I am,) Bucky replied, his voice shaking, now, "Vot i vy." (There you are.) He kissed her forehead again, before muttering, his voice dark with humour, "Guess we aren't getting that wedding."

"I do not need one. So long as I am with you." She answered, but he could barely hear what she'd said. Because there was a sudden, deafening roar of turbine engines that completely drowned out all of Bucky's senses. A new voice, one he recognized with a cold shock, cut into the Avengers' secure comms line out of goddamn nowhere.

"Glad you like the view, Romanoff. It's about to get better."

The last time Bucky had laid eyes on a helicarrier had been over a year ago, in Washington. At the Triskelion, when he'd still been the Winter Soldier.

Now, he'd never been so fucking grateful in his life to see one rising up parallel to the ascending Sokovian city.

"Fury, you son of a bitch," Steve breathed.

"Ooh! You kiss your mother with that mouth?" Nick Fury retorted. Alia actually smiled, then laughed as she threw her arms back around Bucky, and he could feel the sheer relief filling her through their shared bond.

Because now, they had hope.

The helicarrier's massive bulk cut through the smoke-choked sky like a blade, its thrusters roaring as it stabilized alongside Novi Grad, compensating so it could stay level as the city flew higher and higher.

Lifeboats deployed instantly, streaking toward the ascending city to evacuate civilians. Wanda was already moving, clearing rubble so that the boats could land, and so the agents riding atop them could hit the ground and start preparing to receive evacuees. Already Bucky could see some of the civilians left behind in initial evacuations rushing towards the boats. But they'd need cover.

Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip tightening around Alia, "Looks like we might be getting that wedding, after all." He muttered against her hair, his voice still thick.

She laughed, the sound breathless and bright despite everything, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. 'You smug bastard,' she thought at him, but the warmth in her mental voice was unmistakable.

Then the moment shattered as Ultron's response came. His drones, hundreds of them, swarmed towards the helicarrier like locusts, their weapons already charging up.

Bucky straightened, his rifle already in hand, checking his magazine. Plenty of shots left. He slammed it back into the gun and gave Alia a sideways glance.

"Alright, sweetheart," He said, flashing her a sharp grin, "Let's go save the world."

Alia matched his smile with one of her own, wicked and bright, "That would be a nice change of pace for us," She remarked, before she turned back toward the fray, too.

Together, they charged into battle once more.

Chapter Text

The White Widow

And so the battle raged on, but now with renewed purpose. The helicarrier's arrival had shifted the tide, not just in terms of firepower. In terms of hope. Alia could feel it all around her; lifeboats descended like angels of salvation, and the terrified civilians who had been moments from certain death now scrambled toward them, desperation lending them speed.

Alia tore through another drone with her knife, its mechanical innards sparking as she wrenched the blade free. Her telepathy was nearly useless against Ultron's creations, but she didn't need to scramble their minds to fight. She had spent decades honing her body into a weapon, too.

Bucky moved like a shadow at her side, his rifle barking in sharp, controlled bursts. Every shot found its mark. Wanda was a storm of crimson energy further down the street, her powers carving paths through the drone swarms to clear the way for fleeing civilians.

A terrified scream cut through the chaos.

Alia turned just in time to see a young boy, no older than eight, frozen in the middle of the street as a drone levelled its weapon at him.

Her body moved before her mind could catch up. She lunged, tackling the child out of the line of fire just as the drone's blast seared the air where he'd stood. Rolling to her feet, she shoved the boy toward a nearby lifeboat, where a SHIELD agent was already reaching for him.

"Run!" She shouted at him. The boy didn't hesitate. Bucky's gunfire roared behind her, and the drone exploded in a shower of shrapnel.

'Nice save,' his voice echoed in her mind, warm with pride.

Alia didn't have time to respond. Another wave of drones was closing in.

But she wasn't afraid.

Not when they were finally fighting for something worth dying for. She adjusted her grip on her knife and charged back into the fray.

Her muscles burned with exertion, her breath coming in sharp gasps as she danced between mechanical monstrosities. The air smelled of scorched metal and ozone, the ground trembling beneath her boots as Ultron's machines continued their relentless assault. But Alia moved with lethal precision; every pivot, every slash of her blade calculated to maximize damage while conserving energy.

Bucky fought like an extension of her own will, covering angles she couldn't see, his metal arm crushing drone skulls with brutal efficiency. When one got too close to her blind spot, his knife was already embedded in its optic sensor before she could turn.

Wanda's magic flared to their left, sending three drones smashing through a storefront in a shower of glass, "The east quadrant is clear!" She called, strands of auburn hair sticking to her sweat-slicked face, "And there are more lifeboats incoming!"

Alia risked a glance upward. The helicarrier loomed like a steel saviour, its floodlights cutting through the smoke. Dozens of escape pods were descending, but so were more drones. Ultron wasn't going down without a fight.

A sudden impact sent her stumbling. Pain flared across her ribs where a drone's claw had grazed her. Before she could retaliate, Bucky was there, protective as always, his metal fist reducing the machine to scrap with one vicious uppercut. His eyes raked over her wound, his expression darkening at the sight of blood.

'I'm fine,' she assured him mentally, straightening with a wince. The cut stung but wasn't deep, and she'd heal fast.

Bucky's jaw tightened, but he nodded. Then his gaze snapped to something over her shoulder, "Incoming!"

Alia spun just as a fresh wave of drones descended from a crumbling rooftop. She braced herself, but didn't have to.

A streak of silver blurred past, ducking and weaving as drones disintegrated into piles as it whipped by. Finally, Pietro Maximoff materialized between them and the drones, panting heavily but grinning like the devil, "You miss me?"

Alia just laughed, grinning, "More than you may think, Pietro."

Pietro flashed her a grin that was all teeth and reckless charm, already vibrating with barely contained energy even as he caught his breath, "Careful, sestrichka," he teased, using the affectionate Russian term for 'little sister,' a bad habit he'd been picking up from Alia, "That almost sounds like you were worried about me."

Wanda rolled her eyes from where she stood, but the relief in her expression was palpable, "She is worried about everyone. Don't let it go to your head," She called.

Bucky snorted, reloading his rifle with practiced efficiency, "Kid, if you've got energy to run your mouth, you've got energy to fight. We've got civilians still pinned down, three blocks out."

Pietro gave an exaggerated salute — Then blurred out of existence, leaving only a gust of wind in his wake.

Alia shook her head, but she was smiling. For the first time since this nightmare began, she truly believed they might make it out of this alive.

Then the ground lurched violently beneath them, the entire city tilting at a sickening angle as Ultron's machines redoubled their efforts. Alia barely caught herself against Bucky's shoulder, her stomach dropping as debris rained down around them.

"—We are out of time," Thor's voice cut through their communications grimly, "They are coming for the core."

Alia glanced at Bucky, who just nodded. Then she looked to Wanda, a similar look on her face, "James, Wanda and I are heading to the church," Alia reported into their comms, exhaling heavily, "Let us finish this together."

The church loomed ahead, its once-majestic spires now jagged ruins against the unnatural glow of Ultron's machine. The streets leading to it were a gauntlet of fire and steel. Drones swarmed like wasps from every shattered window, every collapsed alleyway, unending.

Pietro reappeared in a streak of silver, skidding to a halt beside them, "He's got the whole damn street locked down," He panted, wiping blood from a cut above his eyebrow, "But I found a path, through the bakery on the left. Fewer drones, that way."

Wanda's hands crackled with crimson energy, "Then we go through."

Bucky checked his ammo, her eyes flicking over on instinct to see he had half a clip left. He didn't need to say it. This was it. The final push.

Alia reached out, her fingers brushing against Bucky's metal hand. 'Together,' she thought, pouring every ounce of conviction into that single word.

His fingers curled around hers, just for a heartbeat. Then he let go, raising his rifle.

"Move."

And so they ran.

Pietro blurred ahead, clearing the way with impossible speed. Wanda's magic tore through anything that got too close, reducing metal to molten slag. Bucky's gunfire was precise, deadly, every shot buying them another step forward. He had to make every shot count, and he did.

Alia fought like a woman possessed. Her knife found joints, weak points, anything to slow the machines down. Her telepathy might not work on them, but she didn't need it to. She knew violence. Had been made for it.

A drone lunged at Wanda from behind—

—Alia didn't even think. She moved, tackling the witch out of the way as the drone's claws raked across her back instead. Pain exploded like fire along her spine, but she barely registered it. Bucky's metal fist caved in the drone's skull before it could strike again.

"Alia," Wanda blanched, looking at her bloodied shoulder with an expression of horror, "Are you—"

"—I will heal quickly," Alia gritted out, jerking her chin for Wanda to get to her feet and keep moving, "But you will not."

Bucky helped haul her to her feet, but his expression wasn't quite as convinced, "Sweetheart, you keep playing this recklessly, and I'm throwing you on one of those goddamn lifeboats myself."

She bared her teeth at him in an expression that wasn't exactly a smile.

"Try it, Soldier. I will just crawl back out and make you regret even trying it."

He only exhaled, grimacing, "Yeah, I know. That's what I love about you, you madwoman."

"Rhodey, Wilson, you two get the rest of the people on board that carrier," Stark ordered. Nick Fury hadn't just brought a S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier to the fray, but Colonel Rhodes, too, Stark's friend with his own flying metal suit. The more, the merrier, in her mind.

Both men confirmed before Alia just caught sight of the Iron Patriot suit rocketing over the city buildings, the Falcon's silhouette close behind.

Once she, Bucky, and the Maximoffs reached the church veranda, Stark was waving them over, "Avengers, time to work for a living," He called into their comms grimly, before taking stock of them. His mask snicked up as he looked at Alia in particular, still gesturing with his metal hands.

"...Oh, hey, Casper. You look like shit."

Alia wiped blood from her mouth with the back of her hand, shooting Stark a glare that could have melted vibranium, "And you look like a toaster that is malfunctioning," She retorted, her voice hoarse but warm with some sort of affection. The wound across her shoulder burned, but the super soldier serum in her veins was already stitching the flesh back together.

Stark actually grinned at her returning barb, "Ouch. And here I was gonna offer you one of my spare suits, but if they're just toasters to you..."

Bucky stepped between them before Alia could respond with something truly scathing, his metal hand coming to rest at the small of her back, "Focus up, Stark. What's the play?"

"Hang on, Terminator. All hands on deck first." Stark raised an armoured hand before keying the comms, again, "Romanoff? You and Banner better not be playing 'hide the zucchini'."

Wanda made a face. Alia just sighed.

"Oh relax, shell-head," Came Natasha's breezy reply as she damn near skipped into the scene, just as Barton put an arrow in another drone's metal skull. She nodded to Alia and Bucky before pivoting back to Stark, "What's the drill?"

Stark spoke up a little, so everyone could hear, "This is the drill," He announced, pointing to the strange metal device in the centre of the church's atrium, "If Ultron gets a hand on the core, we lose."

Thor hefted Mjölnir. A red-and-silver man Alia hadn't taken notice of touched the ground next to him, though a quick impression of Bucky's mind filled in the blanks for her. Vision, something brought forth by Stark and Banner via the Mind Stone and JARVIS. Well, that was an unsettling thought, but there didn't seem to be any mistrust. The Hulk came crashing into the scene to join them, batting a drone away and spitting angry.

But behind him, Ultron loomed. Alia stiffened, turning to face him.

"Is that the best you can do?!" Thor demanded, spreading his arms. Ultron lifted a single hand in response. Across the city, all the remaining drones trickled in, the hive mind converging on this one single spot.

Steve sighed, "You had to ask."

"This is the best I can do. This is exactly what I wanted," Ultron replied, his metallic voice booming among the Novi Grad ruins, "All of you, against all of me. How could you possibly hope to stop me?"

Alia's fingers twitched toward the knife at her hip, her stance shifting into something predatory. The sheer arrogance in Ultron's voice set her teeth on edge.

Bucky's shoulder brushed against hers, steadying, silently reminding her to wait. To watch.

It was Tony who stepped forward, his suit whining, "Well, like the old man said. Together."

And then there was chaos.

The Hulk roared, launching himself at the nearest Ultron body. Thor's hammer crackled with lightning as he brought it down in a devastating arc. Pietro became a silver blur, dismantling drones faster than they could react. The Vision's yellow gem glittered as it's power shot out in a beam to annihilate everything it touched.

Alia didn't hesitate. She moved.

Her knife found its mark in the throat of a drone lunging for Wanda, yanking it free in a spray of sparks. Bucky's rifle barked twice, then three times, each shot punching through a drone's core with lethal precision. Steve rolled in to cover his friend with his shield, swatting a charging drone away as if it were nothing more than a fly.

Stark, Vision and Thor focused on the primary Ultron body. They drove him outside of the church ruins and Alia could only catch glimpses of their combined power finally bringing the arrogant android to his knees.

For a moment, the brutal battle lulled, as if all the remaining drones were holding their breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

"You know, with the benefit of hindsight—" Ultron began, before the Hulk suddenly charged through the church, right past Alia and Bucky, and punted the damaged robot halfway across the city. The other drones immediately turned to flee, the Hulk already running in pursuit of them, like a dog who's just had a chew toy thrown for it to fetch.

Thor turned to the others, "They'll try to leave the city." He reported grimly.

"We can't let 'em, not even one." Tony replied. Because if even one drone escaped, Ultron's consciousness would live on inside of it. He took off, with Vision hot on his tail.

Alia's gaze flicked to Bucky's. Their mission was changing. Search-and-destroy. When she smiled, and he nodded, he knew what he was thinking. They'd done this task hundreds of times before. Child's play.

"—We gotta move out." Steve said, breaking the moment, "Even I can tell the air is getting thin. You guys get to the boats. I'll sweep for stragglers, be right behind you."

"What about the core?" Barton asked, gesturing with his bow. Surprisingly, it was Wanda who stepped up.

"I'll protect it. It's my job." Seemingly satisfied with that, Steve, Barton, and Natasha turned to leave. Pietro, Bucky and Alia were the only ones who hesitated.

"I'm not going to leave you here alone." Her brother argued.

"I can handle this," Wanda replied, and before any of them could react her energy warped, and she crushed an approaching drone, "Come back for me when everyone else is off, not before. You understand?"

Pietro snorted, "You know, I'm twelve minutes older than you."

Wanda just chuckled. But before she could retort, Bucky stepped up, "I'll stay with her. You and Alia go, Pete."

Alia froze, at that. Her first instinct was to argue. To dig in her heels and refuse to leave Bucky's side, not now, not when the city was seconds from becoming a crater. But the look in his eyes stopped her.

This wasn't just about protection. It was about trust. Trusting him to know what he needed to do.

Alia exhaled sharply through her nose, then nodded. 'You come back to me, James,' she thought at him, pouring every ounce of command into the words.

Bucky's lips quirked. 'Always, sweetheart.'

Pietro hesitated more than she had, still torn, but Wanda shoved at his shoulder, "Go," She ordered, her voice softening, "Make sure the others get out."

With one last glance, Pietro grabbed Alia's wrist, "Okay. Hold on tight, sestrichka. And try not to vomit, please."

Then the world blurred around her as the two took off through the city at a superhuman speed.

Chapter Text

The Winter Soldier

The moment Alia and Pietro disappeared, Bucky's senses went on high alert. The air thinned, the city groaned as it rocketed closer and closer to Ultron's desired height. But all he could focus on was the steady thrum of the vibranium drill, and the cold, mechanical intent emanating from the drones that swarmed ever-closer.

If just one drone reached the drill, it was game over.

So Bucky and Wanda made sure that didn't happen.

He took a position by the shattered archway of the church, his rifle raised. Wanda stood in the centre of the chamber, her hands glowing crimson as she manipulated the very air around them.

The first drone came hurtling through the roof, a metallic blur of claws and lasers. Bucky didn't hesitate. He squeezed the trigger, a precise burst that tore through the drone's core, sending it spiralling to the ground in a shower of sparks.

Another came from the side, and another from behind. Wanda's powers flared, crushing one against the stone wall while levitating the other, suspending it in midair as it thrashed uselessly, keeping it pinned so he could fire a shot straight through its head. Only then did she let it drop uselessly to the floor.

Together, the two of them were a wall — And a damn good one at that. Bucky covered the angles Wanda couldn't reach, his rifle barking in sharp, controlled bursts. Meanwhile, she acted more like crowd control, her energy snaking out and crushing multiple drones with a single flick of her wrist.

But they just kept coming.

Bucky didn't waste the breath it would take to curse, at the realization. He just pivoted, the rifle stock firm against his shoulder. Three drones breached simultaneously — One through the gaping hole in the roof, two more crashing through the already shattered stained-glass windows on opposite sides.

The roof drone got Wanda's immediate, furious attention. A whip-crack of scarlet energy seized it mid-plunge, crushing its chassis into a ball of scrap before it could even think to react. Bucky's focus snapped left, meanwhile. The drone surging through the left window was already tracking Wanda, its weapons array humming to life. He fired two rounds into its tin head before it could even think to fire. The drone jerked, its shot going wide and scorching the stone floor near Wanda's feet before it clattered to the floor with the others.

No time for a pause. The whine of repulsors screamed from above again as two more streaked down through the roof hole, splitting apart immediately. One arrowed straight for the vibranium drill's control console. Wanda, still focused on the mangled drone she'd crushed, threw out a hand. A ripple of red caught the attacking drone, yanking it sideways. It slammed into the stone wall beside the console, hard enough to crack the ancient masonry, but the console was safe. For now.

The other drone from above ignored them entirely, making a beeline for the drill itself. Bucky tracked it, leading the shot, but another drone suddenly barrelled through the main doorway, forcing him to snap off a burst that tore its legs out from under it. It crashed, skidding across the floor, blocking his line of fire to the drill attacker. Shit.

But Wanda saw it too. A strangled cry ripped from her as she flung her free hand towards the drill-bound drone. Crimson tendrils lashed out, snagging its tail just as it was about to unleash an energy pulse point-blank into the vibranium core. She wrenched. The drone spun violently, its shot lancing harmlessly into the ceiling, bringing down a shower of plaster and stone. Bucky used the distraction Wanda provided, vaulting over the crippled drone at his feet and landing in a roll, coming up facing the entangled attacker. A single shot to its exposed power core brought it down.

Scanning the openings, the roof, the windows, the doorway, Bucky felt his heart hammering in his chest. The momentary lull was deceptive. Wanda was panting too, sweat plastering strands of dark hair to her temples, her hands trembling slightly as the crimson glow around them flickered. The strain of constant, high-intensity telekinesis was written in every line of her body.

"They're probing us out," Bucky rasped to her, "Trying to find our weaknesses." He moved back towards the archway, putting himself between the main entrance and the drill, eyes constantly moving. Wanda repositioned herself, putting her back partially to a still-standing section of wall, covering the roof and the window breaches on her flank.

The next wave wasn't a reckless charge. It was coordinated. Four drones entered through the roof hole in a tight diamond formation, weapons already spitting searing energy bolts before they'd fully cleared the opening. Bucky ducked behind the relative cover of a shattered pew, the heat of a near-miss scorching the air above him. Wanda threw up a shimmering red shield, bolts sizzling against it, the impacts making her stagger back a step.

Simultaneously, three more drones smashed through the already weakened windows. These didn't attack immediately. They fanned out, using the pillars and rubble for cover, laying down suppressing fire this time instead of just charging for the drill; not aimed to kill, but to pin Bucky and Wanda down, to keep their heads low and their focus divided.

Bucky popped up, snapped off a shot that clipped a suppressor drone's weapon mount, forcing it back behind cover. 'Are you okay?' Alia's voice suddenly filled his head, just a brief echo, but it was enough just to feel her presence. He gritted his teeth, determined.

'Fine. Just focus on getting out.'

A sudden explosion rocked the church. Stone and metal rained down from the ceiling, and Bucky stumbled, losing his footing. One of the flanking drones seized the opportunity, lunging at him with claws extended.

He raised his metal arm—

—But before he could block the attack himself, a streak of crimson energy slammed into the drone, sending it hurtling backward. Wanda landed beside him, her face pale but determined, "I got you," She said, her voice tight.

Bucky nodded, rising, adjusting his grip on his rifle, "Thanks, kid."

The other two drones threw caution to the wind and charged. They swarmed from every angle, their metallic bodies a blur of claws and lasers. Bucky fought with brutal efficiency, his movements honed by decades of combat. Each shot found its mark, each strike crippling or destroying the machines.

Wanda's powers were a force of nature, tearing through the drones with ease. She moved like a crimson storm, her hands weaving patterns of energy that crushed metal and ripped circuits apart. But even her power was finite. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and her movements grew slightly less precise.

"More coming from the north side," Bucky warned, pivoting to cover the crumbling archway.

Wanda glanced in that direction, her eyes widening, "Shit."

"Language," Bucky muttered without even realizing he'd said it, firing a burst that took down two drones in quick succession.

"Sorry," Wanda said automatically, before rolling her eyes, "—Oh, you are no better than Steve. He says that all the time to us!" Then her hands flared wide, and a wave of crimson energy slammed into the approaching drones, sending them all hurtling backward.

A lull fell over the church, then. The air crackled with tension, the silence broken only by the hum of Ultron's machine. Bucky's breath came in ragged gasps. His muscles burned, and his metal arm ached. But he couldn't stop. Not yet.

"They're regrouping," Wanda said, her voice barely a whisper.

Bucky checked his clip, and gritted his teeth when he saw it was almost empty. When he patted his tactical vest on instinct, he realized he was also out of fresh magazines, "I can see that," Bucky finally replied, grimly.

"We cannot hold them off forever," Wanda continued, her gaze fixed on the approaching drones, "We must destroy Ultron."

"I thought we were already doing that. Kill the drones so he can't escape and so Vision can burn the android right out of his own skull." Bucky replied flatly. Wanda's lips twitched; an expression he'd seen Alia make a dozen times. God, she really was making an impression on this girl, wasn't she?

"Yes, but I can sense his primary form. Destroy that, and the drones will weaken. He is near. He is—" Then Wanda froze, her entire body locking up.

Bucky turned to look at her, "What? What is it?"

"Pietro," Wanda whispered, and then a look of sheer, unadulterated rage crossed her face. And before Bucky could stop her, she was off, manoeuvring through the city wreckage on her own.

"Shit!" Bucky cursed, shouldered his rifle and took off after her, "Wanda! What the hell are you doing? We have to guard the core!"

'Alia, is Pietro alright?' He reached out silently.

It took Alia a worrying few seconds to reply, 'Pietro was shot. He was helping a civilian out of the way. I made it to him in time, but he is in a great deal of pain.'

'Well, I'm pretty sure that pain just pissed Wanda right the hell off. She's going rogue on Ultron.'

A ripple of displeasure through their bond. Bucky unfocused from it in order to keep pursuing Wanda through the city wreckage.

Wanda moved as though she were a tempest given human form; her boots barely touching the ground as she tore through the wreckage, her crimson energy flaring violently around her, harsher than brighter than he'd ever seen it before. Bucky pushed himself harder, his muscles burning, but he couldn't keep up with her raw fury.

He only caught glimpses of the aftermath in her wake; drones crushed into scrap, their remains still sparking as she blasted through them without slowing. Jesus Christ, just how powerful was she, exactly?

Then he heard it.

The roar.

Hulk. Oh, shit. Banner was still in play.

Bucky rounded a shattered storefront just in time to see Ultron's primary body be driven into the earth by one well-timed throw from Banner's green alter-ego. Wanda honed in on him immediately, her entire body seeming to shimmer with that dangerous red energy of hers, like heat radiating off of hot pavement.

"Wanda," The android warbled as he tried to pull himself up. There was an out-of-place tenderness in his voice as he addressed her, something that made Bucky's skin crawl because he was looking at her with this reverence that he didn't much like, "If you stay here, you'll die."

"I almost did," Wanda answered, her voice so cold that it made a shiver run down Bucky's spine. Her hands closed around Ultron's throat, and for the first time, Bucky saw real fear flicker in those glowing red optics.

But Bucky didn't interfere. He just raised his rifle and covered her back, picking off the drones that tried to swarm her. The sooner this was over with, the sooner they could regroup at the drill.

"Do you know how it felt?" Wanda whispered, before her free hand suddenly yanked Ultron's core right out of his chest, as if she'd torn his own heart from his body, "It felt like that."

Then she crushed it, and Ultron's body went limp.

The light died in the android's eyes. His body went slack. And for a moment, there was only silence. Wanda stood over the fallen machine, her chest heaving, her hands still trembling with residual power.

Bucky lowered his rifle, but his senses remained on high alert. Ultron's main body was down, but the AI wasn't out. They both knew that. He'd just move his consciousness to another drone; it was why they had to make sure every single last one of them was gone.

He approached Wanda cautiously, his expression softening. Bucky knew what it was like to be consumed by rage. To let it guide your actions. But he also knew the emptiness that followed once you'd finished the job.

"Hey," He said softly, his voice barely a whisper above the groaning of the city, "Wanda. You okay?"

Wanda didn't respond. She just stared down at the remains of Ultron's body, her eyes unfocused and glassy. Yet another look he'd seen Alia wear God only knew how many times, the look of a woman lost in her own head.

Bucky reached out, his hand hovering over her shoulder, "Wanda, listen to me. We need to get back to the drill, before one of them—"

All of a sudden, there was a deafening CRACK splitting the air. Bucky only had time to lock eyes with Wanda for a few brief seconds, before the sheer force of gravity reminded him that it existed, and the city of Novi Grad dropped out from underneath the both of them.

And they fell into open sky.

Chapter Text

The White Widow

The lifeboat lurched violently beneath her feet as the first tremors ran through the city. Alia's grip tightened on the makeshift stretcher carrying Pietro, her knuckles white as she fought to maintain her balance. Clint barked orders at the medics, his face grim as he helped guide them toward the triage section of the lifeboat.

"Pietro, hang in there," She murmured, reassuring the wounded Maximoff, who was still clutching his abdomen where she'd done the best job she could at field-dressing his injuries, "We are almost there."

Pietro grimaced, blood staining his lips as he rasped, "Tell Wanda... I did good?"

Alia swallowed hard, tears stinging her eyes, "You will tell her yourself. You did more than good, Pietro." she replied, her voice thick with emotion, "You saved lives. You are a hero."

"Where... Where is she?" Pietro asked, then, his head twisting as he looked around the lifeboat, gaze lingering for a moment on Clint, who just raised a hand in greeting.

Alia hesitated, "She is still on the ground. But she will be fine. She is strong, and James is with her, so she is not alone."

Clint grunted, "Alright, you two, stay put. I'm going to check and make sure Steve and Nat are on lifeboats. The rest of the wounded are all accounted for. Then we'll—"

And that's when the city shifted. Alia's heart jumped into her throat as their lifeboat tilted at a sickening angle. She lost her footing, stumbling as the gravity pulled her toward the edge of the deck.

Because the city of Novi Grad was starting to fall. One of Ultron's drones must have reached the drill. Sheer terror seized Alia, watching as the buildings and streets began to fall away.

"James!" She cried, her voice a raw, desperate scream.

Clint grabbed her arm before she could spring forward, his grip like iron, "No! Alia, you can't! It's too late!"

"I have to," She choked out, struggling against his hold, "He is still down there! I can feel it! He is in danger, and so is Wanda!"

"But we're losing the city," Clint said, his voice hard but laced with a strange kind of pity, "We have to go. Now. There's nothing you can do for him down there."

"No," Alia sobbed, shaking her head and wrenching her arm from his grasp with super soldier strength, "No, no, no— I cannot leave him behind again. I cannot."

She was moving before Clint could stop her again, bolting toward the edge of the deck, her boots skidding against the metal plating as the city sunk beneath them, dropping faster and faster out of sight. The wind howled in her ears, the air thick with dust and the acrid stench of burning metal.

Her heart pounded like a war drum.

James.

She could feel him, still, his presence flickering in the back of her mind like a candle in the storm. Alive. Terrified. She held on to that connection, even as the distance growing between them threatened to eventually force a break.

And then something, or someone, crested up from the rapidly falling city. A blue of red and silver and gold. The Vision. In one arm he cradled Wanda to his side with surprising tenderness; with the other he had Bucky slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

The breath punched out of her lungs.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

She didn't wait for the Vision to land with his charges. She ran, her boots slamming against the deck of the lifeboat as she closed the distance. The moment Bucky's limp form was within reach, she yanked him into her arms, her hands frantically checking for injuries, her telepathy instinctively reaching for his mind.

'James!'

His thoughts were a jumbled mess of adrenaline and pain, but they were there. He groaned, blinking up at her with dazed eyes.

"...Sweetheart?" His voice was rough, disoriented.

Alia didn't answer. She just crushed him against her, her fingers digging into the fabric of his tac vest as if she could fuse them together.

She didn't let go. Not even when Stark and Thor finally detonated the city, and Novi Grab was blown to pieces beneath them. She could sense Wanda's grief and shock at the sight, the way she clung to her brother's injured form desperately, willing him to stay alive.

None of that mattered to her at the moment. She would comfort the Maximoffs later. Right now, the only thing she cared for was him.

"James. If you ever... If you ever leave my side again, I will kill you myself, I swear it." Alia whispered hoarsely, curling her head against his neck.

Bucky let out a weak, breathless laugh against her shoulder, his metal arm twitching as he tried to lift it to hold her, "Noted," He rasped.

She didn't loosen her grip. Not even when the shockwave from the explosion rattled the lifeboat as it finally lifted away towards Fury's helicarrier, not even when the others began shouting orders, not even when the medics rushed forward to check on him.

His heartbeat was steady under her palm. His breath was warm against her skin.

Alive. He was alive.

Still hers.

She finally pulled back just enough to glare at him, her fingers tightening around his jaw, "I mean it, James."

Bucky's eyes—exhausted, bruised, but his—met hers. He didn't flinch. Just tilted his forehead against hers and whispered, "I know."

And for the first time since the city began to fall, Alia breathed.

Then, because she was Alia Volkova, and she had a reputation to uphold, she promptly smacked him upside the head without remorse.

"Ow— Sweetheart, what the hell was that for?!" He yelped, rubbing his jaw.

"Za to, chto zastavil menya dumat', chto ty umresh'!" (For making me think that you were going to die!) Alia snapped in Russian, and somewhere behind them, Barton chortled as their lifeboat landed with the others atop the helicarrier's aerial deck. The oversized ship swung away from the falling ruins of Novi Grad.

Bucky rubbed the back of his head with a wince, but the grin tugging at his lips was pure, unrepentant Barnes, "Tekhnicheski, eto ty razreshil mne ostat'sya s Wanda..." (Technically, you're the one who let me stay with Wanda...) He muttered back.

"Eto ne sut'," (That is not the point,) She nearly shrieked, "—I did not tell you to die in the process!"

"Well, I didn't!"

She shoved him, then, "You almost did!"

"Technically, I didn't—"

Wanda, kneeling beside Pietro's stretcher as Fury's medical teams rolled up to their lifeboat, starting to organize the injured, rolled her eyes so hard it was practically audible.

"If you two are done arguing," She interjected dryly, "Some of us are actually injured."

Pietro, pale but smirking, lifted a weak thumbs-up at his sister's side, "I think it's sweet. They are like an old married couple."

Bucky glared at him over Alia's shoulder, "You got shot."

"And you are whipped," Pietro sniped back, "So who's worse off now?" Then he winced as a pair of medics lifted his stretcher, preparing him for the transfer to the helicarrier whilst their lifeboat started its lazy ascension towards its mothership.

Barton pointed at Bucky, then, letting out a wheeze that was somewhere between a cough and a laugh, "Holy shit Barnes, he got you there. Hey, Pete, maybe you're a keeper, after all."

Alia opened her mouth to retort, when a sudden, bone-deep exhaustion hit her like a freight train. The adrenaline was fading. The pain from her shoulder wound flared back to life. She was healing, but it would be slow. Her body was overexerted and that never helped matters.

Bucky's arms were around her before her knees could buckle, his grip shifting from playful to protective in an instant, "Hey, hey, easy," He exclaimed, his voice low and rough with concern, "You're still hurt."

She wanted to argue. Wanted to snap that she was fine, that she'd survived worse. But the warmth of his chest against her back, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under her palm, it undid her.

So she just leaned into him, her forehead dropping against his collarbone,"...Just, do not do that again, please," She sighed, pressing her face against him, "I cannot handle the stress. Ya ne mogu tebya poteryat'." (I can't lose you.)

Bucky pressed a kiss to the top of her head, "Wasn't planning on going anywhere."

The helicarrier deck was chaos, once their lifeboat finally landed alongside all the others. Medics from the helicarrier's medical bay were already shouting; wounded men, women and children groaning, and boots pounding against steel as Fury's agents scrambled to secure the injured and assess the casualties. The scent of blood, gasoline, and scorched metal hung thick in the air.

And yet, in the narrow space between Bucky's body and hers, the world felt so very still.

She inhaled deeply, grounding herself in the scent of gun oil, sweat, and him; the familiar edges of his ribs beneath his tactical vest, the roughness of his calloused fingers as they gently combed through the hair at the nape of her neck.

For once, she didn't push it away.

She had nearly lost him. Not to HYDRA. Not to conditioning. Not to Zemo or Stark or the ghosts of their past.

No, it had just been gravity. Just the simple cruelty of falling. The thought made her fingers twist tighter in his vest. If Vision hadn't...

"Alia," he whispered into her mind, the touch feather-light, 'I'm here.'

She let out a shuddering breath, "I know."

Around them, the world kept moving. Fury's agents barked orders. Thor landed with a thunderous boom, Mjölnir crackling with residual lightning. Stark landed with a hiss of thrusters, his suit charred and smoking.

Steve came next. He came through the smoke like a storm front, his shield slung across his back, his face lined with exhaustion, and his eyes immediately locking onto them.

"You two look like hell," he said, voice rough with relief.

Bucky snorted, "Gee. Thanks, pal. Speak for yourself, maybe."

Steve clapped a hand on Bucky's shoulder, then hesitated before giving Alia a small, uncertain nod, "Glad you're okay. How are the twins?" He turned, watching as Pietro was carried off inside the helicarrier's interior, Wanda striding at his side.

"Pietro will live," Alia reported, and her eyes couldn't help but fall on the smoking remnants of the shattered city they were leaving behind, "As will Wanda. But... They have just lost their home, Steve. They had to watch it fall out of the sky."

That would break something in anyone.

Steve's expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he followed her gaze. The skyline was still smoldering in the distance, the last embers of Novi Grad flickering like dying stars.

"Yeah," he said quietly, the weight of the word settling between them, "I know."

Bucky shifted beside her, his fingers brushing against hers, the gesture subtle and grounding, "But they won't be alone," He said.

Steve nodded, his gaze softening, "No. They won't be. They're ours."

Alia exhaled, watching as Wanda disappeared into the helicarrier's interior, her shape swallowed by the shadows. She knew what it was to lose everything. To be left with nothing but ghosts and hollowed-out places where the memories used to be.

But she also knew what it was like to be pulled back from the edge.

She squeezed Bucky's hand.

Not this time.

He squeezed back, and she smiled. The moment lingered, soft and fragile. Then the world rushed back in.

"Alright, lovebirds," Clint called from where he was leaning against a support beam, arms crossed and grinning despite the blood streaked down his temple, "Medics are swamped, so unless you want to bleed all over Fury's nice helicarrier deck, I suggest you get moving to try and claim a spot. Space is at a premium."

Bucky rolled his eyes but didn't argue, his hand still intertwined with Alia's as they turned toward the medical bay.

She didn't let go.

Not when they stepped inside the helicarrier's interior.

Not when they passed Natasha, who gave them a surprisingly hollow look, considering they'd won.

Not even when they reached the crowded med bay, where Wanda sat vigil beside Pietro's cot, her hands clasped around his. Vision hovered nearby, as if unsure what to do as the doctors swarmed her brother.

Alia only squeezed Bucky's fingers one last time before reluctantly pulling away, allowing a nurse to inspect her injuries.

Later, she promised silently.

He nodded, just once.

Later.

Chapter Text

The Winter Soldier

One week.

That's how long it had taken, for the dust from Sokovia to settle. For the bruises to fade, for the stitches to come out, for the world to take its first shaky breath after Novi Grad's destruction.

Vision had done what he'd promised to do. He'd tracked down the very last Ultron drone and destroyed it. With it, the program finally died. It was all over.

Bucky leaned against the railing of the compound's balcony, watching the sun dip below the tree line. The air was crisp with the first hints of autumn, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. Behind him, the newly activated facility hummed with activity; Stark's tech crews finalizing systems, agents debriefing. Wanda, quietly adjusting to all of these strangers in the building that she'd called home since the Raft, and still grieving her country.

Pietro was still recovering but stubborn as hell throughout the whole ordeal, having already stolen no less than three of Sam's protein bars from the commissary so far.

Some things never changed.

Clint, well, he had left two days ago — Back to Laura, back to Cooper and Lila and the new baby, Nathaniel. He'd clapped Bucky on the shoulder on his way out, a silent look after them in his eyes. He'd only nodded to that. Barton deserved his retirement.

Thor was gone too, off to chase whispers of Infinity Stones and vague cosmic threats. He'd taken the remnants of Loki's sceptre with him, sealed in an Asgardian containment unit. Vision lingered like a ghost in the periphery, always watching and learning. Banner was lost in the wind, having gone rogue after Sokovia, and Natasha was hunting him with just as much single-minded focus as Bucky would have had, hunting for Alia.

And Tony…

Well. Tony was still Tony. He'd locked himself in his lab once they'd gotten back stateside, alternating between repairing his armour and brooding over the remnants of Ultron's code. Steve had tried talking to him, but no dice. Not yet.

Bucky hadn't tried, but that was just because some bridges weren't ready to be crossed yet. He didn't even really know, if he and Tony were friends now. They definitely weren't enemies, not anymore. They were most certainly allies, at minimum. But friends, the kind who talk to one-another when in need? Maybe not. Maybe not yet.

The sliding glass door hissed open behind him, and a familiar presence was at his back immediately. 'James, you are thinking too loud,' Alia's voice murmured in his mind, dry and fond.

Bucky didn't turn, but the corner of his mouth lifted as her presence settled beside him, "I didn't realize that was something a person could do." He answered gruffly.

Alia leaned her hip against the railing, her shoulder brushing his.

"Are you sure about this, James?" Alia asked aloud, looking at him. Bucky pressed his lips together and nodded, glancing back at her.

That was the other topic of the week. Not just the fallout from Sokovia, or the recovering Avengers. But them, deciding it was finally time. Time for them to try and live a life of relative normalcy, together. But not here.

They'd spent over half a century without any real choice of their own, always chained to whatever cause had been decided for them. For once, they needed to choose something for themselves.

But, they had yet to tell the rest of the team, unsure of how they'd react. Bucky was still certain, though, and he nodded, again, driving the point home.

"Yeah, sweetheart. I haven't changed my mind. I..." He sighed, looking back out over the sunset, at the new recruits for whatever Avengers apparatus Stark was building out, running in formation below them. Bright-eyed and eager. Eager to keep the world safe.

"...I love being here. Doing this. Helping people. Being with the Avengers. Being with our friends." Bucky finally admitted, the words twisting something in his chest as he said them, because damn it, they were true, "But I love you more. And we deserve this. 'Later', you remember? Later's now, sweetheart. And I'm done waiting for it."

Alia's fingers curled around his metal ones, her grip warm and sure.

Bucky exhaled, turning his hand to thread their fingers together properly. He knew Steve would probably understand. Hell, the man had practically pushed him toward this—toward her—since the beginning, because he'd always seen too much for his own damn good. Sam would crack a joke, Natasha would smirk, and Stark…

Well. Stark would most likely just be relieved. Or he'd try his best to look relieved, whilst secretly missing them.

But none of that mattered, because Alia was right.

They did deserve this.

They deserved mornings that didn't start with mission briefings. Deserved nights that didn't end with gunfire. Deserved a life where peace wasn't just a promise, it was a given.

Both of them had been fighting for too damn long. It was going to feel good, to finally, actually, rest, and maybe start trying to just live life rather than surviving whatever the hell it threw at them.

Bucky squeezed her hand, watching as the last streaks of sunlight painted the sky in gold and violet, "So. Where do you want to go first?" He finally asked.

Alia tilted her head, considering, but her response came pretty quick, all things considered, "Amsterdam," She decided with a smile, "The tulips are very pretty there, so I hear."

Amsterdam. Tulips and canals and cobblestone streets. No HYDRA ghosts. No mission parameters. Just... Them. Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, "Yeah, okay." He murmured, thumb tracing the ridge of her knuckles, "Amsterdam. Sounds perfect."

He could already picture it. Alia in some cozy little café, scowling at the bitter Dutch coffee while he teased her. Strolling through flower markets without checking their six every thirty seconds. Maybe even sleeping in, for once.

The thought made something warm and unspoken settle in his chest. Yeah. Perfect.

"Yes, it does." She agreed, bumping her shoulder against his own, before adding, casually, "I hear that it is a very romantic city for an engagement."

Bucky choked. He actually choked on his own breath, coughing hard enough that his metal hand almost bent the railing. His ears burned, and his pulse jackhammered.

Alia, meanwhile, was the picture of innocence, "—You're mean," Bucky finally managed to say once he got his voice back, glaring, "And you're not very subtle, either, you know that?"

Alia's lips curved into that infuriatingly smug little smirk, the one that made him want to kiss her and throw her off the balcony in equal measure.

"I do not know what you mean," She said, blinking up at him with exaggerated innocence, "I was simply making an observation about the city."

Bucky narrowed his eyes, "Bullshit."

"Ah-ah. Language, Sergeant."

"Sweetheart—"

She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear, "You are blushing, James."

He was. And he hated that she knew it. Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head, "You're gonna be the death of me, one of these days."

Alia laughed, the sound soft and genuine, curling around him, "No," she corrected, pressing a kiss to his jaw, "I am going to be the rest of your life."

And damn it all, she was right. Again.

He groaned, dragging her against his chest, "You're impossible." He sighed, because he could feel her smiling into his shoulder.

"Vam eto nravitsya." (You love it.)

Yeah. He really fucking did.

A polite throat-clearing behind them made Bucky look over Alia's head. Steve was standing there now, his arms crossed as he leaned in the patio doorway.

"So. You, uh, got something you want to share with the class, Buck?" He asked casually, as if he probably hadn't been inadvertently eavesdropping the entire time. Bucky winced to himself. Right, super soldier hearing. He and Alia weren't the only ones who had hearing like bats in this damn building.

He detangled himself from Alia, but not entirely, keeping his artificial arm tucked around her waist, "Yeah, Stevie. We're thinking of taking a break, from all this. Just the two of us."

Steve didn't look surprised. He didn't look disappointed, either. Just… Quiet. Thoughtful. For a long moment, he simply studied them. Bucky's arm around Alia, the way she leaned into the touch without hesitation, the unspoken certainty between them. Then, slowly, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"About damn time," Steve finally said, pushing off the doorway.

At that, Bucky just blinked, "That's it? That's all you got to say?"

Steve shrugged, "What, you think I didn't see this coming?" He stepped forward, clapping Bucky on the shoulder, "You deserve it. Both of you do."

"There will be no arguments? No, 'But the team—'?" Alia tilted her head, equally befuddled by Steve's casual acceptance.

Steve, for his part, only snorted, "Please. Stark's got enough recruits to fill a small army right now. And let's be honest, you two could use a break from us as much as we could use one from you."

"You're still just a goddamn punk." Bucky muttered.

Grinning back, Steve shot back, "Same way you're still a jerk." And just like that, the weight lifted. No drama. No guilt. Just Steve, steady as ever, giving them his blessing without a second thought.

Bucky exhaled, shaking his head, "Guess that's that, then."

Alia squeezed his side, "Yes, I suppose so."

"Just don't go getting married without me." Steve added, and Bucky's face went immediately red again.

Alia, the absolute menace, just smiled sweetly, "No promises." She hummed.

Steve's eyebrows shot up.

Bucky groaned.

And somewhere in the distance, Sam's voice carried from inside the compound, because of course he'd overheard at the worst possible time, "Wait, hold up— Did I just hear 'marriage'?! Is this shit finally happening? Hey, I can get ordained, y'know!" Which only prompted Bucky to bury his face in his hands.

Yeah.

They were definitely leaving tomorrow. The earliest flight FRIDAY could find to the Netherlands, he was booking it. Immediately. He'd sleep in the goddamn terminal if it meant getting away from this circus.

Steve just patted his back, his voice suddenly growing more serious, "Hey. You know that you two will need to be careful, right? Ultron might be gone, but Zemo's still out there."

Now that sobered Bucky up real fast. Right. After Zemo had disabled Ultron's security protocols to allow Natasha and Alia to escape their imprisonment in his Novi Grad base of operations, the baron had become a ghost again, disappearing into the wind.

The destruction of the capital of Sokovia had all but imploded the country's government, triggering a major humanitarian crisis. If there was anything left of the Sokovian Intelligence Directorate, their resources wouldn't be something Zemo could truly rely on. Not anymore.

That made him weak. But it also made him desperate, and desperate men could do a lot of damage when they felt like they were backed into a corner.

"Yeah, well, he's welcome to try." Bucky finally said, his thumb tracing circles idly on Alia's hip, "Kicked his ass once. I'll do it again."

Steve nodded, but the tension in his jaw didn't ease, "Just watch your backs. He's not the type to make the same mistake twice."

Alia's fingers twitched against Bucky's side, her reply cool, "Neither are we." There was something dark in her tone, something that made the hair on Bucky's neck stand up.

Because she wasn't wrong. They weren't the same people Zemo had tried to break. Not anymore.

And if either of them got their hands on Zemo again... Well. He had a feeling he knew how that would go.

Bucky tightened his grip on her, grounding them both, "We'll be careful," He promised.

Steve studied them for a long moment before sighing, "Good." Then, with a glance toward the compound's interior where Sam's voice was still carrying— "Someone get me a damn ring, I'm officiating this shit TONIGHT!" —He smirked, "Now, you two might wanna get moving before Wilson actually tries to drag you to a chapel."

Bucky groaned. Alia just laughed.

And just like that, the moment had passed — The threat acknowledged, the warning given, but not enough to dim the quiet hope blooming between them.

Tomorrow, they'd leave.

Tomorrow, they'd start something new, and entirely their own. Something not even HYDRA could take away from them, now. Something he'd been waiting a damn long time for.

Chapter Text

The White Widow

It struck Alia then that Bucky had not actually seen her room at the upstate compound before now.

The others were processing the news of their impending departure in their own ways. Natasha had been only momentarily saddened by the news; she was still grieving the disappearance of Banner in her own way, and Alia couldn't help but sympathize.

She and her 'sister' were alike in that they loved fast, and loved deeply. Having Banner snatched from her just when it seemed like they might have been starting something was especially cruel. Everyone else, even the Maximoffs, had been happy for them.

Tony had only glowered, muttered something about 'leave me off the wedding registry' and 'don't break any international laws', and that had been that.

Now Alia chuckled as she leaned her head against Bucky's shoulder, guiding him to where she'd always stayed whilst at the upstate compound, those days when she'd slept over here when helping with the Maximoffs' rehabilitation following the Raft.

They'd just finished a rather celebratory team dinner, a bit of an impromptu 'farewell' for Alia and him. She could still hear the others in the shared kitchen and living room space, chatting over Sam's homemade lasagna and breaking out the beer bottles.

Tonight, though, there was only one person Alia wanted to be with, and she was currently tucked under his artificial arm.

Bucky followed her through the maze of hallways, his steps quiet despite his size. The Avengers compound was sprawling, a blend of Stark's sleek, futuristic design and the rustic charm of the surrounding woods. But Alia's room...

...Well, it was hers.

She'd claimed it months ago, during the early days of Wanda and Pietro's transition. The room was small, simple. A bed, a dresser, a window overlooking the forest. But it held the faint echoes of her, still. The lingering scent of her shampoo, and the books she'd left scattered on the nightstand.

Alia paused at the doorway, gesturing him inside, "It is nothing special. But, it is all mine." She said, unable to suppress a bit of pride at the statement. So few things in her life were hers, after all.

Bucky stepped past her, his gaze sweeping over the space. He didn't say anything, but she could feel his thoughts. Curious, gentle, and appreciative, of her sharing this space with him.

He turned to face her, a soft smile tugging at his lips, "It's nice," He said, keeping his voice low, "It feels like you."

Alia's chest tightened, "Is that a good thing?"

Bucky reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered against her cheek, warm even through the cool metal.

"Yeah," He murmured, his voice rough with something deeper than words, "It's perfect."

And then, because she couldn't help herself, Alia smirked, "Good. Because you are staying the night, James."

Bucky's eyebrows shot up, "Oh, I am, huh?"

"Mm." She stepped closer, her fingers curling into the front of his shirt, "Unless you want to go back out there and deal with Sam's continued attempts at wedding planning?"

Bucky's expression twisted into pure horror.

"Christ, no, I don't."

And then he kicked the door shut behind them.

Alia laughed as she could actually hear the others start to clear out of the kitchen following the loud bang of her door shutting; Tony's indignant, "Oh my God, they're about to be super gross and I don't want to be here for it and have my innocence shattered," carrying just a bit louder above the other voices.

But then Bucky was winding his fingers through her hair and kissing her, and her laughter melted away into a warm, pleased hum instead.

The world narrowed to the heat of Bucky's mouth, the rough scrape of his stubble against her chin, the way his fingers tightened in her hair like he was afraid she'd vanish if he let go.

She wouldn't disappear again, though. Not tonight, not ever.

Alia arched into him, biting lightly at his lower lip just to hear the low groan it pulled from his throat. His metal arm cinched around her waist, hauling her flush against him as he walked her backward, until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed.

Bucky broke the kiss just long enough to murmur, "You sure?"

Alia rolled her eyes, "James."

"Just checking, sweetheart."

"Barnes." She glared now, and didn't give him a chance to overthink it further. Pivoting, her hands shoved at his chest, just hard enough to send him stumbling back onto the mattress. Bucky landed with a soft thump, his hair fanning out against her pillows, his eyes dark and hungry as they tracked her.

Alia crawled over him, her knees bracketing his hips, her fingers already working off his shirt, "You talk too much, James," She murmured, leaning down to nip at his jaw.

Bucky's breath hitched, his hands settling on her waist, "Yeah?"

"Mhm." She dragged her lips along the column of his throat, savouring the way his pulse jumped under her mouth, "Tak chto, na etot raz, pomolchite." (So, for once, be quiet.)

His laugh was rough, breathless, "Bossy."

"Akh, no tebe eto nravitsya..." (Ah, but you love it...)

And then, simply because she could, she rolled her hips against him, slow and deliberate, just to feel the way his body tensed beneath hers. Bucky's grip tightened, his voice dropping to a growl.

"Alia—"

She grinned against his skin. Exactly the reaction she'd been hoping for.

After she'd worked his shirt off, her fingers traced the scars along his ribs, some old, some new, all part of the map that made him Bucky. Hers. She pressed a kiss to each one, enjoying the way his breath stuttered, the way his muscles twitched under her touch.

When she reached the waistband of his pants, slipping to her knees off the bed's edge, she paused, glancing up through her lashes.

"Still talking?" She asked sweetly.

His fingers tangled in the sheets, "No," Bucky gritted out. Alia grinned against his skin.

She made quick work of his belt, her fingers deliberate, her movements edged with teasing slowness. The sound of the leather strap slipping through the buckle was quiet, but in the stillness of the room, it felt loud. Intimate.

Bucky's thighs tensed beneath her hands.

Then his voice, low and almost pained, finally reached her ears, "Poydem, milaya." (Come on, sweetheart.) He grumbled in Russian, probably because he knew it'd get her attention.

She glanced up at him again, her lips quirking into a smirk that carried just the hint of fang, "Kakiye-to problemy, James?" (Is there a problem, James?) Alia replied in kind, a bit too innocently.

He didn't respond, only groaned and threw an arm over his eyes, as if that would somehow block out the sensation of her fingertips dragging along the button of his jeans.

The sharp intake of his breath when she popped it open was immensely satisfying.

Bucky was always in control, always on edge, always watching for threats that no longer existed... but with her, he could truly let go.

Her hands smoothed up his thighs, brushing against the coarse denim before slipping beneath the waistband, tugging his pants down just enough to reveal the tense, hard ridge beneath his briefs.

She leaned in close, her breath warm against him, "Ya dumayu, chto odezhdy vse yeshche slishkom mnogo," (Still too many clothes, I think,) Alia murmured thoughtfully.

Bucky cursed under his breath, his hips twitching instinctively toward her, "You are the worst, you know that?"

Alia laughed then, the sound low and rich as her fingers already worked to remedy the imbalance. Within moments, she tugged her own sweater over her head, tossing it aside before unclipping her bra with practiced ease. She discarded it just as carelessly, letting her pale skin catch the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

"You are always the one who takes the lead, James," Alia answered from between his knees, grinning, "I think it is only fair that I return the favour, hmm?"

She didn't wait for an answer.

Her fingers hooked into the waistband of his briefs, dragging them down just enough to free him— Already hard, already flushed, already hers —Before leaning in and taking him into her mouth in one slow, deliberate stroke.

Bucky's hips jerked off the bed, his curse sharp and ragged. His hands moved then to curl through her hair, not pushing, not pulling, just holding like he needed something to ground him.

Alia hummed, just relishing the weight of him on her tongue, the way his thighs trembled under her palms. She took her time, working him with slow, torturous drags of her lips, teasing the head with her tongue every time she pulled back.

Bucky's breath came in short, punched-out gasps, "Fuck— Alia—"

She glanced up, meeting his blown-out pupils, and smirked around him.

Payback.

She didn't let up.

Her tongue swirled over the head, her fingers tightening around the base of him as she took him deep again, hollowing her cheeks. The sounds Bucky made, guttural, wrecked, barely stifled, sent heat coiling low in her belly.

His grip in her hair tightened, not guiding, just feeling, "Gonna— Fuck, Alia, if you don't stop—"

"If I do not stop, what?" Alia asked, finally releasing him from her mouth just so she could crawl up his body again; Bucky's impatient tugging on her hair guiding her mouth to his.

Bucky kissed her like a man starved, hot, messy, all teeth and tongue and the sharp bite of his groan against her lips. His hands dragged down her back, fingers digging into the curve of her hips as he rolled them over in one smooth motion, pinning her beneath him.

"If you didn't stop," He muttered, nipping at her jaw, "I was gonna come down your throat like some teenager."

Alia laughed, breathless and arching into him, "And this is a bad thing?"

Bucky only growled, dragging his lips down her throat, "Well, we got time, sweetheart. Gonna make sure you feel it first."

His teeth grazed her collarbone, his hand sliding between them to palm between her thighs, finding her already slick and aching. Alia's breath hitched, her nails scraping down his back as his fingers found her, slow and teasing; his weight keeping her pinned as he began to work her leggings off of her with his free hand.

His fingers were ruthless, skilled in a way that made her back arch off the mattress, her thighs trembling around his hand. He knew exactly how to touch her, where to press, where to tease, where to linger just long enough to make her whimper. They'd long-since learned the language of each other's bodies.

Her leggings were shoved down her hips, discarded somewhere on the floor, and then—

—Finally, Bucky dragged his fingers through her folds, circling her clit with a slow, maddening pressure that had her gasping.

"James..."

"Yeah?" His voice was rough, his breath hot against her neck, "What do you want, sweetheart?"

Alia dug her nails into his shoulders, "You."

Bucky smirked, then slid two fingers inside her without any warning.

Alia's head fell back, a moan tearing from her throat as he curled them just so, his thumb rubbing tight circles over her clit.

"Like that?" He murmured, his mouth trailing lower, teeth scraping over her nipple.

Alia could only nod, her hips rocking against his hand, chasing the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in her gut.

Bucky chuckled, low and dark, "Good."

Then he added a third finger, and Alia saw stars.

Her back arched, her thighs clamping around his wrist as pleasure crashed over her in a white-hot wave. Bucky didn't let up, fucking her through it, his fingers relentless as she shuddered beneath him.

When she finally came down, panting, Bucky leaned in, kissing her slow and deep.

"Now," he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with want, "Now I'm gonna make you beg properly."

Alia was still shuddering through the aftershocks when Bucky pulled his fingers free, only to replace them with the thick, aching press of his cock.

She gasped, her nails biting into his shoulders as he sank into her, inch by torturous inch, until he was buried, until she could feel him everywhere.

Bucky groaned, his forehead dropping to hers, his breath ragged, "Fuck. You feel—"

Alia cut him off with a roll of her hips, her legs locking around his waist, "Move." She growled.

Bucky's laugh was rough, uneven, "Bossy," He repeated from before, but he obeyed, dragging out almost completely before thrusting back in hard.

Alia's moan was swallowed by his mouth as he set a relentless pace, each snap of his hips driving her higher, unravelling her all over again.

His metal hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to expose her throat as his teeth scraped over her pulse point, "Tell me," He growled.

"More." Alia didn't hesitate to whisper the word.

Bucky obliged, fucking her deeper, harder, until the headboard slammed against the wall in time with their ragged breaths.

And when she came again, screaming his name, her body clamping around him like a vise, Bucky followed her over the edge with a groan, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside her.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their laboured breathing, the damp press of their bodies, the aftershocks of pleasure still sparking through her veins.

Then Bucky shifted, pressing a kiss to her forehead, "Still think you're in charge?" He murmured, sounding terribly smug now.

Alia smacked his shoulder then, "Zatknis', ublyudok." (Shut up, bastard.)

Bucky just laughed and curled his arm around her to pull her closer to him, and she obliged, tucking her head under his chin, "You don't mean that."

She exhaled against his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns over his ribs, "No," She admitted quietly, "I do not. Maybe only a little. But, not really."

Bucky's arm tightened around her, his lips brushing against her hairline as he hummed in agreement, wordlessly.

A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the distant hum of the compound's systems and the occasional creak of the bed as they shifted. Alia closed her eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear.

Tomorrow, they would leave. Tomorrow, they would start something new.

And she couldn't wait for it to begin.

The Baron

Rain pattered against the windows of the dimly lit safehouse, the storm outside mirroring the tempest that was roiling in Zemo's mind.

The remnants of Sokovia's skyline still burned behind his eyelids every time he blinked. His country, now gone. Reduced to ash and rubble, not by the Latverian dogs, not by HYDRA's machinations, but by the very weapon that he had sought to control.

Ultron.

Zemo's fingers tightened around the glass of vodka in his hand, the ice long since melted. The arrogance of it still stung. He had thought himself the architect of chaos, the puppeteer pulling the strings of gods and monsters alike.

And yet, Stark's AI had outplayed him.

The glass hit the wall with a shatter, liquor and crystal exploding across the floor.

A mistake. A calculated one, yes— He had always intended to abandon Ultron once the Avengers were sufficiently broken —But still. He had not anticipated the scale of the destruction. Had not accounted for Stark's creation becoming something so utterly unhinged.

His country, his people, and his family had paid the price of that mistake. It wasn't an error Zemo intended to repeat in the future.

A knock at the door. Zemo didn't turn as he said, "Enter." Without an ounce of emotion in his voice.

The door creaked open, revealing one of his last remaining operatives, a gaunt-faced man with shadows under his eyes, "Sir. The asset reports are in."

Zemo exhaled through his nose, "And?"

"The Winter Soldier and the White Widow are leaving the Avengers." That makes him stiffen. Then, a slow, humorless smile curled Zemo's lips.

Finally.

Isolation meant vulnerability. And vulnerability was in reality just another form of opportunity, "Track them," He replied, softly, "But do not engage. Not yet. Surveillance only. I wish to know everything they do and every place they go."

The operative hesitated, "Sir... With all due respect, after Sokovia, our resources—"

"—Are irrelevant." Zemo's voice cut like a blade through the operative's concerns, "Track them. I wish to know where they go, what they do. Do not make me repeat myself. Do you understand?"

He waited for the operative's affirmative and his quiet exit before Zemo finally turned back to the heavily encrypted laptop he'd stolen away with. One of the many things he'd taken from Ultron, on his way out of his facility in Novi Grad.

The AI might have been a homicidal abomination, but he was an exceptionally thorough one. And he had made certain to scour the Avenger's files whilst he'd had access, making copies upon copies for himself to process, and analyze for weaknesses. For all the good it had done him. 

Zemo's fingers skipped over the laptop's keyboard, accessing the data dump of surveillance footage from the Avengers tower. He scrolled back through the dates. August... July... June... May... April...

Back, all the way to March. There. He let the cursor hover between a few files, indecisive, before finally selecting one. The surveillance recording opened, showing the Avengers gathered around a kitchen island in their tower's common area. The Winter Soldier stood awkwardly at the head of it, gripping a mug of coffee in one hand.

"—The point is, you're both cleared to stay. For now, but, with conditions." Captain Rogers' voice droned out, barely audible through the camera's microphone.

The Soldier only blinked slowly in response, "Generous of them."

"Not 'them', Barnes," Stark cut in, shaking his head, "Me. My tower, my rules." Then Stark held up four fingers and began to tick them down.

"One. No leaving the Tower without one of for the foreseeable future. Two. You will both be attending so, so much therapy. Mandatory. Three. No weapons we don't know about. Inventory happens. Regularly."

And then, Stark paused.

"Last, but most certainly not least..." He started, before tapping the table to make sure the Winter Soldier was paying attention to him, "Condition four. If either of you ever relapse into 'HYDRA mode', I will put you both down, no questions asked."

Zemo tapped the space bar, pausing the video. He rewound by five or ten seconds and let it play again.

"Condition four. If either of you ever relapse into 'HYDRA mode', I will put you both down, no questions asked."

He smiled. As per usual, the Avengers made it so easy for him. Zemo leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as the video flickered in the dim light.

Condition Four.

How predictable.

The Avengers, for all their power, were still bound by their own moral code, their own weaknesses. Stark's threat wasn't an empty one. He wouldn't kill Barnes or Volkova in cold blood. But if they gave him no choice but to?

Zemo's smile sharpened.

He didn't need to control the Winter Soldier or the White Widow, himself. He couldn't, not in the way he might have thought about doing. They had made certain of that by burning out their programming; he'd seen it first-hand with the Widow in Sokovia when her trigger phrases had failed.

No. He'd only need to make sure Tony Stark thought that he could control them.

And the Avengers, well, then they would do the rest of the work for him.

Game. Set. Match.

Chapter Text

ACT TWO: THE CALM

The White Widow

"James!"

Alia shrieked as she felt herself be swept off her feet literally by him, his metal arm bracing under her knees, "What on Earth are you doing? Put me down, now."

"Quiet, sweetheart," Bucky retorted, pinching her hip, "You're always supposed to carry your girl in over the threshold of a new house. It's tradition."

"Well, this is a very silly tradition. And this is not a house, it is an apartment."

"Semantics. Same difference. Still ours."

It had been only a month or so since the fall of Novi Grad and the defeat of Ultron, but already, so much had changed. True to their word, Alia and Bucky had left the Avengers behind. Not entirely. If Steve or his new team—  Consisting now of Natasha, Wanda, Pietro, Vision, Sam and Rhodey —Should ever need them, they were only a phone call and a quinjet ride away. And Alia knew she or Bucky wouldn't hesitate if the need arose.

But, for now, they were simply enjoying this. Life. The one thing HYDRA had always deprived them of. Maria Hill had helped secure them visas for temporary residency in the Netherlands, and they had just gotten the keys to the apartment they'd put an offer in on. Alia had been completely unaware that they'd both been earning stipends as Avengers, but apparently Tony had not been exaggerating when he'd said, repeatedly, that nobody worked for free at the tower.

Needless to say, they both had more than enough money to afford whatever it was they could've wanted. But they had wanted this. Something small. Something theirs.

The apartment smelled of fresh paint and the crisp autumn air drifting through the half-open windows. Boxes were still stacked in the corners, their contents only partially unpacked; clothes, books, the few personal items they'd allowed themselves to keep.

And Bucky, well, he had insisted on carrying her over the threshold like some 1950s newlywed — And though she'd rolled her eyes, Alia couldn't deny the warmth curling in her chest as he finally set her down gently in the centre of the living room.

Her fingers lingered on his shoulders, her nose brushing against his as she smirked, "You are ridiculous." She grumbled.

Bucky's hands settled on her waist, his thumbs tracing idle circles over her hips, "Yeah? You love it."

Alia didn't deny it.

Instead, she leaned in, kissing him slow and deep, savouring the way his breath hitched against her lips. When she pulled back, Bucky's eyes were dark, and his voice was rough.

"What was that for?"

Alia shrugged, stepping out of his grasp to survey their new home, "For being you."

Bucky snorted, but she could feel his gaze heavy on her back as she moved toward the nearest box, peeling back the tape with a flick of her nail. Inside were the few kitchen supplies they'd bothered to bring. Plates, mugs, a single frying pan Natasha had insisted they take ("You're adults. Act like it.").

Bucky came up behind her, his chin resting on top of her head as he peered into the box.

"We need groceries."

Alia hummed her agreement, "Oh, yes. And a couch."

"And a bed frame."

"Mm, especially a bed frame."

Bucky chuckled, his arms winding around her waist as he pulled her back against his chest, "Priorities..."

"Always, James." Alia replied, tilted her head to press a kiss to his jaw.

They spent the rest of the afternoon like that — Unpacking, bickering over where things should go, stealing kisses between folded linens and stacked dishes. At one point, Bucky attempted to assemble a bookshelf they'd gotten delivered, with nothing but his metal arm and sheer stubbornness; resulting in a lopsided monstrosity that Alia couldn't stop laughing at.

"It's fine," He finally grumbled, kicking one of the uneven legs.

Alia wiped tears from her eyes, "No, it looks like it survived a bombing." Bucky shot her a look.

"Remind me why I love you again?"

She grinned, sauntering over to press a kiss to his scowling mouth, "Because I will put up with your terrible furniture-building skills."

The scowl melted into something softer, his hands settling on her hips, "Fair. S'not that bad, is it?"

"Mm..."

By evening, they'd managed to unpack enough to at least function. The bed (still just a mattress on the floor, but they'd deal with that tomorrow) was made, the kitchen semi-stocked, and the shower had hot running water, which was all either of them really cared about.

Alia stood now by the window, watching the amber glow of streetlights flickering to life along the canal below. The city hummed around them. Bicycles rattling over cobblestones, distant laughter from a café down the street, the occasional chime of a tram bell. She could sense the minds of their neighbours, and the tourists and other passersby on the street below. All of them, living out their own lives, their own little dramas, without the heavy chains that dragged behind herself and Bucky.

They were normal.

And so, it was quiet.

Amsterdam was one of the few cities in Europe where the ghost of the Winter Soldier or the White Widow didn't haunt them, here. HYDRA had never sent them on missions in this city. It was part of what had influenced her decision to come here, and he'd agreed with the logic. So had Doctor Marceau, who'd been more than happy to hear that the two of them felt ready for this 'next step', as she'd described it, during their final joint session in-person. After that, they'd agreed to weekly phone calls to keep in touch.

Now, Alia was already imagining telling Elodie about this place, this little sanctuary they were building. And how much peace it had brought her, simply by existing.

Bucky's footsteps were nearly silent as he came up behind her, his arms sliding around her waist, "You okay?" He asked softly, "You're doing that thing, where you look like you're brooding."

Alia leaned back into him, her fingers lacing with his over her stomach, "Yes. I am fine, James." And for the first time in longer than she could remember, she meant it, absolutely.

Bucky pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, "Good." The word was barely a whisper, but she felt it thrum in her bones.

They stood there for a long moment, wrapped in each other and the quiet promise of this new life. Then, a buzzing in Alia's pocket distracted her, and she scowled. Pulling out her smartphone, she squinted at it, fiddling in order to see what the notification was. When she finally did, her eyes lit up with excitement, "Bozhe moy," She exclaimed.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his arms still loosely draped around her waist, "You gonna share with the class or just keep staring at me like I'm the one who's supposed to read your mind?"

Alia turned the screen toward him, her lips pulling into a nervous, tentative grin, "The studio. They want me to come in for an interview."

For a second, Bucky just blinked. Then—

"—Hell yes." He spun her around, lifting her clear off the ground in a hug that had her laughing into his shoulder. When he set her down, his grin was as bright as she'd ever seen it, "I told you they'd bite."

Alia rolled her eyes, but her chest felt warm, "It is just an interview, James. They may still say no to me."

"Bullshit. They'd be crazy to say no to you." Bucky flicked her nose, "You're gonna walk in there, do that thing with your feet—"

"Pirouettes?"

"—Yeah, that— And then they're gonna hire you on the spot."

Alia huffed, but she couldn't fight the smile tugging at her lips. It had been Bucky's idea, really, so the joy on his part wasn't entirely misplaced or strange. A few weeks ago, she'd mentioned missing ballet; not the Red Room's brutal, weaponized version of it, but the real thing. The art, the music, the way her body could speak without words. He'd all but shoved the job listing at her the next day, a studio in their chosen neighbourhood seeking a new instructor.

"You have experience teaching," He'd argued quite passionately, "You taught Wanda."

It had been futile of her to point out that she'd taught Wanda how to better control her powers, and not how to do a plié. But now, his thumbs brushed over her hips, his voice softening with pride, "You're gonna be great, there, Alia."

Alia leaned up, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth, "Yes, I know."

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky grinned, "You can thank me properly after you get the job."

She swatted his chest for that, but her phone buzzed again, a follow-up email with the interview details. Tomorrow. 10 AM. Her stomach fluttered with a mixture of nerves and excitement.

"Ah, I will need to call Natasha and let her know. She will be so pleased." Alia sighed, pocketing her phone again, "But I wonder if I am out and about at work all day, and you are stuck at home, does this make you the, hmm, what is the term... House-husband?"

Bucky's expression went flat, at that, "House-husband?"

Alia merely grinned, patting his cheek, "Yes, that is it. You will cook, clean, maybe knit little sweaters while waiting for your hardworking ballerina teacher to come home..."

"Oh, hell no." Bucky caught her wrist, tugging her against him with a mock glare, "First of all, I don't knit. Second—" His metal hand slid down to pinch her ass, making her yelp, "—If you're gonna be the breadwinner, then I'm gonna be the devastatingly charming boyfriend, who distracts you the second you walk through the door."

Alia arched a brow, "Is that so?"

Bucky's answering smirk was downright filthy, "You'll see." He promised.

She finally just laughed, shoving him away, though not hard enough to actually make him let go, "You are so ridiculous."

"Yeah, but you love it."

Alia sighed, leaning into him, "Unfortunately." And Bucky kissed the top of her head.

"Damn right. Now, call Nat. I'll start dinner."

Alia watched him disappear into their tiny kitchen, already rummaging through their meagre groceries with the same focus he'd once reserved for mission briefings. She pulled out her phone, dialling Natasha's number with a quiet laugh to herself. With time conversion, it should only be 12 or 1 PM in New York, meaning Natasha was no doubt around—

The Black Widow picked up before the first ring had even finished, "—Romanoff. Who's dying?"

Alia blinked, "...Nobody is dying, Natasha. Why would someone be dying?"

"Someone's dying?" Bucky called from the kitchen. Alia waved at him to be quiet.

"—Oh. Okay, hang on just one second," There was the sound of rustling fabric over the call, before Natasha yelled, muffled, "False alarm, guys, it's just a social call!" And then her voice came back, much sharper, "Well, it's just the first time you've called since you both moved. So, I assumed something was wrong."

"And your first assumption was that one of us was dying?"

Alia could practically hear Natasha smirking over the line, "Considering it's you two, sestra? Yes, I did."

She rolled her eyes at that, though she couldn't fight the fondness curling in her chest, "We are fine. More than fine, actually." Alia paused, just to savour the dramatic effect, "But, I have an interview tomorrow."

There was a second or two of complete silence. And then—

"—Finally." Natasha's voice was pure smug satisfaction, "Took you long enough. Which studio was it, again?"

"The one by the canal. Dansstudio Vliet."

"Nice. It sounds classy." Natasha's tone shifted, the smirk audible, "So, what's Barnes doing while you're out being a productive member of society? Sulking? Brooding? Plotting world domination from your living room?"

From the kitchen, Bucky's indignant, "I heard that!" Floated over the clatter of pans.

Alia grinned, "No. He is becoming a house-husband."

Natasha's laugh was sharp, delighted.

"Oh, I have to tell Sam."

Bucky's metal hand slammed against the counter, "Do not tell Sam!"

Natasha, of course, ignored him entirely, "He's gonna lose his mind." She continued, gleefully.

Alia leaned against the wall, watching Bucky mutter curses under his breath as he aggressively chopped vegetables, "I will send you pictures." She said mildly.

"You're my favourite."

"I know."

"Traitor." Was all that Bucky huffed, pointing the knife at Alia in a mock-threat that had her sticking her tongue out at him.

"So. How's the domestic bliss treating you two, anyway?" Natasha asked slyly, ignoring Bucky's commentary entirely.

Alia's gaze flicked to Bucky, his ridiculous scowl, the way his hair had fallen into his eyes, the quiet, effortless way he moved around their kitchen like he belonged there. Her chest tightened, "Better than expected," She admitted, softly.

Natasha's pause was brief, but telling, "Good. Yeah, that's good."

"And how is your new team of Avengers fairing?" Alia asked in turn, pacing the length of their small living room, "Wanda and Pietro, are they doing well?"

Natasha exhaled, the sound staticky through the phone, "Well, they're… Adjusting. Wanda's been working with Vision on controlling her powers. Less destructive outbursts, more precision. She asks about you sometimes."

Alia's fingers tightened slightly around the phone, hearing that, "I will need to call her soon," She mused, "And Pietro, how is he?"

"Annoying as hell. Faster than ever, though. Stark built him some kind of friction-resistant suit so he doesn't burn through shoes every five minutes." Natasha replied, with a snort, "He, Steve and Sam all do running in the morning, now. Pretty sure he's trying to drive them both into early graves."

Bucky, still chopping vegetables with unnecessary force, muttered, "Kid's gonna get himself killed showing off like that."

"Tell Barnes to stop eavesdropping." Natasha complained, then.

Alia smirked, "He is right here, sestra. And, he has enhanced hearing. You are on speaker phone whether you like it or not."

There was a faint sigh. Then, Natasha spoke up purposefully, her voice echoing a bit louder through the cellphone receiver.

"Barnes."

Bucky didn't look up from his aggressive onion murder, "Romanoff."

Natasha's sigh was long-suffering, "God, you two are disgustingly domestic."

Alia only hummed at that, turning away from Bucky as she replied, "Jealous?"

"Please. I've got my hands full herding Stark's ego and Sam's terrible jokes. I don't need more emotionally stunted super-soldiers to babysit."

Bucky flipped the knife in his hand, pointing it toward the phone, "I love you and miss you too, Nat." He called back.

Humming again in amusement, Alia slipped back out onto their balcony, an illusion of privacy, even though she knew Bucky would still be able to hear every word she said.

"Has there been any news, at all?" She finally asked, softly, "Concerning Banner?"

The line went quiet for a long moment. Outside, the canal below glittered under the golden streetlights, the water rippling with the occasional passing boat.

Natasha's voice, when it came, was carefully neutral, "No."

Alia leaned against the railing, the metal cool under her palms. Bruce had vanished after Novi Grad, after Ultron, and not even Stark's endless resources had turned up a trace. It had torn Natasha up inside, Alia knew. So much so that she'd hesitated leaving at all on the basis of wanting to stay, and support her through her search for the man she'd come to love. But in the end, even Natasha had encouraged her to go. It didn't magically make Alia worry any less, however.

The other Widow continued, quieter now, "Stark, he thinks that he left the planet, somehow. That he… Didn't trust himself to stay, maybe." She sighed, "I don't even know how that's possible, but, there's no trace of him at all, so, it's plausible. Occam's razor says he's probably just dead somewhere, though."

Alia exhaled, watching the rippling reflection of streetlights on the canal below. She knew better than to offer empty comforts. Natasha wouldn't want them. So instead, she said, "If he is out there, he will come back."

Natasha's answering laugh was soft, and brittle, "Yeah. Or maybe it's better if he doesn't."

The unspoken better for who hung between them, unspoken and heavy. Alia bit her lip, at that, unsure of what to say. From inside their apartment, the sizzle of onions hitting a hot pan filled the silence. Bucky's voice, deliberately light, carried through the open door, "—Dinner's gonna be ready in ten. Tell Romanoff to stop depressing my girlfriend."

Natasha scoffed at that, "His cooking is probably the real tragedy here." She accused, the tension breaking with that simple comment.

Alia smiled, small but real, "Ah, well, he is right, I should go. But… Call me, Natasha? Tomorrow? The interview is early for me, so you will undoubtedly reach me after it is done."

"Obviously, I will." Natasha's tone shifted again, something much warmer bleeding through, now, "Break a leg, sestra. Not literally, but, you know. Good luck."

The line went dead after that. Alia stayed on the balcony a moment longer, the chill of the evening air grounding. Then she turned, slipping back inside, where the scent of garlic and paprika wrapped around her.

Bucky glanced over his shoulder, his eyes searching hers, "Everything okay?" He asked. Alia stepped into his space, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Yes. It is more than okay, James."

Everything was perfect.

Chapter Text

The White Widow

The studio, Dansstudio Vliet, was warm, sunlight streaming through the high windows, catching the dust motes that swirled in the air like lazy fireflies. The soft piano music from the speakers filled the space as Alia moved between her students. Eight young girls, none older than twelve, and all of their faces pinched in concentration as they mimicked her first position.

"Nyet, Sofie. Your turnout comes from the hips, not the knees," Alia corrected gently, pressing a hand to the girl's lower back to guide her posture. The child huffed but adjusted, her tiny face screwing up in determination.

Alia had to hide a smile, at that.

She had been teaching here for nearly three weeks now, and though it was nothing like the brutal precision of the Red Room, there was a rhythm to it that she found herself craving when she returned home afterwards.

The way the students eyes lit up when they mastered a step. The way they groaned when she made them repeat drills. The way they trusted her to guide them.

It was... Nice. Very nice.

"Now, barre," Alia announced, her voice clear over the music. The girls scurried to their places, small hands lightly resting on the smooth wood, "We begin with demi-plié in first position. Heels together, toes turned out, not forced, from the hips, Lena." She demonstrated, her own fluid and deep, "Down... And up. Feel the floor, da? Like springs, in your legs."

They repeated the motion. Alia walked the line, adjusting a slouching shoulder here, nudging a turned-in knee there, "Dobro. Good. Now grand plié. Deeper, but keep hips level. No popping up, Elise. Imagine a book on your head." She placed a hand atop Elise's crown, and the girl giggled but straightened instantly, "Down... Hold... And rise slowly. Control is strength."

It was nothing like the Red Room, Alia reflected, quietly. What memories she did have of it came back the strongest here; the rows of girls, intensely focused, as their teacher drifted down the rows, making corrections.

At least Alia wasn't correcting then with a riding crop. Or a cane. And here the girls wouldn't be taken after to field strip weapons or kill their first man. They were just here to learn. Just that. Nothing more, and nothing less.

Next came tendus, and she forced herself to refocus on the class, "Front, side, back," Alia directed, her own leg extending in a crisp line, pointed toe brushing the floor, "Slide the foot, devochki. No stomping. It is a whisper, not a shout." She paused beside Marta, whose working foot wobbled, "Engage your core, moya zvezda. Think of a string pulling you tall from your spine. Da, better!"

The sequence evolved into dégagés, sharper brushes off the floor, "Quick and light! Like touching hot sand," Alia urged, clapping her hands once to emphasize the tempo. She watched Sofia's effort, the girl's tongue peeking out in focus, "Sofia, molodets! See how your energy goes all the way through your toes?"

Ronds de jambe à terre followed, "Draw a half-moon on the floor with your toe," Alia instructed, tracing the arc with her finger, "Front to side, side to back. Smoothly, Anya. No jerking. Think of paint on your toe; make a clean line." She knelt beside Anya, guiding her foot through the path, "Feel the rotation in the hip socket? Da. That is turnout working."

She let her eyes linger as she watched Anya mimicking the motion, the second time smoother. The third, even better, "Good," She praised, "Very good."

Transitioning to the centre, next was a simple port de bras exercise, "Arms float from first to second position. Soft elbows, Eva, like holding a large ball." She mimicked the gentle curve, "Breathe with the movement. Inhale arms up, exhale open." The girls mirrored her, their small arms carving hesitant arcs in the sunlit air.

For piqué passé, Alia demonstrated the transfer of weight, "Step onto a straight leg, bring the other foot to coupé at the ankle. Balance!" She steadied wobbling Lotte, "Find your centre. Eyes forward, not down. You are a statue."

Finally, a preparation for pirouettes, "From fourth position; plié, push from the back foot, spot your eyes." Alia spun once, effortlessly precise, "Try just the quarter turn for now; full spins will come in a few weeks. Plié... Relevé... And hold!" The girls attempted the motion, some stumbling, others catching the brief balance, "Progress, not perfection," Alia reminded them, catching Freya's proud grin after a steady landing.

"...Alright, devochki, that's enough for today," Alia clapped her hands once, signalling the end of class. The girls immediately sagged in relief, some flopping onto the polished wood floor while others scrambled for their water bottles, "Next week, we start petits sauts. And yes," She added, cutting off the collective groan before it could crescendo, "That means you must all practice your pliés."

Before she could turn to gather her own possessions, though, something terribly familiar prickled at the edge of Alia's awareness. Her head snapped toward the door—

—Just in time to see Natasha Romanoff leaning against the frame, arms crossed, a smirk playing at her lips.

She was dressed casually, dark jeans, a leather jacket, sunglasses, but the effect was still striking enough that the girls immediately froze, their eyes widening. One of them, Lotte, who was also the most chatty of the bunch, gasped, "Oh my gosh. You're— You're the Black Widow."

Natasha's smirk deepened, flicking down her sunglasses to shoot Lotte a wink, "Depends on who's asking, but, yeah, I am."

The studio erupted into whispers. Alia pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Class is over," She said pointedly, shooing the girls toward the door where their parents were already waiting, "Go, now, all of you. Before Miss Romanoff corrupts you with her terrible sense of humour."

Natasha feigned offence as the girls scrambled to grab their bags, shooting her awed glances on their way out. Lotte even paused to ask for an autograph, which Natasha signed with a flourish before ruffling the girl's hair.

Once the studio was empty, Alia crossed her arms, playfully unimpressed, "Sestra."

Natasha grinned, "Miss me?"

Alia didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, she stepped forward and pulled Natasha into a tight hug.

Natasha stiffened for half a second before melting into it, her arms wrapping around Alia just as fiercely, "Yeah, yeah," She muttered into her shoulder, "Don't get all sappy on me."

Alia pulled back, studying her face, "You are here with the others?"

"Of course. Sam and Steve are at your place. And Barnes looked positively thrilled to see them." Natasha said with a nod, before her grin turned wicked, "I think Sam called him a 'trophy husband' to his face."

Alia groaned, "Then we will return to ruins. What are you three doing here in Amsterdam?"

Natasha's smirk turned razor-sharp as she plucked a stray ballet slipper from the bench, spinning it idly between her fingers, "Officially? Diplomatic outreach. Dutch government wants to cozy up to the 'new Avengers' after the Sokovia mess." She dropped the slipper with a shrug.

"Unofficially? Steve missed his brooding best friend. And Sam owes me fifty bucks because he bet you two would've burned down the apartment by now, so I convinced him to come see it with his own eyes."

Alia rolled her eyes as she gathered her teaching notes, "Disappointing him will be my pleasure, sestra." Then she narrowed her eyes at Natasha, "And now all my students will be wanting to know how I am friends with the Black Widow."

Natasha grinned, unrepentant, "Oh no. How terrible for you. Now they'll think you're even cooler." She plucked at Alia's loose teaching sweater with a faux-critical hum, "Though we might need to work on your 'strict ballet instructor' aesthetic. Where's the little stick to smack their ankles with when they misbehave?"

Alia scoffed, shoving her lightly, "I am not a Red Room instructor."

Natasha's smirk softened at the edges, "No. You're better."

Alia blinked, surprised by the sincerity, but Natasha was already turning toward the door, tossing over her shoulder, "Now come on. If we leave the boys unsupervised any longer, I give it fifty-fifty odds Sam convinces Steve to help him rearrange your furniture into 'something less depressing'."

Alia groaned, grabbing her bag, "We are never getting our security deposit back."

Natasha's laughter trailed behind them as they stepped out into the crisp Amsterdam evening.

Back at her and Bucky's apartment, it was, in fact, controlled chaos, just as Alia had predicted.

She had barely made it in the door before Steve had practically swept her off her feet in a super soldier bear-hug that had her squeaking a little in alarm at how her ribs ached.

"Steve—" Alia wheezed, toes barely brushing the floor as his arms crushed the air from her lungs and even went so far as to spin her around. Over his shoulder, she could see Bucky leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, looking torn between amusement and judgment.

Sam, sprawled on their still-couchless living room floor, grinned, "Damn, Cap. You trying to pop her like a balloon?"

Steve set her down immediately, flushing, "Sorry. Got carried away. But, I missed you guys."

Alia gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest, "First Natasha ruins my professional reputation, and now you attempt to murder me. Is this an Avengers intervention?"

Bucky snorted, pushing off the counter to tug her into his arms instead, gentler, but no less possessive, "Nah. They're just nosy." He dropped a kiss on her temple before glaring at Steve, "Now hands off, Rogers."

Steve held his hands up in surrender, but his smile was warm, "Hey, wouldn't dream of it, Buck."

Natasha kicked the door shut behind them, "Alright, enough testosterone. Someone, pour me a drink."

Alia sighed, leaning into Bucky's chest, "Welcome to our peaceful life." She murmured, still disbelieving that the three of them were really here.

Sam, already rummaging through their cabinets, held up a bottle of wine triumphantly, "Yeah, peaceful my ass. You two are notoriously terrible at normal."

Bucky's chest rumbled with laughter under her cheek, "Says the guy currently elbow-deep in our kitchen like a raccoon searching a dumpster."

Sam popped the cork with his teeth, spitting it at Bucky's head, "First of all, rude. Second—" He poured wine haphazardly into whatever cups he could find (one was definitely a measuring cup), "—if you wanted 'normal,' you shouldn't have let a bunch of superheroes crash your hideout."

Natasha stole a glass from him, kicking his shin when he protested, "They invited us."

"Did we?" Alia asked mildly, raising her eyebrows.

Bucky's metal fingers drummed against her hip, "Pretty sure we didn't."

Steve, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat, "It's uh. More of a... Surprise visit."

Sam raised his makeshift wineglass in a toast, "To boundary violations and emotional constipation."

Natasha clinked hers against his, "Hear, hear."

"Bozhe moy." Alia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose for a moment.

The apartment was too small, too loud, and definitely not peaceful, but as laughter filled the room and Steve nearly knocked over a lamp trying to sit on the floor, Alia found she didn't mind it at all.

"How long are you staying in Amsterdam?" Alia asked as she finally departed Bucky's side to pick up her own wine glass, enjoying the taste, even if it wouldn't even get close to affecting her enhanced metabolism.

Sam grinned over the rim of his measuring cup, "Oh, that depends. How long until Barnes gets sick of us and kicks us all out?"

Bucky, over her head, deadpanned, "Exactly twenty minutes. Then I'm sending you all back to New York the express way."

Natasha stretched out on their threadbare rug like a cat, swirling her wine, "Here for three days," She gave Alia a proper answer, "Diplomatic meet-and-greet tomorrow, then Stark wants us to check out some potential HYDRA chatter in Rotterdam. Which, incidentally, is why we're crashing here instead of a hotel. Less paper trail."

Alia sipped her wine, amused, "Ah," She sighed, wearily, "So we are also a safehouse now. I should have known."

Steve had the decency to look sheepish, "Only if you're okay with it."

Bucky sighed, long-suffering, but his fingers laced with Alia's where they rested on her hip, "Yeah, yeah. Just keep your boots off the furniture."

"Oh, relax, Barnes. We'll be out of your hair soon enough." Natasha replied, before her eyes darted around the rather sparse living room, "...Not like there's much furniture in here to put boots on. You've both been gone for nearly a month and this is the best you can do?"

"That's what I keep telling Alia. But she's pretty picky—"

Alia elbowed him lightly in the ribs, cutting off his sentence, "—He means to say that we are very particular." She finished for him smoothly, as Bucky winced and rubbed his side, "We have not found a couch we liked yet. That is all."

"Uh-huh." Natasha answered, dryly, before she was quickly distracted by Sam doing the rounds on their wine refills.

Ans this, chaos and all, was home now, and frankly, Alia wouldn't have had it any other way.

Chapter Text

The Winter Soldier

The bar was dimly lit, all dark wood and amber glass, the kind of place that had probably looked the same for the last hundred years. Bucky nursed his beer, watching Steve fumble with a bitterbal like it was a live grenade, while Sam grinned into his gin.

"Christ, Rogers," Bucky muttered, "It's just fried meat. Not a ticking bomb."

Steve scowled at him, his ears burning red from embarrassment, "It's hot, Buck."

Setting his glass down, Sam just cackled, "Man survived WWII and the Arctic ice, but Dutch snacks are what finally take him down. Glad I was here to witness it."

Bucky smirked, leaning back in his chair. The alcohol wouldn't hit him hard, not with the serum, but the warmth of it, the normalcy, was nice. Even though it was their last night in Amsterdam until they needed to return to New York, Bucky was begrudgingly also able to admit that he was glad Sam and Steve were here, too, even if they'd forced themselves in and crashed his little utopia with Alia.

They were like family to him, now. Well, Steve always had been. Sam was an unexpected addition. And like family, they bickered and fought and argued, but in the end, they were always there for one-another. Finally managing a bite, Steve grimaced as he glanced looked over at him, "So, Buck, how's the civilian life really been treating you?"

Bucky's thumb traced the condensation on his glass, "Quiet." He sighed, before adding, "Good."

Sam leaned in, "And Alia?" He asked, conspiratorially.

The corner of Bucky's mouth twitched, "She's also good."

"Yeah?" He hummed, raising his eyebrows, "She still got that murder glare when you leave your socks on the floor?"

"No. Now, she just stabs them to the wall with one of my knives if I don't put them in the hamper." Bucky replied stoically, taking a slow sip of his beer.

Steve choked on his own drink hearing that, and Sam clapped his hands, pointing at Bucky.

"Marriage material, man."

And Bucky didn't correct him. Outside, the canals glittered under streetlights, and for once, the past really did feel far away. Like the Winter Soldier truly couldn't reach him anymore. It was disarming. It was precisely what he'd been missing.

"Actually, speaking of that—" Bucky started, slowly, and immediately both Steve and Sam snapped their gazes to him. He raised his eyebrows, "—Okay, both of you calm down."

"No, no, go on." Sam insisted, gesturing with his gin glass, "I can't wait to hear where this is going."

Bucky sighed, and took a long sip of his draft beer before he finally muttered, "Thinking I'm going to propose to Alia on her birthday. December 12th."

Sam's glass hit the table with a loud thunk.

Steve's face went through approximately seventeen emotions in three seconds. Shock, delight, concern, then something painfully soft, "Buck—"

Bucky braced himself for the impending moment, but Sam was already lunging across the table to grab his shoulders, shaking him hard enough to slosh beer onto the worn wood, "Finally! Do you know how long I've been waiting for you two emotionally constipated assassins to— Oof!"

Steve yanked Sam back by the collar before Bucky could stab him with a fork, "Ignore him," Steve said, grinning so wide it looked like it hurt, "That's— Hell, Buck, that's great." His voice dropped, rough with something like relief, "You deserve this."

Bucky scowled, but his ears were burning, "Yeah, well. Don't make it weird."

Sam, undeterred, slapped the table, "Oh, it's already weird. You're gonna need a ring. And a plan. And... Oh my god, does Natasha know? Because if she does, and she didn't tell me, I'm divorcing her as a best friend."

Bucky rubbed his temples, "No one knows. And if you open your mouth before December, Wilson, I'll feed you your own teeth."

Sam mimed zipping his lips... Then immediately unzipped them, "Okay, but hypothetically, what's your move? Sunset by the canals? Classic knee-drop? Or are you gonna pull some Soviet-era romantic shit and carve it into a bullet casing or something—"

Steve kicked him under the table.

Bucky stared into his beer, the weight of it, the rightness, settling in his chest like a stone, "Dunno yet," he admitted quietly.

The truth was, he'd imagined it a thousand ways.

Alia in the golden light of their apartment, half-asleep and soft. Alia on the canals at twilight, her laughter echoing over the water. Alia, in the middle of some stupid argument about whose turn it was to do the dishes, rolling her eyes as he got down on one knee just to shut her up.

He hadn't decided. All he knew was that it had to be them. No grand gestures, no spectacle. Just her.

Sam, for once, didn't push. He just raised his glass, eyes suspiciously bright, "Well. Whatever you do, she's gonna say yes."

Bucky swallowed hard, clinking his beer against theirs, "Yeah, well, gonna be real awkward if she doesn't, considering how long we've been talking about it." He muttered.

"You got a ring yet, Buck?" Steve asked, his voice gentle. And that made Bucky's heart squeeze because...

He exhaled, quietly, "Not exactly. But I've got one on the way."

The two men looked his way expectantly.

Bucky sighed and sat back, "—I asked Stark to do me a favour." He glanced over at Steve, swallowing, "You know how I haven't tried looking for Becks, yet?"

Sam cut in before Steve could, "Hold on, I'm lost. Who's 'Becks'?"

"She's his younger sister," Steve supplied softly, his eyes widening a little, "Buck..."

"Hold on, you, Bucky, have a sister?" Sam asked, turning to look at Bucky now.

He just nodded and swallowed a bigger gulp of beer to wash down the acidic taste in his mouth, "I had three sisters, actually, but yeah. Rebecca Barnes. She was a three years younger than me. Always called her Becks."

"Is she still—"

"—Well, that was the favour I asked for." Bucky cut Sam off, continuing, "And, no, she's, she's gone. She passed just under ten years ago. Heart failure. Lived to eighty-six, though. Doesn't surprise me, Becks was always a stubborn mule."

Steve's hand had reached out to grab Bucky's forearm now, squeezing supportively. The news hadn't hurt him as much as he thought it might have. Like his mother, Rebecca had died thinking he was already gone. That was something he could compartmentalize into thinking was maybe a mercy...

...And Marceau was going to love hearing about that during their weekly phone call.

Sam, meanwhile, had laced his fingers back around his gin glass, "And what does this revelation have to do with a ring for Alia?" He finally asked, his usual humour gone now in favour of that gentle tone of his, the one he often adopted when counselling vets.

It was Steve who answered before he could, putting it together before Bucky even had a chance to explain. His eyes widened as he sat back, regarding him differently now.

"Oh, man. Buck, did Becks have your Ma's ring?"

Bucky just nodded, staring into his beer stein now, "Yeah. I figured she'd be the one to get it, if I was gone, seeing as she was second-oldest. Turns out I was right. I had Stark run down the lead for me, on the side. Becks passed the ring on to her daughter, a woman named Brooklyn Proctor, who, I guess, is my niece—"

"—Dude, this is so weird to suddenly learn about." Sam muttered into his beer, then almost choked when Steve kicked him.

"And, anyway," Bucky continued, unphased, "I guess Brooklyn hadn't made the connection between us yet, considering my name's been in the news with all the Avengers stuff. But Stark got in touch, asked her very politely if she'd consider giving the ring up. She'd been planning to give it to her daughter—"

"—Dude, you're a great-uncle now, too?"

"Sam." Steve warned.

"Okay, I'll shut up. Please carry on." Sam sat back and held up his hands, one still holding the gin glass, innocently. Steve just nodded for Bucky to continue, and he shrugged, stiffly.

"Yeah, so, I guess Stark was persuasive, or her kid just didn't want it, because she agreed to hand it over. Tony's having it shipped over. It should be here before the 12th."

The silence that followed was thick. Not uncomfortable, just heavy. Steve's grip on his forearm tightened briefly before he let go, his expression caught somewhere between grief and joy.

Sam, for once, didn't crack a joke. He just whistled low under his breath, "Damn, Barnes. That is a..." He shook his head, "Hell of a ring story."

Bucky shrugged, staring at the grain of the wooden table, "Figured Ma wouldn't have opposed."

Steve's voice was heavy with emotion as he commented, "No way. She would've loved Alia."

The image hit him square in the chest, then; Bucky's mother, alive and warm, pressing the ring into Alia's palm with that knowing smile of hers. You keep him in line, sweetheart.

Bucky cleared his throat, suddenly unable to speak. Sam, mercifully, changed the subject by slamming back the rest of his gin, "Alright. Enough emotional damage for one night. Who's up for finding a real bar and seeing if Cap can still hold his liquor?"

Bucky smirked, pushing to his feet, "Now you're talking."

"You know that you're the only one here who can actually get drunk, right, Wilson?" Steve asked, giving Bucky a look that screamed, how could you betray me like this?

He just winked.

The night air was crisp as they stepped outside, the three of them shoulder-to-shoulder under the amber glow of streetlights. For the first time in decades, Bucky didn't feel like a ghost.

Because, somewhere across the city, Alia was laughing with Natasha back in their apartment, oblivious to the future waiting for her.

And God, he couldn't wait for it.

The next bar the chaotic trio hit was louder, packed with tourists and locals alike, the air thick with the scent of spilled beer and fried kroketten. Bucky leaned against the counter, watching with amusement as Steve, Captain America, Defender of the Free World, nearly face-planted into a plate of frikandellen accidentally.

Sam, grinning like a madman, nudged Bucky's arm, "Think we can get him to sing 'Star-Spangled Man' on the bar?"

Bucky snorted, "Wouldn't even need to ask if he didn't have that super-strong liver of his."

Steve glared at them both, "One. As stated previously, I can't get drunk, you both know that. Two, you will never catch me singing that song."

Bucky's phone buzzed in his pocket then, distracting him from Sam's guffawing. He fished it out, expecting a 'when are you coming home' text from Alia, but it was a Stark Industries encrypted notification, instead.

Package secured. ETA, Amsterdam: December 5th.

Attached was a photo of a simple gold band, its centre stone a modest but radiant sapphire flanked by two small diamonds. The exact ring his father had given his mother, over a century before.

Bucky's throat tightened. Sam peered over his shoulder, "Ohhhh shit. That's the one?" He whistled, "Classy. Vintage. Sentimental. Damn, Barnes, you're gonna wreck her with that."

Steve squinted at the photo, his expression softening, "Wow. It looks just like I remember."

Bucky tucked the phone away, the weight of it suddenly feeling heavier than his arm, "Yeah, well. Don't get sappy on me about it, Rogers."

Wiping imaginary tears from his eyes with a dramatic sniff, Sam sighed, "Look at you. James Buchanan Barnes, reformed killing machine, about to get married like some kinda Hallmark movie." He clapped Bucky on the shoulder hard enough to rattle his teeth, "Who woulda thought, back when you were trying to strangle me on the Potomac—"

—Bucky shoved him off with a growl, though there wasn't any real heat behind it, "Keep it up, Wilson, and I'll consider finishing the job."

Steve, still studying the photo over Bucky's shoulder, had that look. The one he got when he was mentally time-travelling back to the 40s, "Man. Your mom wore that ring every single day. Even when she was kneading dough or scrubbing floors." His voice dropped, fond, "She'd smack your dad with a wooden spoon if he tried to tell her to take it off to 'keep it nice'."

Bucky's chest ached. He could see it, too, his mother's hands, flour-dusted and strong, the sapphire catching the light as she waved a spatula at him and Becks for sneaking cookie dough to Ellie and Kimmy when they weren't supposed to.

He hadn't really let himself think of his sisters, not before he'd ask Stark about running down Rebecca. And yet now he could see them as clear as day; Becks with her rats nest hair, the twins grinning mischievously as they schemed something only they could understand.

All of them were probably gone now. And any family they'd left behind weren't really his to claim.

Sam, mercifully, misread the silence that had overtaken their table, "Alright, enough nostalgia." He flagged down the bartender, "Three shots of whatever'll put some hair on Cap's chest."

Steve groaned, "Sam, I told you..."

Bucky smirked as the bartender slid three glasses of jenever their way. He grabbed his, clinking it against the others'.

"To not screwing this up," He muttered.

Sam whooped. Steve grinned.

And then the moment was then immediately ruined by Sam adding, "Oh, and to planning the craziest bachelor party I can think of. Shit, Cap, you think Stark'll let us borrow a quinjet for it?"

Bucky slammed his flute of jenever back and then glared, "If either of you two assholes let Tony fucking Stark plan my bachelor party, I swear to God, it won't end pretty."

Steve choked on his drink, coughing into his fist, "No one is letting Stark plan anything. Last time he 'helped' with a party, Clint ended up in a gorilla suit on the roof of the tower."

Sam's eyes lit up, "Okay, but imagine—"

Bucky grabbed him by the collar, shaking him once, "—No. No quinjets. No gorilla suits. No Stark." He released him with a shove, "If I wake up handcuffed to a stripper in Monaco, I'm never going to want to see either of you, ever again."

Sam rubbed his neck, grinning, "Damn, alright. And here I was gonna suggest we just get drunk and play Mario Kart on that huge-ass screen at the compound."

"...That actually sounds kind of nice." Steve blinked.

And Bucky exhaled, the sound long-suffering, "Fine. Mario Kart. But if either of you pick Rainbow Road, then I'm clubbing you to death with the Wii remote."

"Message received, no war crimes over video games." Sam replied stoically.

Steve clapped Bucky on the back, his smile softer now, "Don't worry, Buck. We'd keep it simple. Mostly."

Bucky just groaned into his hands.

It was never simple with these people, but admittedly, he wouldn't have it any other way.

Somewhere across the city, back in their tiny apartment, Alia suddenly sneezed.

"Bless you," Natasha's voice teased as she handed Alia another glass of wine.

"Spasibo," Alia muttered, "I think James is talking about me..."

Chapter Text

The White Widow

The first thing Alia noticed was the silence.

No creaking floorboards. No clatter of Bucky making coffee too early. Just the soft whisper of snow against the window and the weight of warm blankets tangled around her legs.

She stretched, rolling onto her back... And found the other side of the bed already empty.

Odd.

Bucky was usually the one who slept in, these days. Alia was the early riser, slipping out at dawn to run along the canals while he grumbled into the pillows, so she'd be all warmed up for teaching class later in the day. But today, the sheets on his side were practically cold.

She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, and the scent of something sweet— Pancakes, maybe? —Drifted in from the kitchen.

Alia frowned. This was strange. Bucky normally burned pancakes.

Curious, she slid out of bed, padding barefoot across the wooden floor. The apartment was dim, lit only by the gray morning light filtering through the curtains. As she neared the kitchen, she caught the low murmur of Bucky's voice, not alone. Talking to someone, on the phone.

"—No, I got it. Yeah. Thanks, Tony. I owe you. Yeah, I know—"

Alia froze.

Stark?

Before she could process that, the floorboard under her foot creaked. The conversation in the kitchen cut off abruptly.

"Alia?" Bucky's voice came, then, warm but slightly strained, "You awake?"

She stepped into the doorway.

The kitchen was... Different.

Flowers, specifically white lilies, her favourite, were now crowding their small breakfast table. A stack of pancakes (only slightly charred) sat beside a steaming cup of tea. And Bucky, leaning against the counter in that stupidly soft sweater she'd bought him last month, looking like he'd been caught mid-heist, his phone still held to his ear.

Alia arched a brow, "What is all this?"

"...Yeah, gonna call you back," Bucky managed, hanging up and lowering his cellphone, "Surprise."

"Surprise?"

Bucky's brow twitched, "Don't tell me you forgot." When Alia frowned in confusion, he just sighed and reached over to tap their physical calendar, hanging on their fridge. She squinted at it, and then her eyes widened.

"Ah. I forgot my own birthday," Alia huffed, "That is very typical, for me."

Bucky's answering smirk was insufferable, "You—" He poked her forehead, "—The woman who remembers everything, forgot her own birthday."

Alia swatted his hand away, scowling, "In my defence, I cannot remember the last time I actually celebrated my birthday."

He laughed at her, and the sound warmed her from head to toe, "Happy birthday, sweetheart," He murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple before nudging her toward the table, "Eat. Before it gets cold."

"How old am I, today?" Alia mused aloud, taking a seat at the table and picking up the mug of tea, running the mental math in her head. It was 2015, so that would mean... "Ah, ninety-five. I am very spry for that age."

Bucky snorted, sliding into the chair across from her with a plate of his own, "Ninety-five and still kicking my ass in sparring. Impressive."

"You are an old man now too. You will be ninety-nine next year." She observed sagely, sipping her tea.

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched, "Yeah, well," Bucky muttered, "At least I don't forget my own damn birthday."

She kicked him under the table just to watch him grin, "Ah, but you did. And I attempted to murder you on it."

"Hey now. That's all in the past."

The pancakes were, as expected, slightly burnt at the edges. But the inside was perfect, drizzled with honey and dotted with fresh berries. How long had he been practicing? Alia took a bite, humming appreciatively, "Very good, James."

Bucky's metal fingers tapped restlessly against his coffee mug, "Figured we'd take the day off. Ballet studio's closed. No errands. Just... Us."

Something in his tone made her pause. He was nervous.

Why was he nervous?

Alia studied him over the rim of her mug, squinting a little. But all she said was, "I think that sounds perfect."

Outside, the snow lightened into flurries, and the first weak rays of sunlight broke through the clouds. A pleasant December day, all things considered.

Bucky cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in rearranging the lilies in their vase, "So. Uh. Thought we could take a walk later. If you want."

Alia swallowed another bite of pancake, watching him fidget. Interesting, "A walk?"

"Yeah. You know. By the canals. Maybe that little bakery you like. The one with the—" He gestured vaguely, "—Chocolate things."

She tilted her head, "Are you planning something, James?"

His eyes darted to hers, then away, too fast, "No."

Liar. Alia set her fork down slowly, a smirk tugging at her lips, "Mmm. Then why do you look like you have just been asked to dismantle a bomb?" She asked, teasingly.

Bucky's metal hand clenched around his coffee cup, "Because I—" He stopped. Sighed, then glared, "Just eat your damn pancakes, Volkova."

Oh, yes. She was going to enjoy this.

After she'd finished wolfing her pancakes down, Alia's phone buzzed. A 'Happy Birthday' text from Natasha, despite the fact it was 1 AM there. Alia rolled her eyes, reaching for it—

—Bucky snatched her phone before she could reply, tossing it onto the couch (which they had finally settled on; a soft and small sectional, just large enough that he could lay on it comfortably whilst she curled up at his side) with a thump, "Nope. No work calls. No assassin sisters allowed. Birthday rules."

Alia scoffed, "You made those up just now." She accused.

"So what if I did?" He grabbed her plate, stacking it atop his with a clatter, "Now go get dressed. Wear something nice."

She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, "Or what?" Alia demanded,

Bucky's grin was all teeth, "Or," He drawled, "I'll carry you to the bakery in my pajamas."

Alia considered this. Then looked over his pajamas; threadbare cotton pants slung low on his hips, that damned sweater.

"Fine. Only because I do not want to risk my students seeing you like this." Alia grumbled, standing up and marching away to their bedroom indignantly.

Once alone, though, she forced herself to take a deep breath. It was just a birthday, not a high-stakes mission. But then why did she feel so nervous?

Letting out a hiss of air between her teeth, Alia started rooting around their wardrobe for something nice. Five minutes later she emerged in a soft, dove-gray sweater dress that hugged her frame, and thick tights. Elegant, but practical enough for Amsterdam's damp December streets.

Bucky, now dressed in dark jeans and a charcoal peacoat, froze mid-pace when he saw her. His throat bobbed.

Nice was an understatement, apparently.

Alia spread her arms as she approached, "Well? Do I meet your exacting birthday standards, James?" She mused as she stepped into her boots.

Bucky's metal hand flexed at his side, "Yeah, I think so," He rasped, then cleared his throat, "Yeah, you— Shit, you look..."

"I look...?" Alia hummed, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

His fingers finally brushed her waist, feather-light, as he pulled her towards him, "Perfect." Bucky settled on, quietly. The word sent a warm shiver down her spine.

Smirking, she reached up to plant a kiss on his cheek, "Very romantic, thank you." Alia said, and Bucky's ears turned pink as she pulled back; she filed that reaction away for future teasing. He recovered quickly, though, snagging her hand.

"C'mon," Bucky muttered, tugging her toward the door, "Before you make me say something actually embarrassing."

Alia laughed, letting him lead her out into the crisp morning air. The city stretched before them, canals shimmering under the pale winter sun, bicycles clattering over cobblestones.

She squeezed his hand, "So. Where to first, romantic?"

Bucky's thumb traced idle circles over her knuckles, "You'll see."

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Bucky led her to the floating flower market first, where the scent of tulips and hyacinths hung thick in the air. He bought her a single white lily— "To match the ones at home," he'd grumbled, cheeks still faintly pink —And she'd twirled it between her fingers approvingly.

Alia caught the vendor's knowing smile, though, and promptly elbowed Bucky in the ribs, "Ow." He didn't even sound sorry.

Next was the bakery, where the 'chocolate things' turned out to be a box of stroopwafels, still warm from the iron. Bucky fed her bites as they walked, his fingers brushing her lips every time, lingering just a little too long.

By the time they reached the canal bridge near their apartment, the sun had climbed higher, and the snow had all but stopped, making their adopted city shimmer under the morning light. Bucky stopped suddenly, pulling her close against the railing. Alia arched a brow at him, "Will I finally learn why you dragged me all the way out here?"

Bucky exhaled, shaky. Then he reached into his coat pocket, and dropped to one knee.

The world felt as though it stopped. He didn't have a box. Just the ring sitting in the centre of his palm. It was simple. Beautiful. Alia's breath caught at the sight of it.

"Alia," Bucky managed, his voice rough, "Will you—"

"—Yes."

He blinked, "But I didn't even—"

"—Yes." She yanked him up by the collar and kissed him, the lily falling from her grasp into the canal below.

A few tourists meandering by clapped at the engagement, and Bucky laughed against her mouth, breathless, "Happy birthday, sweetheart."

Alia just laughed with him, letting him finagle the ring onto her finger, "James, it is beautiful." She whispered, inspecting it in the morning light; the sapphire and the two small diamonds flanking it. It looked old, to her eyes, very old.

Bucky's fingers trembled as he slid the ring onto hers, "It was my mother's," He admitted, softly, The words came out stilted, like he'd practiced them a hundred times and still wasn't sure they were just right, "Stark tracked it down for me."

Her breath caught in her throat, hearing that. She knew what this cost him, then. Knew how deep the wound of his family still ran. The sapphire glinted in the sunlight, the gold worn smooth by decades of wear.

His mother's hands. His father's love. She curled her fingers around his, holding tight, "It is perfect, then."

Bucky swallowed hard, his thumb tracing the edge of the band, "Yeah?"

And Alia kissed him again, slow and sure, tasting honey and chocolate and home on his lips, "Yes, James, it is. Now, please, take me back to the apartment before I start crying in front of all of these tourists."

"Sure thing, fiancée." His answering grin was wide and bright.

Oh, she could get used to the sound of that.

Somewhere across the city, a single white lily floated down the canal, carried away by the current.

Alia waited an appropriate amount of time before finally calling Natasha; ensuring with the time difference it would be morning for her, at the Avengers compound. By the time 12 PM Alia's time rolled around, she was dialling.

"Did you know?" She asked, a little accusatory, as soon as the Black Widow picked up.

Natasha's voice crackled through the phone, dripping with amusement, "Know what? That Barnes was going to propose with his great-grandma's ring like some kind of Victorian romance novel hero?" Natasha teased, "Yes."

Alia flopped onto the couch, glaring at the ceiling. Bucky was in the kitchen, ostensibly making lunch, but mostly just pretending not to eavesdrop. "How long?"

"Since Stark accidentally texted me instead of him about the shipping confirmation." Natasha's smirk was practically audible. "Three weeks ago."

Bucky dropped a fork. And Alia bolted upright, "Three—?! You knew of this for three weeks, and you did not say anything?"

"And ruin his ridiculously elaborate birthday surprise?" Natasha snorted, "Please. Knowing he was out there somewhere, panicking about it, was much funnier to think about."

From the kitchen, Bucky groaned.

"Now, welcome to the family, officially, Alia," Natasha continued, "Try not to let him plan the wedding, he'll probably try to get married in a bunker."

Alia grinned, twisting the ring on her finger as she inspected it again, the way it looked effortlessly right on her left hand, "Too late. I already vetoed that idea."

Bucky muttered something about 'betrayal' and 'gang up on me in my own damn kitchen...' whilst Natasha hummed, "Good. Now put him on. I need to congratulate my future brother-in-law properly."

Alia tossed the phone at Bucky's head. He caught it effortlessly, scowling down at it, "What." He barked flatly.

Natasha's voice, now on speaker, was pure mischief, "So. When's the bachelor party?"

"Ask Stevie. Last I checked, we were discussing Mario Kart."

Alia smirked as Bucky's scowl deepened, his metal fingers gripping the phone like he was considering crushing it, "Mario Kart?" Natasha repeated, her tone dripping with disbelief, "That's the best you three idiots could come up with?"

Bucky rolled his eyes, "Sam suggested it. I just didn't veto it."

"Because you secretly love it," Alia chimed in, stretching lazily on the couch, "He gets very competitive. Especially on the Rainbow Road."

Bucky pointed a warning finger at Alia. She blew him a kiss.

"Yeah, well, alright, lovebirds," Natasha cut in, still grinning, "Just remember, I've been promised maid of honour. And, I've already got dresses for the occasion."

Bucky groaned, "We're hanging up now."

"Oh, and tell Steve I said—"

—He ended the call before she could finish.

Alia arched a brow, "You are terrified of her."

"I'm respectfully cautious," Bucky grumbled, tossing the phone onto the counter, "There's a difference."

Laughing, Alia twined her arms around his neck, her engagement ring glinting in the afternoon sun, "Very well, respectfully cautious. You know, I do not think I would like a big wedding."

His hands settled on her waist, warm even through her sweater, "Yeah?" Bucky's eyes searched her face, the tension in his shoulders easing, "What do you want?"

Alia traced the line of his jaw with her thumb, "Something small. Quiet. Maybe just... Them. Our friends." A pause, "And no Mario Kart."

Bucky barked a laugh, pressing his forehead to hers, "Deal." His voice dropped, rough with promise, "But I am carrying you back over the threshold afterward again, when you're my wife."

"Then you had better not drop me, soldier."

Chapter Text

The Winter Soldier

Bucky watched the clouds streak past the quinjet's window, his metal fingers drumming absently against his thigh. Next to him, Alia was curled into the seat, her head resting against his shoulder, her engagement ring catching the dim cabin light every time she shifted.

The comm crackled, "ETA five minutes, Snow White and Prince Charming," Tony's voice drawled over the intercom, "Try not to look too miserable, Barnes. Bah humbug and all."

Bucky flipped off the camera. FRIDAY was piloting remotely, but he knew Tony could still see him. Alia chuckled sleepily against him in response, "Be nice, James."

"I'm always nice," He muttered, just as the compound's landing pad came into view, lit up like a damn Christmas tree. The entire compound was actually strung up with festive lighting.

Sam and Steve stood at the end of it, grinning like idiots. Natasha leaned against the hangar door, smirking. And Stark? Stark had a fucking banner unfurled above them;

CONGRATULATIONS (BUT WE'RE NOT SHOCKED SHE SAID YES)

Alia, traitor that she was, practically skipped out of the quinjet once they landed, rushing right into Natasha's arms as the two Widows embraced tightly. Bucky, meanwhile, was quietly hoping that a meteor might come land on them and crush them all. He never got that lucky, though.

So, resigned to his fate, he trudged down the ramp, shoulders hunched against the cold, and bracing for the inevitable humiliation that was waiting for him.

Natasha was already whispering something in Alia's ear that made her laugh, low and wicked, while Sam clapped his hands together like an overexcited golden retriever.

"Barnes!" He crowed, "You actually pulled it off! I mean, I knew you would, but—wow."

Steve, ever the traitor, just grinned and held out a beer, "Happy for you, Buck."

Bucky snatched it, glowering, "I hate all of you."

That was when Tony swooped in, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky, and clapped him on the back. Somehow Bucky wasn't surprised that he'd already started drinking, "Aw, c'mon, Frosty. Smile! You're engaged! That means you're officially unallowed to brood for at least twenty-four hours. It's in the rulebook."

"There's no rulebook, Stark."

"There is now." Tony pulled a crumpled napkin and a loose pen from his pocket, scribbled 'NO BROODING' on it, and slapped it onto Bucky's chest, "Signed, me."

Bucky crumpled it in his fist, "I'm going inside."

Except that Pietro and Clint were already waiting to ambush him in there, too.

"Look at us," Clint sighed, patting Bucky's shoulder, "You know, as the only two men married in the Avengers, we have to set a good example for the youth of tomorrow."

"Soon-to-be-married," Bucky corrected, ducking Clint's arm. Pietro was just grinning at the two of them, so Bucky levelled a flat stare at him, next, "What's your excuse, Pete?"

Pietro's grin only widened, "I am here to supervise your imminent suffering. Both of you."

Clint gasped, clutching his chest, "Excuse me, I'm suffering plenty already. Laura says I can't put up the inflatable Iron Man Santa until Christmas Eve."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Bucky only managed to mutter, "...I'm going to find the strongest alcohol in this building."

"Already did!" Sam called from across the room, holding up a bottle of something that looked suspiciously like jet fuel with a bow on it, "Happy Not-Brooding Day, Barnes!"

Bucky turned to Alia, who was now leaning against the kitchen island, watching the chaos with pure, unrepentant amusement.

'Help me,' he mouthed.

She took a deliberate sip of her drink, eyes sparkling. 'No.' She mouthed back, just as Tony raised his glass, "To the happy couple, may their wedding be slightly less dramatic than their first date."

Bucky didn't even want to know how much Stark knew about that. He just grabbed the bottle from Sam and took a swig.

It burned all the way down.

Merry fucking Christmas.

But he couldn't deny that his chest warmed a little to see the way Alia and Wanda embraced each other. Wanda was excitedly looking at the ring, smiling at Alia with a genuineness he never thought he'd see on the Maximoff girl. Vision hovered behind her, literally, close enough that Bucky's eyebrows were raising as he leaned in to Sam.

"Hey," He muttered, "Vision. Are he and Wanda—"

Sam's grin was immediate and insufferable, "Oh, absolutely, they are." He took a gulp of his own drink, "They've been doing that weird, silent, 'I float near you but don't make eye contact' thing for weeks."

Bucky snorted, "So what you're saying is we're not the most embarrassing couple here, now."

"Nope." Sam clinked their bottles together, "Just the second most."

"Second-weirdest too, now, I guess. Isn't he a robot?" Bucky mused. Clint joined their little duo, nursing a glass of whiskey.

"What're we talking about, fellas?"

"Wanda and Vision making puppy-dog eyes at each other," Sam supplied. Clint nodded sagely, and sipped his drink.

"Ah. Yeah. That's been interesting. Hard to chaperone, when he can phase through walls."

Bucky swirled the cheap whiskey in his glass, watching the light catch the amber liquid, "I just don't get it. How does that even work?" He asked Sam.

Clint snorted, "Don't think too hard about it, Barnes. You'll break something vital." He bumped Bucky's shoulder with his own, "Besides, who are you to judge? Last I checked, you just proposed to a telepath who can probably read your thoughts about her right now."

Bucky shot a glance towards Alia, who was now deep in conversation with Wanda near the fireplace, their heads bent close together, "Hey, at least I'm not dating a toaster oven," He muttered.

Sam laughed, slapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble, "Alright, alright, easy there, Romeo. Just saying, love is weird. It makes people do crazy things. Like, say, spending seventy years as a brainwashed assassin and still managing to find a soulmate?"

Bucky downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, grimacing, "Yeah, well, maybe if I'd known it involved this much public humiliation, I would've reconsidered it all." He gestured vaguely at the banner, at the Christmas lights, at the general festive chaos of the room.

"Oh, c'mon, loosen up," Clint clapped him on the shoulder again, "It's Christmastime! Besides," he leaned in, lowering his voice, "I hear Stark's got something special planned for tonight."

"What do you mean?" Now Bucky's eyes narrowed in alarm. Or warning.

Clint, grinning like a fiend, just tapping the side of his nose, "Wouldn't you like to know?" He winked, then wandered off to harass Tony about the playlist.

Bucky turned and looked at Sam, who just shrugged, helplessly, "Hey, man. Don't look at me. Stark doesn't loop me in on his insanity, either."

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, watching as Tony, now inexplicably wearing a Santa hat, adjusted the volume on the compound's speakers with a theatrical flourish. A slow, creeping dread settled in his gut.

"Whatever it is," He muttered to Sam, "I'm blaming you when it goes wrong."

Sam held up his hands, "I'm just here for the free booze and the—"

The speakers crackled to life.

Dammit. Here we go.

"Sleigh bells ring, are you listenin'?" Tony's voice boomed over the system, layered with ridiculous reverb, "That's right, folks! Welcome to the First Annual Avengers Holiday Extravaganza, featuring a very special musical guest!"

The doors burst open.

And of all people who could've walked in, Bucky did not guess Thor, wearing a light-up Christmas sweater, Mjölnir draped in tinsel.

"ME!" The God of Thunder exclaimed.

Sam wheezed, doubling over, "Oh my God."

Bucky closed his eyes, "I'm going to kill Stark."

And Alia's laughter cut through all of it, bright and unguarded.

"Thor! Oh, it has been so long since I have seen you."

Thor actually laughed back and set Mjölnir down to catch Alia in a hug, "Lady Alia! I would not miss these Midgardian traditions for anything. And I hear there is a celebration to be had."

Bucky started slowly inching himself behind the nearest column. Sam didn't let him, though, and actively tripped him so he stumbled out into the open. Bucky whirled on a heel to chew Sam out, but not before Thor's gleeful laughter filled the room again.

"Son of Barnes! The rumours are true, you are betrothed! I have brought the finest Asgardian mead to celebrate this occasion."

Now Steve perked up, interested, "Well, hey, Buck, this means we can actually—"

"—No," Bucky warned, pointing, "No, we are not getting drunk, Stevie."

Approximately thirty-three minutes later, James Buchanan Barnes was black-out drunk for the first time since the war.

Now, Bucky wasn't entirely sure how he'd ended up sprawled on the floor, leaning against Steve's shoulder while Thor, still in that ridiculous sweater, poured another round of something that tasted like liquid lightning.

And yet, somehow, here he was. Steve hiccupped, staring mournfully into his cup, "Buck. Buck. Thor."

"What." Bucky sighed, covering his face with his metal hand. The cold metal against his warming skin was an all-too-pleasant contrast.

"D'you think—" Steve waved a hand very vaguely toward the ceiling, "—if we asked real nice, Asgard would let us borrow the Bifrost? Just for like. A weekend."

Bucky squinted over at him, then, "Why."

Steve's grin was dangerously lopsided, "Space road trip. Think about it. We could see all the space stuff Thor's always talking about."

Across the room, Alia, who had wisely stuck to wine, not spiked by whatever insanity Thor had lugged back with him from beyond the stars, buried her face in Natasha's shoulder, shaking with laughter.

Thor, meanwhile, looked delighted at this suggestion, "A noble quest!" He boomed, sloshing more mead into Steve's cup, "Though I fear my father might take issue with you parking the Bifrost in a— hic —No-parking zone."

Bucky groaned, letting his head thunk back against the couch, "I think I'm gonna throw up."

Sam, somehow the only sober one left, snapped a photo with his phone, "Oh, this is gonna be my screensaver."

"Fuck you, Wilson." Bucky grunted, shaking his head.

Before Steve could stop himself, he cautioned, "Language, Buck."

Bucky blinked slowly at Steve, as if disbelieving what he'd just heard. Then, with all the gravitas of a man three sheets to the wind, he raised his metal hand and flipped him off.

"Language," He mimicked, voice flat.

Steve gasped, actually gasped, like Bucky had just kicked a puppy, "Buck." He groaned, tipping his head back, "You don't mean that."

Natasha, smirking, leaned over to Alia, "Remind me why you're marrying him again?"

Alia, cheeks flushed from laughter, took a sip of her wine, "Because I have terrible taste in men."

"Now she doesn't mean that," Bucky muttered under his breath.

Thor, ever the instigator, raised his tankard, "To love! And to poor decisions!"

The room erupted in raucous cheers, glasses clinking together with enough force to make Bucky wince. He tried to stand, which was a mistake, and immediately swayed sideways, catching himself on the armrest of the couch.

Steve, equally unsteady, squinted at him, "You good?"

Bucky scowled, "Yeah, Stevie, I'm fine."

Across the room, Alia set down her wine and glided over because, of course, she was still graceful while he was barely upright. She caught his elbow, her grip firm, "I think that is enough Asgardian mead for you, soldier." She murmured.

Bucky leaned into her, relishing the warmth of her against his side, "But Stevie's planning a space heist," He mumbled against her hair.

"And you will be very upset if you miss it because you are busy throwing up." Alia sighed.

"Listen to your future wife, Bucky, she's very wise!" Sam cautioned, probably busy sending those pictures to every mutual acquaintance they'd ever made. Bucky flipped him off again — But this time, his metal fingers just got tangled in Alia's sweater.

Damn it. Alia arched a brow, "Really?"

Bucky shrugged, unrepentant, "Reflex."

Steve, now slumped against Thor, slurred, "Space."

Thor nodded sagely, "Space." He agreed, as Natasha raised her glass in a toast to that.

And Alia, she just pressed a kiss to Bucky's temple and steered him toward the stairs, "Come on, let us go. Before you do something we will both regret."

He let her guide him away without an argument, because, well. Wife privileges. Future wife privileges. God, he really was going to marry this woman, wasn't he?

Alia let him straight to her old room at the compound, still untouched and kept in pristine condition. Exactly as he'd remembered it to be, in those days after Ultron's defeat. It felt like years ago to him now, instead of months.

"Can't believe we're gonna be married," Bucky mumbled, sighing as the door clicked shut behind them, "S'crazy, isn't it?"

"Well, you are the one who proposed, James, so I imagine it cannot be all that crazy to you." Alia pointed out dryly. She helped him sit down on the edge of her bed and extracted him from his leather jacket before he tangled himself up in it.

"Yeah, but, you said yes." He continued.

"Yes, I did." She crouched down in front of him, and Bucky could feel her lazily pressing against his mind, her powers probing him. Then she smiled, the expression bright and brilliant, "My God. You really are drunk, James."

"Mmhm. First time since '45, y'know." Bucky replied, reaching out to cup her face in his mildly unsteady hands.

He traced the curve of her cheekbone with his thumb, the motion slow and deliberate, even if his fingers weren't entirely steady. The warmth of her skin seeped into his palm, grounding him far better than the alcohol had managed to unbalance him.

Alia's lips quirked, "You are ridiculous."

"Yours," He corrected her, quietly, "Also yours."

She rolled her eyes, but the way her pulse jumped under his fingertips betrayed her, "Yes, yes. Very romantic of you to say. You win."

Bucky grinned, lopsided, "Knew you'd like it."

Alia huffed, but when he tugged her forward, she let him. Let him kiss her, slow and sweet.

He could've sworn then that he heard Thor shouting his name. Bucky didn't care.

All he cared about now was the way Alia was laughing as she curled up in his arms, murmuring, "You need to sleep it off, James." As she pressed her lips to his temple again, where he could feel his heartbeat throbbing.

He exhaled, long and slow, letting his forehead rest against hers. The room spun just a little, but her hands were steady on his shoulders, her presence in his mind a cool, soothing weight.

"M'not even tired," He lied, even as his eyelids grew heavy.

Alia arched a brow at him, wholly unimpressed, "Yes, I am sure you are not. You are just resting your eyes, then?"

Bucky grumbled something immature about resting her eyes, but let her push him back onto the bed, his body sinking into the mattress with a groan. The sheets smelled like her, still; clean linen and the faintest trace of jasmine.

She moved to pull away, but his metal fingers caught her wrist, clumsy with intoxication, "Stay, sweetheart. C'mon."

For a moment, he thought Alia might argue. Then, with a quiet sigh, she kicked off her shoes and curled against his side, her head pillowed on his chest.

Downstairs, the party raged on; music, laughter, the occasional thud that was probably Sam falling off a table.

But here, in the quiet dark, Bucky just held on to her, drunk on something far sweeter than mead.

Chapter Text

The White Widow

Natasha's fingers worked deftly at the back of Alia's dress, securing the final clasp with a quiet snick.

The ivory dress was simple; knee-length, with a neckline that dipped just enough to be elegant without drawing too much attention. There was no lace to weigh her down, no trailing train to snag on unseen corners, nothing to distract from the fact that, for once, she was allowed to exist simply as herself. No persona. No weapon. Just her.

Natasha stepped back, tilting her head as she surveyed her work, "Perfect."

Alia let her hands smooth over the front of the dress, feeling the quiet shift of fabric under her palms. The air in the room felt almost weightless, as though some essential part of her had been unfastened and set free, "It feels... Strange," she admitted, her gaze catching on her own reflection in the mirror, "Wearing white again, just like this."

"Yeah, well, white's allowed to mean something different today," Natasha said, the faintest smirk tugging at her mouth as she held out a delicate silver chain, Laura Barton's understated 'something borrowed.' "You can be soft for one day, sestra."

Alia fastened the clasp, her reflection in the mirror almost unfamiliar. Her hair was down, loose waves framing her face, and for once, there were no weapons hidden in her silhouette. No knives strapped to her thighs, no guns tucked into hidden holsters. Just a woman.

Just his.

Downstairs, the muffled sound of Steve's laughter carried up through the floorboards, followed by Sam's predictable heckling. Bucky was down there, probably fidgeting with his tie, that little crease between his brows deepening with every passing minute.

New Year's Day had been a bit of an impulsive decision, for a wedding. But, as Bucky so eloquently put it, he 'wasn't going to wait another year to marry her'. So, here they were. In some brownstone that Tony Stark had 'rented', pretending that neither of them was about to buckle under the weight of sheer anticipation.

A soft knock on the door made both the Widows turn. Wanda was poking her head in. Alia couldn't help but smile, at that; the best part about this sabbatical back to America was undoubtedly getting to see her, again. Alia had not realized how much she would miss the young witch until they'd been parted.

Besides. There was that Vision that Alia needed to keep an eye on...

"Almost ready?" Wanda asked, stepping into the bedroom they'd commandeered into a so-called 'bridal suite' for her, "Pietro says everything's ready."

Alia straightened the necklace one last time, then turned to Wanda with a smile, "Da. Just waiting for Natasha to stop fussing."

Natasha scoffed, swatting her shoulder lightly, "Fussing is my job today. You asked me to be your maid of honour, remember?"

"I asked you to stand there and look intimidating," Alia corrected, smirking, "And you have practically volunteered yourself for the role, I do not think I actually asked you."

Wanda laughed, stepping fully into the room. She wore a deep red dress, her hair half-up, and she looked happy. Truly happy, "Well, that part is definitely working." She held out a small bouquet of white lilies and winter berries, "Clint's wife sent these. Said it's bad luck if you don't have flowers."

Alia took them, running her fingers over the petals, "Tell her spasibo, for me." Laura had been a true hero throughout this entire process, she had to admit. Clearly, her time spent herding Clint's three children had given her more than enough experience to wrangle together a small event like this one.

Because once it had become clear that she and Bucky had no idea what they were doing, and that Stark was even less helpful than them combined too, Clint had called her in for back-up. And, just like that, Laura Barton had pulled off a miracle seemingly overnight.

"You're nervous," Wanda observed suddenly, tilting her head.

"A little." Alia admitted, toying with the bouquet as if it might distract her from it, "I think it is natural to be."

Downstairs, the sound of Bucky's voice, gruff and impatient but also undeniably anxious, drifted up through the old floorboards, "Where is she? It's been an hour."

Steve's long-suffering sigh followed, "Buck, calm down, I'm pretty sure she's not planning to ditch you at the altar—"

Alia's chest tightened, warm and aching all at once, as Wanda squeezed her hand, "Ready?"

Alia nodded.

For him? Always. Reaching out, Alia let her mind brush against his, and she could feel the way Bucky stiffened in response.

It was time.

The stairs creaked under her feet as she descended, the bouquet trembling ever so slightly in her grip.

The living room had been transformed, just enough. Strands of fairy lights coiled around the banister, white candles flickering on every surface. And there, at the centre of it all, stood him.

James Buchanan Barnes, in a dark suit, his hair pulled back, his metal hand flexing at his side like he wasn't sure what to do with it.

Their eyes met, and his breath audibly caught.

"Jesus Christ," He murmured.

Sam, standing to one side of him, just elbowed him, "Say it louder, man, we all didn't hear you that time." Then he winced when Bucky stepped on his foot, hard, and Alia had to fight from smiling, at that.

Then Steve was there, as quiet and resilient as ever. The poor man had nearly started crying before, when Alia had asked if he'd do her this honour. She had no blood family left, none that she knew of, anyhow. And of course, she could have walked alone. But she didn't want to.

"You ready for this?" He asked her, softly. When Alia just nodded, he smiled, and offered her his arm.

After that, the rest of the room might as well have ceased to exist, because all she saw was him.

The way his throat worked as he swallowed. The way his fingers, both flesh and metal, reached for hers the second she was close enough.

The way he looked at her, like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing.

The officiant's voice came into focus as if the world had been dialled in from a blur, then, as the ceremony officially began.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today..."

The words were formal, ones she knew from the movies Natasha had made her watch, yet they seemed to take on a strange weight in this small, crowded room. The cadence was different when it was about her. When it was about them.

When the moment came for the vows, Bucky's fingers tightened around hers, the faintest scrape of metal against skin reminding her of every place they'd been, every fight they'd come back from. His voice was low but certain, the old Brooklyn roughness still threaded through the solemnity.

"I, James Buchanan Barnes, take you, Anatalia Volkova, to be my lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse—"

His gaze didn't waver, even when his voice did. She could see the shadow of all their worse days flicker there in his gaze, for the briefest moment. Everything they'd survived, together.

She could feel it, too. Feel the way it curled back up in his mind, like a different sort of phantom pain. The first time they'd met on that rooftop in Murmansk, the painful dance over the decades that followed it. How many times had he lost her? Too many times.

Like a balm over his wounds, Alia's power whispered between them, nudging him back mentally to the present, to the here and now. He'd lost her countless times, yes. But they'd always found each other again.

No matter how hard HYDRA had tried, they hadn't been able to truly take that away from them. She anchored him in the better they had built since, and the way Bucky's eyes softened in gratitude at the reminder nearly made her weak in the knees.

"—For richer, for poorer," He finally continued, "On sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, 'till death do us part."

Bucky's throat bobbed once before he added, quieter, "And I mean every damn word of that."

Her own voice came steadier than she expected when the officiant turned to her.

"I, Anatalia Volkova, take you, James Buchanan Barnes, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse." The way his metal thumb stroked over her knuckles made her voice hitch, just once, "For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do us part."

The officiant smiled faintly, nodding toward Natasha, who handed over the rings rather hastily; traditional, simple golden bands, that was all they needed. The cool circle of metal slid over her finger, Bucky's hand steady despite the fine tremor she could feel in his grip. She returned the gesture, the band warm from her palm as it came to rest against the cold metal of his prosthetic.

"You may now k—"

Bucky didn't even bother to wait for the poor man to finish. Both hands slipped from her grasp to yank her hips toward, so his mouth could claim her own.

The cheer that went up from their makeshift wedding party when they finally separated was almost deafening — Tony's wolf-whistle, Pietro already popping champagne with his usual lack of restraint, Thor's booming laugh shaking the rafters, all of it was the chaos she'd come to cherish so deeply. But Bucky didn't pull away. Not yet. His forehead stayed pressed to hers, his breath uneven, like he couldn't quite believe this was real.

Alia curled her fingers into the front of his suit jacket, "Gde ty," (Where you are,) She murmured, just for him, "Vot ya." (There I am.)

His laugh was warm against her mouth, "Gde ya," (Where I am,) Bucky whispered back, "Vot i vy." (There you are.) And then Alia's husband— Her husband —Kissed her all over again.

Natasha cleared her throat pointedly from beside them, "If you two are done—"

"—Shut up, Romanoff." Bucky huffed, without breaking eye contact.

Steve sighed, "Language," He muttered quietly.

The room erupted into laughter again, glasses clinking, Pietro already trying to coax Wanda into a dance whilst Vision watched with that eerily serene smile of his. Tony was pouring drinks with alarming speed, Clint was stealing hors d'oeuvres off the tray Laura had brought, and somehow, somehow, this was all theirs.

Alia exhaled, letting Bucky pull her into the chaos. His thumb traced the edge of her wedding ring as they moved, "Happy New Year, Mrs. Barnes," He murmured against her temple.

She felt a sudden rush of warmth at those words, "Say that again," Alia whispered back, smiling.

Bucky's lips curved against her skin, his voice rough with something between awe and amusement, "Mrs. Barnes," He repeated, slower this time, savouring the weight of it. His metal fingers tangled with hers, his own ring flashing there, now, a mirror of her own, "—I love you."

The Winter Soldier

Wife.

The word rolled through Bucky's head, impossible and undeniable all at once. He didn't need to look down to see the band on her finger; he could feel its edge against his knuckle every time she shifted, could trace its shape from memory if he had to now.

Alia's eyes lifted to his, steady despite the chaos, and for a moment the surrounding brownstone could've been a war zone, a safehouse, or a rooftop in the dead of winter, he wouldn't have cared. So long as she kept looking at him like that.

Someone shoved a glass into his free hand. Tony, of course, wearing that smug you're welcome expression only he could manage, "Drink up, Barnes. You've just achieved the impossible."

Bucky lifted the champagne without breaking eye contact with Alia, "That so?" He said, taking a swallow that fizzed sharp and dry across his tongue. The alcohol was nothing compared to the high already in his veins, though.

"Yep," Tony answered, clapping him on the back, "Because I'm pretty sure you two just broke the world record for 'oldest newlyweds'."

"Well, actually," A voice interjected, and all three of them turned to see Vision, approaching sheepishly with Wanda Maximoff at his side. Bucky didn't miss the way his wife (which was still such a novel thought to him) narrowed her eyes a little at the lack of distance between the two, "That record still belongs to one George Kirby and Doreen Luckie, of Great Britain, who were married in—"

Grumbling, Tony patted Bucky again, before stepping to the side, "—Alright, point taken, I was wrong, thanks, Vision. Now, where's that open bar?"

Bucky had to resist the urge to roll his eyes as the billionaire toddled off.

After that, the reception unfurled much like an old film reel, jump-cutting from one small, vivid frame to the next. Sam, leaning halfway out of his chair to heckle Pietro's dancing. Wanda's quiet laugh as Vision spun her once before letting her slip away to join her brother. Thor booming for a toast that somehow turned into a story about goats. Clint raiding the hors d'oeuvres table like he hadn't been fed in days...

Throughout it all, though, Alia remained the one constant. She moved in and out of his periphery, brushing past him to greet Laura, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear as she listened to Steve, throwing him a glance that felt like a touch. His mind, trained to sweep a room, kept returning to her.

At some point, Natasha corralled them both toward the centre of the room, "First dance," She said, like it wasn't optional. Bucky gave her a look, but Alia's hand was already sliding into his, cool fingers curling between his. He let himself be pulled.

The music was something slow, a song he didn't recognize it, but the steady rhythm was enough. His left arm circled her waist, his right hand enclosing hers. Her body fit against his like they'd been carved to match, the faint scent of lilies and winter berries still clinging to her hair.

They didn't need words. Not with the way he still felt her invisible fingers holding him, smoothing over his unease.

When the song ended, they slipped away before anyone could pull them into another. Alia didn't object when he led her toward the brownstone's kitchen, where the noise dulled to a manageable hum and the only light came from the hall spill and a row of candles someone had set along the counter.

She just leaned back against the counter, and he took the invitation to bracket her in, bracing one hand against the surface beside her hip, "Just needed a minute," Bucky admitted, "Too many people staring at us."

Her smile was small but knowing, "I believe being stared at during a wedding is supposed to be a given." Alia said wryly.

He huffed out something between a laugh and a scoff at that, lowering his forehead to hers, "Yeah, well, still feels a little strange, being the centre of everyone's attention right now."

"Strange is not so bad, though." Alia murmured, tilting her head until their noses brushed. Her fingers found his wedding ring and turned it slowly, the motion grounding him in a way nothing else could, before she brought his hand to her lips and kissed it.

He let himself breathe her in, the warmth of her cutting through the faint bite of winter air that still clung to his suit. Outside the muffled music shifted to something louder, the voices rising with it, but here it was just them, the quiet pulse of her presence steady against him.

His hand shifted then to cup her cheek, swiping his thumb over the sharp curve of her cheekbone, "You remember, right before Stark and Banner's experiment. I said that the Soldier and the Widow deserved to rest, after that?"

Alia's throat bobbed at that question, but she nodded, "Yes, James. I do."

"I think they're at peace, now." He murmured, "Knowing they won. I really think that."

Not just think — He knew it. That part of him that the Winter Soldier had carved out inside of him, the one that had grown steadily quieter and quieter ever since this woman, his wife, had brought him, Bucky, back... It felt more quiet than ever.

My blue-eyed girl. He didn't have to fight to have her, anymore. She was his. Forever.

Alia's eyes softened, hearing that, and she didn't answer him with words. She just pulled him in until their mouths met again, slow and sure, the kind of kiss that wasn't for show.

The kind that was just for them.

Chapter Text

The White Widow

Tony Stark apparently did not simply do a single 'wedding present'. On top of presenting Bucky with a brand-new arm like it was some sort of hunting trophy (visually, not much of a change, but based on the way Bucky spent the rest of their wedding reception just picking up and putting down random objects, apparently the tactile response had been greatly improved) and gifting Alia with a set of knives that could collapse and unfold rapidly, for easy concealment (because he knew her so well), he'd also taken liberty of handling their hotel room for the night.

Because, as he'd so eloquently put it, "I don't think any of us want you newlyweds anywhere within earshot tonight. Respectfully."

So, naturally, Stark had put them up in one of the most expensive hotel rooms in New York City; the Ty Warner Penthouse at the Four Seasons.

None of those words meant anything substantial to Alia, but based on the way Laura Barton's mouth had fallen open and the way Natasha had glared jealously, it was apparently quite an impressive gift, indeed.

The elevator ride up was silent. Not the tense, coiled quiet of a mission—but something thicker. Hotter. Bucky's fingers hadn't left her waist since they'd stepped inside, his thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric of her dress. The new arm—Stark's gift—whirred softly with every movement, the tactile sensors so refined she could feel the way his grip tightened when the elevator slowed.

The doors slid open, and Alia blinked. The penthouse was—

"Jesus Christ," Bucky muttered, "Why does Stark always do this to us?"

—Excessive.

Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the glittering skyline, the entire city sprawled beneath them like a circuit board of light. A grand piano sat near the fireplace, gleaming under the ambient glow of recessed lighting. There were flowers everywhere, as if Stark had ordered the staff to empty a botanical garden into the room. And the bed...

Oh.

Bucky just sighed, "Well, that's a problem." As he took in the sight of it too, large and opulent and appearing excessively comfortable.

"A problem?" Alia repeated, arching her eyebrows at him.

"Yeah, it's a problem," He confirmed, slowly, "Because I'm not waiting long enough to appreciate whatever the hell else is in this place."

She laughed at that, and let him drag her toward the absurdly oversized mattress, his new arm already gripping her thigh as he backed her against the sheets. The city lights painted his face in streaks of gold and shadow.

"Hi," He finally rasped, looking down at her as if he couldn't believe she was actually real.

Alia grinned back at him, "Hello, husband." She murmured back.

The way his breath stuttered at that word, 'husband', sent a thrill down her spine. His metal hand flexed against her thigh, the darkened plates shifting with barely restrained precision as he leaned down, his nose brushing hers.

"I want to hear that again," He demanded, quietly.

Alia smirked, dragging her nails up the back of his neck, "Husband," She repeated, and Bucky growled, crashing his mouth against hers in a kiss that tasted like champagne and impatience. His flesh hand tangled in her hair, tugging just enough to make her gasp, while the other slid up her thigh, the sensors so finely tuned she could feel him tracing the lace edge of her stocking with terrifying accuracy.

It felt just as real as his other hand, which was enough to make her heart stutter in her chest, "Stark was not exaggerating about the upgrade," She managed to say, between kisses.

Bucky's answering grin was wicked against her lips, "Oh, you haven't seen half of what it can do."

The new arm whirred softly as his fingers skimmed higher, the prosthetic articulating with impossible precision; mapping every dip of her hip, the curve of her waist, the flutter of her pulse at her throat as it drifted back upward.

It was warm, somehow, the plates shifting like living metal under her touch, and when she pressed herself back against him, the feedback loop between sensors and nerves made him pause, just to take it all in.

"Fuck," He gritted out, dragging his mouth down her neck, "Feels like— Christ, like it's really me."

His teeth grazed her collarbone, the scrape of them sending a shudder through her. The new hand traced the back neckline of her dress with agonizing slowness, the metal whispering cool and precise now against her feverish skin.

The touch was positively electric, "James," She gasped, her fingers winding through his hair now.

Bucky hummed, low and satisfied, his breath hot against her ear, "Tell me what you want."

Alia didn't hesitate, "For this dress to be off. Now."

"As you wish, wife."

The dress didn't stand a chance, admittedly, "—Careful," Alia hissed anyway, "I would like to keep my wedding dress in one piece."

Bucky pulled back just enough to smirk at her, his eyes gleaming with that half-wild, half-reverent look she knew so well. The kind that meant he was about to do something deliberate.

"Sorry, Mrs. Barnes," He murmured, "But I've been waiting all damn day to get my hands on you."

The metal fingers hovered over the delicate fabric, sensors twitching, recalibrating; testing the limits of pressure and resistance. Stark hadn't been lying when he said this thing had nuance.

Alia shivered as the hand finally flattened against the curve of her waist, slow and controlled, his flesh fingers tracing the seam of her thigh.

"I said, careful," Alia whispered, arching into his touch.

His breath fanned over her neck, "I always am." Bucky huffed.

And then, with painstaking precision, he started peeling her out of the dress. Layer by layer. Piece by piece, until she was left naked before him.

Not a single thread was broken, in the end.

The dress pooled around her hips, then her thighs, then finally slid to the floor in a whisper of fabric. Utterly intact as requested. Bucky exhaled sharply as he took her in, his gaze darkening with something possessive and hungry. His new arm flexed, the plates shifting with a quiet hum as he dragged his knuckles up her bare side, mapping every inch like he was memorizing her.

"There," Bucky muttered, "Dress is still in one piece. Happy?"

Alia only reached for his belt, her nails scraping against the leather, "Getting there."

"Good." Bucky's answering laugh was low and dangerous, as he let her tug him closer.

"You are entirely too overdressed now, husband." She murmured against his mouth, and Bucky didn't need to be told twice. His jacket hit the floor before she could blink, his tie following in a haphazard slide of silk.

The buttons of his shirt gave way under her impatient fingers, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the scars she knew by touch, the heat of him beneath her palms. His metal hand caught her wrist, pressing her hand flat over his heartbeat, as he leaned in, his voice a rumble against her lips, "Better?" He asked.

Alia bit his lower lip, hard enough to make him groan.

"Getting there." She replied, grinning.

Bucky's grip on her tightened, his metal fingers pressing just shy of too hard into her hip as he dragged her flush against him.

"Brat," He growled, but the way his breath hitched betrayed him.

She smirked, running her tongue over the spot she'd bitten, "Vy imeyete v vidu 'vashu zhenu'." (You mean 'your wife'.)

Bucky's pupils blew wide at the Russian, at the claim in it. His flesh hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back as his mouth crashed into hers again, hot and demanding, "Da," he growled against her lips, his accent rough but unmistakable, "Moya zhena." (My wife.)

The words sent a thrill through her, sharp and sweet. His metal hand slid up her spine, the new sensors mapping every shiver, every hitch of her breath, as he walked her backward toward the bed.

Alia let herself fall, pulling him down with her.

The mattress dipped under their combined weight, the silk sheets sliding cool against her skin as Bucky braced himself above her. His new arm flexed beside her head, the metal whispering as it adjusted to his movements with unnerving precision, the fingers teasing the ends of her hair. He hovered there for a moment, just breathing, just looking at her like she was something sacred.

Alia arched a brow, teasing, "What? No more 'my wife'?"

His lips twitched, "I'm trying to be gentle," He grumbled, like it was an inconvenience.

She hooked her leg around his waist, dragging him closer, "Then do not be."

Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip tightening as those fingers curled into her hair, a warning in how firm he held it, "Alia—"

"James," She snapped back, "It is our wedding night. I fully intend to take advantage of every surface of this very, very nice penthouse Stark had provided for us. Do you?"

His answering smirk was slow and predatory as he regarded her, "Every surface?" Her husband questioned.

Alia dragged her nails down his back, feeling the shift of muscle beneath skin, "Yes," She said, "Starting with this one."

He groaned, low and filthy, and then he was on her, kissing her like he wanted to consume her whole, his old arm bracketing her head whilst the new roamed with renewed purpose.

The prosthetic was absolutely maddening, the way it moved now, softer, so much more aware, trailing down her ribs, the curve of her hip, the inside of her thigh, as if it could taste her reactions through touch alone.

"Fuck," He muttered against her mouth, "Stark really outdid himself."

"He has his uses." Alia replied, arching into his touch.

Bucky chuckled darkly at that, then his mouth was on her neck, teeth grazing along the skin there before he whispered, "Roll over."

She hesitated just a second too long, curiosity flaring, "Why?"

His grin was that half-crazed, half-charming one that had always been her undoing, "Just trust me, wife."

Alia did.

She turned, slow and deliberate, stretching across the sheets for him like he'd asked. Behind her, Bucky exhaled sharply, and that, plus the sound of his belt slipping free, was all Alia could hear as she pressed her cheek against the bed and waited.

Finally, after a few tenuous moments, his hands, both of them, pressed into her back, tracing the spine she knew he loved to feel, the curve of her ass, the dip of her waist. The metal was warm now, almost indistinguishable from the real thing, but there was something about the newness, the precision of it, that made her shiver.

Then, that new arm slid beneath her, cupping her ribs as he dragged her back and pressed her up against him. The weight of him settled over her; one solid, unbreakable line from his chest to her back, his breath hot against the curve of her shoulder.

The plates flexed as his fingers splayed over her ribs, steady and possessive, holding her just so. The new sensors caught every tremor of her skin, every hitch in her breath, every shift of muscle, "—Just like this," Bucky murmured against her neck, his voice quiet, but steady, "I could keep you like this forever, y'know."

Alia shivered in response, her nails digging into the sheets.

As if sensing her readiness, his real hand slipped between her thighs, knuckles grazing her bare skin before his fingers parted her folds and found her already slick and wanting. He moved slowly, almost lazily, dragging his touch up the length of her slit, pausing only to circle her clit with infuriating gentleness.

"Mm," He rasped against her ear, "Already so damn wet. And we haven't even started."

She arched into him, breathless, "James— Pozhaluysta." (Please.)

Bucky's answering laugh was dark and indulgent, "Patience, Mrs. Barnes," He murmured, "First, I'm gonna take my time with you."

The metal arm kept her steady while his flesh fingers slipped inside her, one first, then another, stretching her with deliberate care, his thumb flicking over her clit in slow, relentless circles. Her hips rocked, desperate to grind against him, but the cold, immovable grip of the prosthetic kept her exactly where he wanted her.

"Eto nespravedlivo." (This is not fair.) Alia growled, as her breathing grew shallow.

Bucky only hummed at that, curling his fingers inside her, hitting the spot that made her back bow, "First night with my wife, and you think I'm gonna be fair, sweetheart?" He pressed harder, curling again, then drawing almost all the way out before plunging back in, his thumb never leaving her clit.

Heat climbed fast in Alia's belly at that, a sharp, spiralling build that made her toes curl, and her hands claw into the expensive sheets. A moan slipped past her teeth as her thighs tried to close, but he nudged them back apart with his knee, to spread them wider.

"No. Keep 'em open for me," Her husband ordered, softly, the kind of request that made her clench around his fingers, "Khochu posmotret', kak ty konchish' vot tak." (Want to watch you come just like this.)

Alia whimpered, muscles tightening as his pace quickened just enough to push her higher. Her hips rocked involuntarily despite the bracketing metal palm across her ribs; chasing it still, the sound of his fingers working her mixing with her breathless, broken gasps.

When her orgasm finally did hit, it was sudden and hot, her whole body jerking under him as she came hard around his fingers. Bucky didn't stop, just kept stroking her clit in slow, dragging circles until the shudders became too much and Alia went practically limp in his arms with a desperate, breathless laugh.

When he felt her surrender, he let her go, finally, easing back to rest his hand on her hip, "Eto moya devochka." (That's my girl.) He exhaled the praise, leaning down to press an open-mouthed kiss to her shoulder, one that had Alia humming.

She opened her mouth to say something, maybe to berate him for drawing this out so long already, but before she could, he was already moving again. Nudging her further up the bed with his knee, Bucky's body slid down the length of hers; lips trailing over the curve of her spine, the dip above her ass, the swell of each cheek.

Involuntarily Alia shivered against the worshipful press of his mouth against her skin, but just like before he held her firm, his right hand creeping up from her hip to the small of her back and pressed down, hard. A silent don't move again.

Alia grumbled wordlessly, but listened, and his fingers skimmed her spine in approval.

The mattress dipped under their combined weight now as he shifted, his metal hand urging her thighs farther apart now. She felt the cool air between her legs for a split second again before the heat of his mouth replaced it, and anything Alia might've said or done completely left her mind.

Bucky's tongue found her in one slow, deliberate stroke from the base of her slit down to her clit, lapping at her like he'd been starving for it. Alia gasped, back arching, fingers knotting in the sheets so hard she had to restrain herself before she ripped them.

"Still so sweet," He groaned into her, the vibration making her clench, "Fuck, I'll never get tired of this."

Every lap, every flick of his tongue was purposeful, drawing from the exact reactions he'd memorized. She could feel him smiling against her when her thighs trembled. His warm breath feathered over her as he pulled back to lick her slowly again, dragging out the moment until her moans went from soft to needy.

Then Alia risked glancing back over her shoulder, and immediately regretted it, because the sight of him there, eyes locked on hers, face glistening with her arousal, was just too much. Her voice finally broke, "Please, I—"

He pulled away just enough to speak, his breath hot against her swollen clit, "Yeshche net." (Not yet.) Bucky growled, before withdrawing entirely.

The answering whimper that left her was more like a sob.

With a smooth shift, he guided her onto her back, not losing the space between them for a second. He slid down again, this time hooking her knees over his shoulders so she was wide open to him, her hips tilted up in offering.

Alia barely had time to squeak out a, "Yebat'—" (Fuck—) before he dove back in, his mouth sealing over her, tongue stroking in long, firm licks that had her writhing. He sucked her clit with a wet, obscene sound, then released it only to slap it lightly with the tip of his tongue, over and over, each tap sending a shock of pleasure up her spine.

When her fingers tangled in his hair in response, gripping hard, Bucky only groaned into her, and retaliated by sliding two fingers back inside her, curling them with every pass of his tongue.

The feeling of that nearly undid her entirely. Alia's head fell back, a broken, high-pitched cry escaping her lips. The pressure was back; hot, insistent, and threatening to tip her right over the edge all over again.

He let her get there. He let her tremble, her thighs locking around his head, squeezing his fingers as the wave began to crest—

—And then he stopped entirely.

Alia nearly screamed at the loss of him as his fingers slipped free, yanking on his hair in frustration, but that only made her husband laugh, "Easy, wife," He said with a dark smile, licking his fingers slowly, shamelessly, "We're just getting started. You think I'm letting you come again without me buried inside you?"

Her breath was ragged, her pulse hammering. She knew better than to think she'd win this battle — Bucky had the patience of a predator when he wanted to, and he had no intentions of rushing their wedding night.

Kissing his way back up her body, his chest slid against her breasts, his length heavy and hot against her belly now. The metal hand came up to cup her jaw, tilting her face to meet his gaze.

"Ne volnuysya," (Don't worry,) Bucky promised against her lips, "Mne tozhe nadoyelo zhdat'." (I'm done waiting, too.)

Alia's breath hitched, pulse jumping at his words, and the promise buried beneath them. As if sensing her anticipation, Bucky shifted, the mattress dipping as he positioned himself between her spread thighs, his body caging hers in. His flesh hand came up to lace with her left, and the cool brush of her rings— The old gold of the engagement ring and the newer of the wedding bands they'd just exchanged —Pressing against his skin sending a strange, powerful heat through her chest.

It was a reminder that she was his, now, in truth. Her husband. And he wasn't going to ever let her go.

Bucky held her gaze as he pressed himself to her entrance, dragging it through her slick first, the movement slow, deliberate, teasing her already-sensitive clit. She moaned in response, her hips arching up to meet him in a silent plea.

Just as he'd promised, he didn't make her wait. He pushed in, deep and steady, not stopping until he was buried to the hilt. Alia's breath caught in a sharp gasp, back arching as her body stretched around him; the familiar fullness sending molten pleasure curling through her spine.

"Fuck, Alia," He rasped, the vein in his neck standing out as he held still, letting her adjust, savouring the moment. His fingers curled around her hand even tighter, like he wanted to fuse them together through touch alone.

And when he moved, it was slow at first, nothing more than a rolling grind, dragging out of her almost entirely before driving back in, his hips pressing hers into the mattress. Each thrust was deliberate, grinding into her clit with the root of him, pulling soft, breathy cries from her throat.

Alia's free hand, the one not pinned next to her head by him, slipped up to his shoulder, her nails digging in harder with every stroke, and the biting sensation had her husband's own grip tightening, "Look at me," He ordered quietly, and when she did, locking eyes with him, all she saw was the hunger and the love and the claim burning there, all at once.

'Yours', her thoughts drifted in a haze, her power binding them together in this moment, 'All yours'.

Bucky's eyes just darkened further, at that. When her breathing started to break apart, he shifted the angle, hooking one of her legs over his shoulder and fucking her deeper, harder, their joined hands still pinned to the bed beside her head.

His other palm braced beside her, keeping him steady as he pounded into her with controlled force, the slap of their bodies filling the penthouse, "James—"

But before Alia could say anything more he kissed her, deep and hard, swallowing her moan and any other pleas as his rhythm grew faster, his chest slick with sweat against hers. When she clenched around him, his groan vibrated against her lips.

"Mine," Bucky growled, and then in one smooth motion, he pulled out, flipping her onto her stomach before she had a chance to catch her breath. The metal hand slid beneath her, finding her left hand again, fingers tangling back up so now, both of their rings pressed tight together as he guided himself back into her from behind.

The angle was brutal, like this; his thrusts hitting deep, precise, the weight of his chest over her back forcing her down into the mattress. The bed frame creaked under them, her cries muffled against the sheets until he curled his free hand in her hair gently, helping to lift her head so it was tilted back against his shoulder.

"Let me hear you, sweetheart," He rasped into her ear, punctuating it with a bite to her shoulder that made her sob something that could've been his name.

The rhythm built fast, his pace unrelenting now, hips slamming into her, the cool press of his thumb stroking over her wedding band with every drive forward. The sensation— Metal and flesh, heat and chill, claim and connection —Blurred with the pleasure coursing through her until she was teetering on absolute free fall.

Alia came harder than she had the first time, voice breaking on a cry and her body shuddering violently in his grip, every muscle tightening around him. The feel of her milking him dragged a rough, almost pained groan from his own throat, and then he was following her over, thrusts faltering as his release spilled hot and deep inside her.

They stayed locked together for long moments, his forehead pressed to her shoulder, their left hands still tangled, rings biting into skin as if neither wanted to let go.

When Bucky finally eased out of her, he collapsed beside her, pulling her into his chest without breaking that handhold. Both of them were slick with sweat, lungs straining, hearts pounding in sync.

And for a long few moments, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing, and the distant hum of New York City below, to fill the room.

"...So," Bucky finally murmured, breaking the pleasant silence first as his lips brushed her shoulder, tracing the marks he'd left on her skin, "Which surface next?"

Alia had to laugh hoarsely at that, as she reached for the nearest pillow to fling it back and swat him with it, "I would like some champagne first." She retorted, breathless and grinning, "Before you attempt to murder me again."

Bucky huffed a laugh of his own, rolling off her with a grunt but not letting go of her hand, his metal fingers still entwined with hers as he reached for the champagne bucket Stark had very conspicuously left beside the bed.

The bottle was already open, too, condensation glistening on the glass as he poured her a flute with one-handed ease, "Here," He passed it over, pressing it into her palm before collapsing back against the pillows, gloriously dishevelled.

Alia took a sip, the bubbles sharp on her tongue, and eyed him over the rim as he laid there, his own gaze never leaving her, "You are staring." She noted, almost smug.

He didn't deny it. Just dragged his gaze down her bare skin, lingering on the marks he'd left— The reddened bite on her shoulder, and the faint marks along her ribs from his new fingers —Before meeting her eyes again, "Yeah. Well." A smirk tugged at his mouth, "Turns out I really like my wife. Who would've thought?"

She kicked him lightly in response, but her traitorous lips curved anyway, "You are ridiculous, husband."

Bucky stole the champagne from her in retaliation, finished the glass off and setting it aside, "And you, wife," He retorted, rolling on top of her again, "Are avoiding the question."

"Which was, again...?"

His answering grin was pure trouble as he slipped his hands back under her thighs, "Which surface next?"

The piano, as it turned out, was very, very sturdy.

Chapter Text

The Winter Soldier

The scent of fresh coffee and Alia's abandoned perfume lingered in the apartment; something floral and sharp, clinging to the couch where she'd tugged on her ballet flats that morning. She'd kissed him goodbye with a murmured "Don't open your present until I get home," and left him with a smirk that promised all kinds of trouble if he disobeyed.

Bucky had spent the morning cleaning the already-spotless kitchen (twice), reorganizing their weapons cache (hidden behind a false panel in the bedroom closet), and resisting the urge to text her just to hear her bite back in Russian. Domesticity still felt surreal, sometimes. Waking up without alarms, doing grocery runs, Alia's socks perpetually ending up in his boots, somehow...

Three months now, they'd been married and back in Amsterdam, and every so often he still thought it was a dream. Sometimes he still woke up thinking it was a dream. She did, too. But they were always there to remind the other that this was very much real.

His phone buzzed on the counter, and Steve Rogers flashed across the screen. Right on fucking time.

Bucky exhaled, swiping to answer, "You know I'm not huge on birthdays, right?"

Steve's laugh was warm, crackling slightly through the line. "Yeah, well. Tough. You're stuck with me calling every year anyway," He said dryly, "How's Amsterdam been treating you two?"

Bucky glanced at the window; gray skies, the canal below shimmering with drizzle, "Wet. Quiet. Good."

"Alia at work?"

"Mm. Terrorizing kids at the ballet studio."

Steve chuckled, at that, "God help them."

The conversation lulled, comfortable. Bucky traced a scratch on the counter, courtesy of Alia's knives during a particularly enthusiastic cooking attempt last week. Then Steve cleared his throat, "So, listen, Buck... I didn't just call for your birthday. We've gotten a lead on something, maybe."

Bucky's fingers stilled, "On?" He asked, hesitantly.

"We think it could be Zemo."

The name landed like a punch. Steve continued, voice lower. "Before you start freaking out, it's not confirmed yet. But chatter in Sokovia's picking up. Somebody's rebuilding. Betting money says it's him."

Bucky closed his eyes. Of course.

"You think he's planning something?" Bucky finally asked, keeping his voice low, as if worried Alia could overhear him from halfway across the city.

"What do you think?" Steve countered, his tone serious. There was no need for a flowery answer. Both of them knew how this went. Both of them had seen Zemo's handiwork, "He's not the type to just disappear. And he doesn't do anything without a reason."

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, pacing the small kitchen, "So, what? Do we gear up? Fly back? What's the play?"

Steve sighed. "No, not yet. It's still just whispers. But I wanted you to know." He paused, then added, quieter, "And... I wanted to make sure you were okay."

Bucky sighed, "Well, I was doing pretty okay 'till you dropped that on me, Stevie, but we'll be careful. Anything catches our eye, you'll be the first to know."

Then he paused, drumming his fingers on the countertop.

"...Not going to lose this life now that I've got it." He confessed, quietly.

Steve's voice softened, in response to that, "I know. And you won't. Look, Buck, just... Enjoy your damn birthday. Eat some cake. Let Alia spoil you rotten. Nat and I will keep an eye on this, see if it's really Zemo or if it's just a wild goose chase..."

Bucky huffed, glancing at the small, suspiciously wrapped box Alia had left on the coffee table — The one he was absolutely not supposed to open yet, "Yeah, yeah. And, hey, while you're at it, tell Sam to stop sending me those stupid 'over the hill' memes. I don't even get what they mean."

Steve only laughed, at that, "I think it just means you're old, pal. And no promises."

The call ended there, leaving the apartment quiet again. Just the hum of the fridge, the distant clatter of bike bells from the street below.

Bucky stared at his phone for a long moment, then deliberately set it aside.

He had a birthday to get through first.

Then he'd worry about ghosts.

He walked over to the window, watching the rain blur the world outside into soft edges and muted colours. The canal below reflected the sky in broken streaks of gray and silver. A woman in a bright red coat passed by on the opposite side, her umbrella tilted against the drizzle. Just another spring day in Amsterdam.

Normal.

It was a strange word. Felt like something he was still learning how to wear. Because one year ago, to the day he'd been living a half-life, still lost in his own mind, in the depths of a Berlin bunker chasing ghosts he couldn't even fully recall. Then one of them had shown up and tried to kill him.

Now he was married to that ghost, and happier than he could ever remember being.

Instead of giving in to the temptation of inspecting Alia's wrapped gift any further, he went to the kitchen, pulled a glass from the cabinet, and poured himself a shot of the cheap vodka that Alia kept around for 'special occasions.'

He raised it to the empty room.

"Happy birthday, dumbass," He muttered to himself. Then he drank it, set the glass down, and waited for his wife to come home.

Bucky was laying on their couch by the time Alia finally did make her way home from the studio, hours later. The TV was running international news absently in the background; neither of them liked silence, so this wasn't uncommon for them. If it wasn't the TV, it was the radio. If it wasn't the radio, it was the music Bucky could conjure out of his phone that had Alia horrifically jealous over how he'd figured out mastering Spotify. But Bucky wasn't paying attention to the news in the slightest, not when he felt her familiar presence seeping into his very bones.

His wife was humming something as she opened the door, carefully balancing a few boxes under her chin as she handled her ballet duffel bag effortlessly on top of it. And right on cue, she scowled the moment she saw the vodka bottle sitting on the coffee table, next to her present, innocently.

"James," She admonished, lips twitching, "Do not tell me you started drinking without me."

Not that the alcohol would do anything. Even Everclear didn't do a dent in their super soldier enhanced livers. But it was the principle of the matter, and Bucky still froze like he'd just been caught with his hand in a cookie jar.

Alia set the boxes down on their small round dining table; pizza boxes, he could see now. Figures she'd spring for that, for his birthday. Bucky held up his hands in mock surrender, the corner of his mouth twitching, "One shot. One. And, yeah, it was your vodka."

His wife only rolled her eyes, shrugging out of her coat and draping it over the back of a chair, "So you did start without me," She accused, deadpan, and toeing off her shoes with practiced ease, "Typical American. Impatient."

He watched her move, graceful even when tired, even when just walking across their cramped living room, and felt something in his chest loosen. The news droned on behind him, some report about rising tensions somewhere, but he tuned it out in favour of focusing on her.

"You bring me pizza and a present?" He asked, nodding toward the boxes, "Knew I married you for a reason, sweetheart."

Alia shot him a look, but her lips were fighting a smile, "The present is still off-limits," She said, tapping the black-wrapped box with one finger, "After dinner. And only if you behave."

Bucky grinned, stretching lazily on the couch, "Define 'behave'." She leaned down, bracing one hand on the armrest, her short hair tickling his face as she kissed him.

"Eat your pizza, Mr. Barnes."

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, "You're no fun, Mrs. Barnes"

"No, I am plenty of fun." Alia retorted, already moving toward the kitchen.

Bucky sat up, watching her pull plates from the cabinet. Unnecessary, since they could've eaten straight from the boxes, but it was one of her little quirks. She hummed again as she worked, something soft and classical, the kind of tune that made him think of old theatres and velvet curtains. He stood, padding over behind her, slipping an arm around her waist.

"So, you gonna tell me what's in the box?"

She didn't miss a beat, "No." Alia replied immediately.

He nuzzled the side of her neck, lips brushing the shell of her ear, "C'mon, wife. One hint."

Alia exhaled, long-suffering, but leaned into him anyway, "Fine," She acquiesced, "It is... Something you have needed for a long time."

He pulled back slightly, brow furrowing, "Well, that's ominous. Even by your standards."

She turned in his arms, pressing a slice of pizza into his hand before tapping his chest with her fingertip, "Eat. Then you can open it, and the other presents."

"Yes, ma'am." Bucky took a dutiful bite, watching her over the cheesy, greasy slice.

She was up to something. He just didn't know what.

The pizza was gone faster than he'd admit— Pepperoni, extra cheese, the way he found he liked it —And he licked sauce off his thumb as Alia finally relented, nudging the black-wrapped box toward him.

"Okay," She said, sitting back on their couch, "Now."

Bucky eyed her, suspicious, "Why do I feel like this is a trap?"

"Do not be ridiculous, James. If it was a trap, you would not even be questioning it. You simply wouldn't know."

He snorted, picking up the box. It was heavier than he expected, the ribbon unspooling under his fingers as he tore the paper, then popped the box open, and—

—Bucky paused.

"Sweetheart," He started, slowly, "Why the hell did you give me your phone as a birthday present?"

Because that's what was nestled in the middle of the box. He hadn't even noticed she hadn't had it with on her this morning when she left for work. Or the night before, for that matter. And he knew better than to try to text her throughout the day, because Christ, was his wife still rather hopeless with grasping that sort of thing. And now he was half-worried that she'd lost it entirely.

For her part, Alia was smiling, "That is not the gift. The gift is on the little box." She scooted next to him on the couch, reaching to take it out as she turned it on— Her lock screen wallpaper now was a candid from their wedding, taken by Laura Barton, and it made his stomach do a flip to see it again —But it quickly disappeared as she swiped up into the phone itself.

Then, God bless her, Alia had to pull the phone close to her face and began to mutter to herself in Russian, so fast that even he couldn't keep up, as she started trying to navigate it.

Bucky just reached for another piece of pizza. She swatted his hand.

"Do not eat."

"Well, do you need some help?" He asked, innocently.

"No, I do not," She scowled, "Quiet. I have practiced this."

A few more moments of struggle, and finally Alia figured out whatever the hell she was doing. Bucky gave her a skeptical look as she tucked in close to his side, holding the phone out in front of them so he was visible in the camera, "You're telling me you mastered FaceTime as my birthday present?"

But then the line connected.

"—Hello?" A female voice warbled first, before the video on the other end, blurry, started to come into focus as the connection improved. She was older, dark-haired but shot through with silver, and holding the phone awkwardly, so Bucky could only see her eyes and her forehead. Even still, she seemed weirdly familiar to him, especially when she drawled out in a heavy New Yorker accent, "Oh, Alia, dear, is this you?"

"Yes, Mrs. Proctor." Alia chimed in. Bucky looked at her like she'd lost her mind entirely, before Alia nudged him, promptingly, "James, this is your niece. Brooklyn."

The name hit him like a fist to the gut. Holy shit. Brooklyn Proctor. This was Rebecca's daughter. The one who Stark had tracked down, to get him to send him his Ma's ring for Alia.

This was his niece. His family, and he was looking at right her. Bucky froze. The screen flickered again as Brooklyn finally managed to angle the camera down, and then—

—Well, there she was. She was older, maybe in her late 50s or early 60s, with sharp eyes and that same stubborn set to her jaw that he recognized from his sister. Rebecca's jaw, "Jesus Christ." Bucky muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Brooklyn Proctor, his niece, just tilted her head, squinting at the screen, "Is this thing working? Alia? Can you see me?"

Alia, smug as ever, nudged him, "Yes, we can see you," She replied, "But James is staring at you like he has seen a ghost."

Bucky swallowed hard, his fingers flexing against his thigh as her voice finally prompted him to try and figure out something to say.

"Uh. Yeah. I— Yeah, I see you."

"Well, that's a relief. I was starting to think I was talking to a wall."

He let out a short, stunned laugh, "Christ, you sound just like your mom."

A flicker of something, sadness, perhaps, passed over Brooklyn's face, "Yeah. I get that a lot." She replied, "Or I did, anyway. Most've Mom's friends are gone now, too."

The room felt too quiet suddenly, the hum of the TV in the background fading into the background. Bucky didn't even realize he was gripping the edge of the couch until Alia's hand settled over his, grounding him.

He looked at her. Really looked at her.

She had done this.

His wife, his beautiful, insane, and stubborn-as-hell wife had tracked Brooklyn down, learned how to use her damn phone enough just to set this up, probably drove herself crazy just trying to figure out fucking FaceTime, all for him. His voice came out rough, "Alia..."

But she didn't let him finish. Just leaned in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, murmuring against his skin, "Happy birthday, James."

It is something you have needed for a long time, she'd said to him, when he'd asked for a hint. And she'd given him a part of his family back. And fuck, if she hadn't been right on the money with that one.

"So you're really my uncle?" Brooklyn squinted, leaning closer to the phone in a gesture that was vaguely reminiscent of Alia, "I can kinda see it, actually. Mom had plenty of old photo albums, you're in some of them. I guess Mr. Stark told you I didn't even realize who you were 'till he came knocking to get my grandma's ring?"

Bucky let out a breath, shaking his head, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that this woman, Becks' kid, was really there on the other end of the phone. And she was talking to him like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"Uh, yeah," He said, clearing his throat in an attempt to dislodge the emotion building there, "Stark mentioned something like that." He glanced at Alia, who was watching him with a serene, slightly amused expression on her face.

Brooklyn hereslf only snorted, though, "Yeah, well, I didn't even know what the hell he was talking about at first. Thought he was some weirdo trying to scam me. Then he showed me a picture of you, and I was all— 'oh'." She tilted her head, quoting herself, "'You do look like the guy in Mom's old photos'. Then the rest's history, y'know. Suddenly, a few months go by and Alia tracks me down, she said she's your wife?"

Bucky's chest tightened again.

Because this girl, Brooklyn, was all Becks.

He could still see her, in flashes — Her laughing, her crying, the last time he saw her before the war, before everything went sideways. And now, here was Brooklyn, a living, breathing piece of that past. Bucky swallowed hard, "Yeah, just married. Your mom, um— What... What was she like? If you don't mind."

Brooklyn's expression softened, "Oh, she was stubborn. Funny. Always had this way of making people feel like they mattered, y'know?" She hesitated, before adding, "She missed you. Never stopped talking about you, even when I was a kid. Said you were the best uncle that I never got to meet."

Bucky closed his eyes for a second, the weight of it pressing down on him. Then Alia shifted beside him, her thumb rubbing slow circles over his knuckles.

He opened his eyes again. And this time, he smiled.

"Yeah," He finally said, his voice steadier now, "She was always one hell of a woman."

That made Brooklyn grin, "Damn right."

The conversation didn't stop there.

"...Oh, I've got two kids, myself," Brooklyn said after Bucky had asked her about his family. She manoeuvred the phone awkwardly to hold up her wallet, where a photo was visible of an older girl and boy, graduation images from high school, if he had to guess, "Carol and Nicholas. They're grown now. Carol's working for the State Department. And Nicky's a writer, works for the Daily Bugle."

Then she squinted at the two of them through the phone again, spinning it back to face her.

"Suppose you two are still enjoying the honeymoon phase before kids, huh? Me and David, God rest his soul, we thought we'd do the same. But, then came Carol, and the rest was history..."

Bucky blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. His brain was still catching up on all the information Brooklyn was giving him. And now she was asking about if they had any plans for kids.

Unbidden, the memory of Wanda's vision in Johannesburg hit him; nearly six months ago, now. That little blonde-haired girl in his lap, toying with his medals, reading Charlotte's Web as Alia baked. He glanced at his wife, who only raised an eyebrow at him in kind. As if she were curious to hear what he had to say on the matter, too.

Goddamn it.

"Uh," Bucky finally started, eloquently, rubbing the back of his neck, "We're... Not exactly there yet."

Brooklyn gave him a look that screamed Rebecca, the same skeptical, half-amused expression that made him feel about two inches tall. "Ah, well. You're married. You're both young, I mean, young-ish. You've got time, sure, but don't wait too long. Life has a way of making decisions for you, you know."

Alia tilted her head, considering, "We have not discussed it."

"We haven't not discussed it either." He managed to add.

"Uh-huh." His niece hummed, unconvinced. The conversation shifted again, lighter now; Brooklyn telling stories about growing up with Rebecca's stories of 'Uncle Bucky', about the old family house in Brooklyn that had long since been sold. And Bucky listened. Really listened.

He asked questions. Laughed at the right parts. Let the past settle around him like something warm instead of something sharp.

And when Alia leaned into him, her fingers lacing with his, he held on to her like a lifetime.

Because Brooklyn's voice, steady and familiar through the phone, reminded him that he wasn't the only Barnes left in the world. Not by a goddamn long shot.

Chapter Text

The Winter Soldier

The streets were alive with the kind of spring energy that made Bucky want to keep his head down and move fast.

Tourists clogged the sidewalks, snapping photos of the canals and laughing too loud in languages he only half-understood. Bicycles zipped past with the usual Dutch disregard for personal space, and the scent of fresh stroopwafels and motor oil clung to the air.

He kept his hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, not out of nerves, not exactly, but out of habit. Old instincts never really died. They just learned to nap, he found.

He was on a mission... Well, not the sort he'd used to have. This one was a far simple one. Coffee. Groceries (they were out of yogurt again). And—

—He glanced at the small boutique ahead, the one Alia always walked past with that look on her face. The one she thought he didn't notice.

But he did notice. He always did. And if there was one thing Bucky Barnes was good at?

It was finding ways to spoil his wife absolutely, positively rotten.

The bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside, the scent of fabric softener and lavender hitting him immediately. The shop was small, neatly packed with soft sweaters, scarves, and the kind of delicate things Alia never bought for herself but always admired. Some sort of fancy, small-business boutique, then. A woman behind the counter smiled at him, as soon as he entered, "Can I help you?"

Bucky shook his head, "Just looking for right now," He replied, "Bedankt."

He wandered up and down the racks, fingers brushing over fabric, searching for something that felt like her. Not flashy. Not fussy. Something quiet. Something that said it was her, without saying it at all.

He found it, finally; a deep gray cardigan, soft wool, simple lines. He held it up, imagining her in it, curled on the couch with a book, or walking beside him along the canals.

Yeah. This would do nicely.

He bought it, along with a bag of tea he thought she might like, jasmine with a hint of citrus, and tucked both under one arm as he stepped back into the sun.

Amsterdam hummed around him, beautiful and alive in springtime. He smiled, just a little, because God, the past few months since Ultron and Sokovia had felt like time the two of them had stolen.

The thing about stolen time, though, was that the bill always came due. And that was when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Bucky pulled it out, squinting at the screen. He only kept his notifications on for a few things; phone calls, text messages, and news alerts. Others on the street nearby him were starting to look at their phones, too, whispering to each other.

Avengers. Lagos. Maximoff.

He pulled up the notification and felt his gut twist. It was an Avengers-sanctioned operation in Lagos, Steve going after Rumlow and his rogue mercs. Wanda had tried to contain an explosion, but it had been redirected into a building full of outreach workers instead.

There was a fucking death toll. That was all he needed to see to know just how bad this really was.

The street noise faded into a dull roar. His fingers tightened around the shopping bag, the paper crinkling under the pressure.

Lagos.

Wanda.

Steve.

The headlines were already spiralling. Avengers Under Fire. Civilian Casualties. Who Pays for the Damage?

He scrolled through the first few reports, jaw clenched. Wanda, just a kid, really, still learning the weight of her own power, had tried to do the right thing. She had tried to contain it. But the world didn't care about tried. Not when there were bodies. Not when there were cameras watching every single move you made, these days.

His phone buzzed again, another notification from a news alert. Footage of the aftermath. Smoke. Screams. Steve's face, grim and bloodied, pulling people from the wreckage alongside Pietro.

Bucky's stomach turned at the sight, because he already knew what would come next. The speeches. The outrage. The slow, inevitable shift from heroes to liabilities.

The weight of the cardigan tucked under his arm suddenly felt too light. Too small. Like none of it mattered.

But it did.

Because Alia was waiting, and she— Oh, shit. Bucky froze completely as the thought of his wife crossed his mind, his grip tightening on his cell. Alia, she was at work right now, teaching. She wouldn't know about any of this.

Bucky swiped up on his phone and navigated over to her contact, dialling her. He knew she knew if he was calling her whilst she was teaching, it was an emergency.

The phone rang once. Twice. His eyes darted around at the other pedestrians still crowding around each-other and checking their own phones as if trying to determine if the news was real or not.

He could already picture the studio already; the mirrored walls, the piano in the corner, the little girls in their pink leotards freezing mid-pirouette as their teacher's ringer cut through the music—

"—James." Alia's voice was sharp, breathless. No greeting. No questioning. Just his name, loaded with the weight of everything unsaid.

She knew. Or at least suspected something. They rarely bothered with phones to get in touch with each other, but it was even rarer for him to try when she was at work.

Bucky exhaled through his teeth, stepping into the shadow of a nearby alley to escape the growing crowd, all comparing each other's phones as they took in the news of the Avengers and the disaster they'd made, "Have you seen the news? Lagos—"

"—Lagos?" Alia repeated, befuddled, "What happened in Lagos?"

"Guess you've not been checking your phone, then, sweetheart."

"No. I am still at the studio with my class, you know this." She replied, tone heavy with suspicion, and worry, now.

Bucky sucked air past his teeth and sighed, running a hand through his hair. If he had to choose between her learning about this from him, or from some breaking news alert, though, he'd make himself do it each and every time, "It's Wanda, Alia. She..." His voice lowered, "Something went wrong, during an Avengers op. It's all over the news right now."

He could practically feel the silence burning on the other end of the line, "I am coming home, right now."

"She's not hurt, Alia. She's okay." Bucky countered, softly.

"I doubt that very much, James. One of my students has just shown me the footage." Alia replied, her own voice crisp and unwavering, "She will not be 'okay'."

He sighed, again, "She didn't do it on purpose." He managed to say, a weak platitude in the face of the death toll he could still see in his mind's eye.

"But she still did it. You and I know better than most how that can be all that matters. I will be home in ten minutes, James." She paused, before adding, "—I love you."

"Yeah, love you too," Bucky replied, automatically, "I'm on my way home. I'll see you soon."

The line went dead. Bucky stood there for a second, the phone still pressed to his ear like he could will the conversation, the news itself, to unravel. To just undo itself, and bring their peaceful life back to them in one piece.

But the damage was already done.

He pocketed the phone and stepped back into the sunlight, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders.

Alia was right.

Wanda wasn't going to be okay.

And neither were they, not anymore.

The cardigan and tea in his bag suddenly felt like relics from another life, one they were suddenly in very real danger of losing.

For the past forty-eight hours since the news had broken, his wife had done nothing but pace.

Super soldiers like them didn't need much sleep. Three or four hours was usually enough to keep them going for a few days, but she was starting to push even that limitation.

Not even the sight of her still wrapped in the cardigan he'd purchased for her (he had draped it around her the moment he had gotten home, and though she'd thanked him, he knew the gift didn't mean shit now, not with everything going on) did anything to soothe the ache deep in Bucky's chest.

His girl was hurting, and there wasn't anything he could do to make it stop. She was too worried about Wanda, and what would happen to her. To all of them, as a result of this.

And now, she was glaring at her phone, trying in vain to call Wanda's number, but the witch wasn't answering. Neither was Natasha. In the background, their television was still playing news footage of Lagos played on loop — Smoke, debris, the blurred outline of Wanda's silhouette amid the chaos. The ticker at the bottom scrolled relentless updates; 11 CONFIRMED DEAD. UN CALLS FOR AVENGERS OVERSIGHT. MAXIMOFF UNDER FIRE. AVENGERS ACCOUNTABLE?

Bucky crossed the room in three strides, catching Alia's wrist as she turned on her heel to start another lap. Her skin was warm beneath his fingers, pulse fluttering like a trapped bird.

"They're probably in debrief, sweetheart." He said, voice low, "You know how it goes. Lockdown protocols. Damage control."

Alia's eyes flashed, but she didn't pull away, "She should not be alone right now." She insisted, quietly. That was what he loved so much about her, the way that she stopped at nothing for the people she loved.

Bucky thumbed the inside of Alia's wrist, a silent I'm here, before letting go to reach for his own phone, "I'll try Steve. Just, sit down, sweetheart, please."

Pulling up Steve's number, he stepped into the relative privacy of their bedroom, which was basically pointless. Alia would hear every word he said, anyway, but it was an old social habit by now. Steve picked up on the third ring. Bucky didn't waste any time.

"Steve, are you alright? Alia's been trying to call Wanda and Nat, but she hasn't gotten through. I told her it's probably just debrief—"

"—Bucky—" Steve's voice came through tinny, but Bucky didn't stop.

"—Saw the UN stuff on the news, the Wakandan king calling for regulations. You don't think—"

"—Buck," Steve finally interjected firmly, hoarsely, "...Peggy passed away."

Bucky felt his entire body lock up, sure he'd misheard him, "What?"

"I just got the call, before you rang."

"Holy shit." All thoughts about Lagos, Wanda Maximoff, and the 'Sokovia Accords' simply ebbed right out of Bucky's mind, at that, "Stevie, I— I'm so sorry."

"Yeah. Me too."

"There gonna be a funeral?"

"Think so. She wanted me to be a part of it." Steve replied, his voice sombre.

Bucky put his face in his free hand momentarily, "...You say the word, and I'm on a plane, Steve. Alia will understand. Hell, she might book the seat next to me."

Steve huffed, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh, "No, Buck, it's okay. Sam's planning on coming, I think," And that made a wave of relief crash through Bucky, because Sam was precisely the sort of person he'd want to be at Steve's side right now, "I don't want you two drawing any attention to yourselves, right now. Last thing this whole nightmare needs is the world remembering you two also exist, no offence."

"None taken. I am very happy to be forgotten and for the world to forget I exist," Bucky replied blandly. He swore he could maybe hear Steve smiling at that through the receiver, "But, seriously, Stevie. Just let us know."

"I will. Thanks, Buck."

"Yeah. Take care, man."

The call ended. Bucky stood there for a long moment, phone still pressed to his ear, the weight of Steve's grief sitting heavy in his chest.

Peggy.

God.

She'd been one of the last real threads tying Steve to the past, to their past. And now she was gone. His girl, once. Bucky only had to close his eyes to see her standing there in that bar in that red dress, all eyes for Steve and not a soul else.

And now, she was gone.

He lowered the phone, exhaling sharply through his nose before turning back toward the living room.

Alia was sitting on the couch like he'd asked, but her arms ere crossed tight over her chest, eyes locked onto him. Because, like he'd assumed, she had heard every word.

Sometimes, enhanced hearing really was a bitch.

Her gaze flickered over his face, reading the lines of grief and exhaustion he hadn't yet smoothed away. She didn't ask. She already knew.

Manoeuvring over to join her on the couch, he let her curl up at his side, her cheek against his shoulder and her hand press against his chest, right over his heart. Her fingers were warm even through the fabric of his shirt, steadying in a way only she could be.

"Steve, he will need you," She finally murmured.

Bucky covered her hand with his own, thumb tracing the delicate bones of her knuckles, "No. He doesn't want us to risk it. He's got Sam. He'll be okay."

Alia's lips thinned, but she didn't push the point. She knew Steve as well as he did — Stubborn to a fault, especially when it came to protecting the people he loved. Like a certain Russian he'd married, come to think of it.

The television droned on in the background, the news cycle shifting from Lagos to speculation about the UN's proposed Sokovia Accords, to grainy footage of Tony Stark boarding a private jet, sunglasses hiding his eyes.

Bucky exhaled, squeezing Alia's hand once before letting go, "We should eat."

It was a deflection. A way to ground themselves in something simple, something normal. Alia merely nodded, watching him as he stood, though she cast one last glance at the screen, at the frozen image of Wanda's stricken face there.

"You know, she will blame herself," She murmured, "And that will hurt her more than anything."

Bucky couldn't disagree with her there.

Chapter Text

The White Widow

The phone vibrated against the kitchen counter, rattling against the marble with an insistent buzz. Alia didn't need to look at the caller ID to know who it was; she'd been waiting for this call for over a week now.

She picked up on the second ring, "Natasha."

Natasha's exhale crackled through the line, tired but familiar, "Alia. She's alive."

Alia's fingers tightened around the phone, her breath steady despite the way her pulse jumped.

"Yes, I know she is." Of course, Wanda was alive. The news had made that much clear.

But being alive wasn't the same as being okay.

Natasha seemed to hear the unspoken question, "She's... Coping. As much as she can."

Alia leaned against the counter, her free hand tracing idle patterns on the cool surface, "Where is she?"

"Still at the compound, for now." Natasha's voice was carefully neutral, but Alia could hear the tension beneath it. The same tension that had lived in her own bones for days now, ever since Bucky had called her to be the first to tell her, "You've seen the news. Kid doesn't need to be exposed to any of that."

Sokovia Accords. Oversight. Accountability.

Alia had seen, alright. She'd also seen the way Wanda's face had crumpled in that last piece of footage — The way her hands had trembled, her powers flickering like a dying light as she realized what she had done.

"She should not be alone," Alia said, echoing her own words from days ago.

Natasha sighed, "She's not. Pietro's with her, and Vision. But she's not exactly here, either."

Alia understood. Grief had a way of hollowing people out.

She'd done it to herself, once.

She turned her head, catching sight of Bucky sitting in the living room. His back was to her, shoulders tense as he scrolled through something on his laptop, likely more news about Lagos, about the Accords, about their world unravelling at the seams.

She sighed, then, and ran a hand through her hair, "These Sokovia Accords..." Alia hesitated, before switching to Russian out of habit, "Oni kazhutsya ser'yeznymi." (They seem serious.)

"Ochen'." (Very.) Natasha's answering hum was low, edged with something bitter, before she continued, "Tony podderzhivayet ikh. Steve... Net." (Tony supports them. Steve... No.)

A fracture, then, straight down the middle, worse than how Ultron had tried to fray them all the edges. Alia closed her eyes.

Of course. She'd known it was coming, had felt it in the way the news spun the narrative, in the way Stark's guilt and Steve's stubbornness were already pulling them in opposite directions.

But hearing it confirmed still made her chest tighten.

"They are two sides of the same coin, those two." Alia finally said, exhaling as she pinched the brow of her nose, "I have to ask, Natasha, what this will mean for us. We... We are not Avengers, right now."

But they had been.

Natasha's silence stretched for a beat too long, heavy with unspoken implications.

When she finally spoke, her tone was measured, diplomatic in a way that set Alia's nerves on edge, "Eto slozhno." (It's complicated.)

Alia scoffed, fingers tightening around the edge of the counter, "Vsegda." (Always.)

Natasha exhaled, the sound crackling faintly through the line. "The Accords aren't just about the Avengers. They're about anyone with enhanced abilities. Anyone who's been weaponized." Another sigh, and she hesitated before finally admitting, "So that does include you two."

The words landed like a blade stabbed between Alia's ribs. She turned her head, watching Bucky's profile, the furrow of his brow, the way his metal fingers tapped restlessly against the laptop keys as he tried to tune out her conversation with Natasha. He'd spent decades as someone else's weapon. The thought of him being forced to register, to sign his name onto some document that treated him like a loaded gun—

—No. Never again.

Alia's voice dropped, low and dangerous, "They will not put him on a leash." She growled.

Natasha didn't flinch at the change in tone, "It's not about leashes," The other Widow countered, "It's about accountability. Structure."

"Structure," Alia repeated flatly, "Like the Red Room? Like HYDRA?"

"Oh, come on. You know that's not what I meant." Natasha replied, before her voice softened, just slightly, "Look. I know how it sounds, but... The world's scared, Alia. And scared people don't make rational demands."

Alia understood fear. She'd lived inside it, breathed it, been it. But you didn't conquer fear by chaining it up and forcing the cause of it to obey, "And if we refuse to comply with these Accords?" She asked, quietly, pretending as though she didn't already know the answer.

"Then you'll probably have to disappear. For good."

The implication made her blood feel icy in her veins. Alia's eyes flicked to the television, muted but still playing footage of Vienna, of the UN building where the Accords would be signed in days.

A gilded cage.

Or a death sentence.

She swallowed hard. Their fragile peace, their 'honeymoon period', so everyone called it, was officially over. Four months of marriage, and the real world had decided to come crashing back into their quiet little life in the most terrible way possible. Alia sighed again.

"So you are going to Vienna, for the signing?" Alia finally asked.

Natasha's silence this time was different, laced with something considering, almost hesitant, "Da," She said, "I'll be there." She hesitated again, before adding, "And I think that you two should come, too."

Alia stilled at the offer. To attend the signing would be to signal their allegiance in their own, silent way. This was playing out on a global stage; any misstep would be broadcast for the entire world to see. She turned slightly, catching Bucky's gaze from across the room. He'd paused his typing, his eyes sharp on her, reading the tension in her posture, and undoubtedly overhearing the conversation.

Holding his stare as she answered, Alia kept her voice deliberately neutral, "Natasha... Why?"

"Because if you're going to run, you should at least know what you're running away from." Natasha answered, soft and pragmatic, "And... Because It'd be nice to have someone I can trust watching my back in there."

Alia's fingers twitched against the counter.

She thought of Wanda, isolated, grieving, trapped under Stark's watchful eye. Of Steve, shouldering Peggy's death and the weight of the Accords alone.

Of Bucky, who had only just begun to stop flinching at shadows.

And of herself, of the life she'd carved out from the wreckage of what HYDRA had made her. Vienna would change everything... But so would staying silent.

Alia exhaled, rubbing her forehead, "We will think about it." She finally said, lips pressing together afterwards.

Natasha's hum was knowing, "Don't think too long. Just call me with your answer."

The line went dead. Alia lowered the phone, her pulse steady but her mind racing.

Bucky was already moving toward her, his steps quiet but deliberate. He didn't ask. He didn't need to.

She met him halfway. Alia set her phone down and entwined her arms around his waist, pulling him close to her, "Natasha wishes for us to come to Vienna, for the Accords signing." She said, as if Bucky had not overheard their entire conversation. His arms came around her automatically, his chin settling on top of her head, and his breath warm against her hair.

Alia pressed her cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the layers of fabric and muscle and scar tissue. It was a sound she had come to rely on, the proof that he was still here, still with her, even when the world threatened to pull them apart.

She exhaled slowly, her voice muffled against him, "She says we should see it for ourselves. Before we decide what comes next."

Her fingers curled into the back of his shirt, not tight enough to pull, just enough to hold.

She didn't need to say what decide meant.

Signing the Accords would mean stepping back into the light, into the world that had hunted them, feared them, used them.

Refusing them would mean disappearing, for good. No more Christmases at the compound, no more surprise visits from their friends, their family. It meant a life on the run, always looking over their shoulders. Bucky shifted, his metal fingers tracing a slow, absentminded line down her spine, "You want to go to the signing, don't you."

It wasn't a question.

Alia tilted her head back, meeting his gaze, "I do not want to choose. But Natasha asked, for me." His expression softened, just slightly. He understood that, at least, "But if we do go to Vienna... We go together." She whispered.

Bucky's thumb brushed the curve of her jaw, slow and deliberate, grounding. His eyes searched hers. His voice, when it came again, was quiet, rough with something unspoken, "Are you sure?"

Alia exhaled, her fingers tightening at his waist, "I am sure that I do not want to let go of you, ever again." The words came out raw and unfiltered. Because she had spent decades doing what she was told.

She had followed orders. She had erased memories. She had wiped him.

And now, she had a choice.

And she chose him.

Always.

She lifted a hand, pressing her palm flat against his chest, right over his heart, "Where you go, James, I go," Alia said, finally, "That is how it has always been, and how it always will be."

Bucky didn't say anything to that. He couldn't. Instead, he bent his head and kissed her, slow and deep.

And for a moment, just a moment, the world outside their apartment ceased to exist.

No Accords. No ghosts. No past waiting to drag them back under.

Just this. Just them.

And that was enough...

...For now.

The Baron

The low hum of the television filled the dimly lit room, its glow casting long shadows across the scattered tools and half-assembled components on the table. The voice of the anchor was calm, measured, civilized, even, as it recited the latest updates on the Sokovia Accords.

"...Representatives from over one hundred and seventeen nations will be present at the signing in Vienna later this week. The Accords are expected to establish an international governing body to oversee the deployment and accountability of enhanced individuals operating outside traditional military or law enforcement structures..."

Helmut Zemo did not look up from his work. His gloved hands moved with practiced precision, fingers tightening around the fine-tipped screwdriver as he secured the final connection within the detonator's housing. A soft click echoed in the silence, barely audible over the drone of the newsfeed.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, before setting the device aside and reaching for the next component; a compact, high-yield charge, its casing sleek and unassuming.

"...The signing will be held at the United Nations headquarters in Vienna, Austria. Among the confirmed attendees are King T'Chaka of Wakanda, and several key members of the Avengers Initiative, including Iron Man, and the Black Widow..."

Zemo's eyes narrowed. Of course, they would be there.

He reached for a small vial of stabilizing compound, tilting it just enough to confirm the viscous liquid inside had not settled unevenly. Satisfied, he uncorked it and carefully applied a thin layer to the charge's outer casing.

The camera cut to footage of Vienna's security preparations. Rows of black-suited agents, armoured vehicles lining the streets, the imposing silhouette of the UN building rising against the skyline.

"...The event is expected to draw global attention, with world leaders and dignitaries in attendance. Security will be highly prioritized..."

Zemo simply shook his head. They could prioritize it all they liked. The fools in the United Nations were already inviting the wolves in sheep's clothing into their pens. Security, after that point, was just an ill-fitting formality.

He'd been deluding himself, he realized now. A year ago, when he'd dreamed of controlling the Winter Soldier and the White Widow, of building his own army of soldiers who would obey unquestionably. It had been a delusion. Ultron had demonstrated that.

No man, he'd decided, should have such power.

No man should have any such power at all. Their world was littered with gods and monsters, witches and synthetic men.

And Zemo would not just destroy them. He would destroy the very idea of them.

The bomb's casing clicked shut beneath his fingers, seamless and unremarkable. Just another piece of luggage, another briefcase in a city full of them.

Zemo leaned back in his chair, wiping his hands on a cloth with slow, methodical strokes. His gaze flicked to the television once more, where the news had shifted to footage of Tony Stark, smug, untouchable, standing beside Secretary Ross as if they weren't playing at gods.

His mouth twisted.

Fools.

They thought they could regulate the unregulated. Control the uncontrollable. As if signing a piece of paper could leash the beasts they'd unleashed.

But Zemo knew better.

He'd seen what happened when men with power decided they knew best. He'd buried his father under the rubble of Sokovia's pride. He'd watched his family's blood seep into the dirt while the Avengers walked away unscathed, untouched by the consequences of their arrogance.

No more.

He reached for the remote and turned off the television. The room plunged into silence, broken only by the steady tick of the clock on the wall.

Vienna would burn.

And when it did, the world would finally see the truth.

That their heroes were just men. And men could be broken. Some, more than others.

Zemo pivoted on a heel to run his hands over the case of the Photostatic Veil he'd managed to dig up out of an old HYDRA installation in Sokovia. Or what was left of his dying country, at any rate, with Latveria now sinking her wicked teeth fully into it.

Popping it open, Zemo reached over for the piece of hair he'd kept sealed in a test tube. With tweezers, he carefully extracted it, feeding it into the machine. Then, the voice sample. He pulled out the tape recorder from his pocket, setting it close to the Veil's microphone.

He hit play.

"Mission Report," James Barnes, the Winter Soldier, droned on the recording, in that vicious deadpan of his, "December 16, 1991. Handler, General Vasily Karpov. Objective: Eliminate Howard and Maria Stark with extreme prejudice, and retrieve intact doses of the super soldier serum..."

The recording continued. After a few moments, the case beeped affirmative that it had received enough of the audio sample. It hummed softly as it processed the genetic material and the voice recording, the faint blue light of its interface casting eerie shadows across Zemo's face. He watched, motionless, as the device calibrated, building a mask not just of flesh and bone, but of sheer history.

Zemo's fingers lingered over the case, tracing the edge of the veil's housing. The asset's voice, his likeness, his infamy, these were all merely tools to him.

And tools had their uses.

Because, the moment Tony Stark suspected that the Winter Soldier was really back, well... Then the Avengers would do Zemo's work for him. They had all but guaranteed it, hadn't they?

Condition Four.

He smiled, patted the machine, and returned to his bomb making. There was much to do in the days ahead, and so very little time to orchestrate it all.

Chapter Text

ACT THREE: THE STORM

The Winter Soldier

The airport was crowded.

Too damn crowded.

Bucky kept his head down, one hand curled loosely around the strap of his duffel bag, while the other hovered near Alia's lower back, a silent anchor as they navigated the crush of travellers. The hum of overlapping conversations, the sharp bark of security announcements, the scent of stale coffee and disinfectant. It all pressed in, too loud, too close.

He hated it.

Alia's fingers brushed against his wrist, feather-light, a wordless reassurance. She didn't look at him, didn't slow her steps. Just that fleeting touch, a reminder.

I'm here.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, forcing his shoulders to relax.

They'd taken precautions. Civilian clothes. No weapons in their luggage. Alia's hair was shorter now, dyed a shade darker than its usual platinum, while Bucky had kept his pulled back under a baseball cap. Nothing remarkable. Nothing worth a second glance.

Still, he caught the way a few eyes lingered, on his frame, on the way Alia moved with a predator's grace even in a crowd. Instinctively, he pressed his hand harder against his wife's back, firmer.

Outside, the Vienna air was crisp, the sky a sharp, cloudless blue. Bucky scanned the street automatically, checking exits, choke points, and potential threats, before a familiar head of red hair cut through the noise and waved them down.

Natasha, waiting for them, just as she'd promised when they had both agreed, for some insane reason, to actually fly out here for this.

Alia broke rank to go and embrace her. The Black Widow caught the other in a quick hug, before they separated.

Natasha's car was parked just outside the arrivals zone, a sleek, nondescript sedan with tinted windows, and she led Alia there as Bucky ambled behind.

"You made it," She finally said once he'd caught up to the Widows, opening the back door for them both, "Get in. We don't have much time."

Alia slid into the back seat without hesitation, but Bucky lingered for a fraction of a second, his eyes scanning the street one last time.

Too exposed. Too many variables.

Natasha caught his hesitation, "Relax, Barnes," She murmured, just low enough for his ears only, "You're not the only ghost in this city today." Bucky's jaw tightened in response to that, but he ducked into the car, pulling the door shut behind him.

Natasha slid into the driver's seat, the engine purring to life as she merged effortlessly into traffic, "Stark's already here," She said, eyes on the road, "Steve and Sam, not sure. They might still be in London for the funeral. It's... A lot, here."

"Wanda is not here?" Alia questioned, her hand instinctively curling around Bucky's. He interlaced their fingers instead, squeezing.

Natasha's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror for a moment, before she shook her head.

"No. She's still back at the compound, with Vision and Pietro. And you know Clint, he's retired... So it's just us, representing the Avengers. Well. Me and Stark. You two are still on hiatus, officially."

Bucky exhaled through his nose, his thumb tracing idle circles over Alia's knuckles.

Natasha's gaze flicked to the mirror again, sharper this time, "Ross has been pushing for a full roster attendance, especially the two of you, but..." She let the sentence hang, unfinished. Bucky understood. They were anomalies. Wild cards. Former assassins with too much blood on their hands and too little oversight. The Accords weren't just about regulation, they were about containment.

And if they weren't careful, they'd walk right into a gilded cage. Alia's fingers tightened around his, "We are not signing anything today," She cautioned, quietly.

Natasha's mouth quirked, just slightly, "Yeah, I didn't think you would." The car slowed as they approached a red light, her fingers drumming against the wheel.

"Almost at the hotel." She added, perhaps a bit more smugly, "So I can leave you two newlyweds alone."

"It has been four months, Natasha." Alia protested, but still bit back a smile herself.

"Ah, young love..."

Bucky rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward despite himself. Newlyweds. It still felt strange, even after all this time. Not the word itself, that part was easy. It was the weight of it, the quiet permanence of it. The fact that he had chosen something for himself, and it hadn't been taken or rewritten or erased.

Except now, it was at risk all over again, wasn't it?

Alia's thumb brushed over his knuckles again, slower this time, almost absent. He could feel the faintest tremor in her fingers, nothing obvious, not to anyone else. But he knew her. He knew the way she carried tension, the way her body never quite relaxed unless he was touching her.

He tightened his grip just slightly, anchoring her.

The car turned sharply, pulling into the narrow side street where the hotel sat; tucked away from the main thoroughfare, quiet but not hidden. Bucky took in the architecture, the narrow windows, the way the street curved just enough to limit sight lines.

Good for surveillance, or a quick escape. The part of him that would always remain the Soldier silently approved.

Natasha pulled up to the curb, shifting into park, "Room's under a clean name. No cameras inside, and the staff's been paid well enough to keep their mouths shut." She glanced at them both, her expression shifting into something softer, "Tomorrow morning the Accords are getting signed. Neither of you have to come if you really don't want to. Nobody's going to make you do that."

Bucky nodded.

Alia didn't say anything, but her fingers lingered on the door handle for a moment before she pushed it open. He followed her out, the Viennese air sharp against his skin.

Checking in was a breeze. Natasha had been right about the staff discretion, at the very least. And the room was well-appointed, nothing fancy, but also nothing as homey as their apartment in Amsterdam. Bucky tossed his duffel bag on the bed with a sigh, "Well, this sure became a shit show fast, sweetheart." He remarked flatly.

Alia had been busy poking at the room's in-suite coffee machine, but he could feel her tense from across the room, feel that flicker of hesitation in that psychic bond she always passively maintained between the two of them.

"Yes," She finally said, softly, "That is a way to put it. James—"

"—Alia. I don't think we should sign. Or go." He cut her off before she could continue, and he felt her stiffen. His wife didn't turn to look at him.

Bucky knew Alia. He probably knew her better than he knew himself. And he knew Natasha was drawing her in. And he also knew that Alia would happily martyr herself if it meant making sure Wanda, or any of their friends, would be safe.

She'd set fire to their lives by her own hand if it meant protecting what she loved. And, God, he loved her for it. But he couldn't watch her do it now. Not when he knew it was wrong. That it was just another cage the world was building, to keep them locked in.

Bucky didn't move from where he stood near the bed, but the silence between them stretched like a wire pulled taut. He could feel her, really feel her, through the psychic tether she never fully closed between them.

It wasn't just a bond to them, anymore. It was a lifeline. And right now, it was humming with tension. He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face, "I know what you're thinking." His voice was rough, quieter now, "I know you, Alia. You're already trying to figure out how to make this work. How to help."

She didn't turn around at the accusation.

The coffee machine hissed, steam curling into the air as she poured herself a cup. Her hands were steady, but he could feel the storm beneath the surface. Bucky pushed off the bed, closing the distance between them in a few long strides. He stopped just behind her, close enough that the heat of her body bled into his.

He reached out, brushing a lock of darkened hair behind her ear, "You're thinking about Wanda. About what she's going through. About what we went through." His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, "And you're trying to decide if walking into that room tomorrow is worth the risk of it happening all over again."

Alia finally turned to face him, her dark eyes unreadable.

He didn't let her speak.

Instead, he cupped her face in his hands and forced her to look at him, "It's not," He said, voice low and firm, "It's not worth it."

Bucky leaned in, then, pressing his forehead to hers. Her breath was warm against his skin, uneven in the quiet space between them. She didn't pull away, but he could feel the shift in her, like a door opening just a crack, to let in a sliver of light.

She exhaled slowly, her voice barely above a whisper, "I do not want to sign it, James. I do not want to give them that control. Not again." Her fingers curled around his wrists, not tight, just holding on, "But I cannot pretend that I am not afraid of what happens if we pretend like none of this is happening."

Bucky's jaw tightened, but he didn't interrupt. She lifted her gaze to his, and for a moment, he saw everything in her eyes; the weight of memory, the ghosts of choices made under someone else's command, the fear that if they disappeared again, the people they loved would be left to face the storm alone, "I will not sign," Alia said, more firmly this time, "But I will be there tomorrow. Not for the Accords. Not for the politics. But for her."

Bucky's stomach twisted reluctantly, at that. Natasha, who was half the reason they were even in Vienna again in the first place. Alia had always been drawn to her, in a way that went beyond friendship. They had fought together, survived together, rebuilt something real in the wreckage of their pasts. Two Widows, still bound through the centuries. And now, Natasha was walking into a battlefield of words and politics, trying to hold the Avengers together while the world tried to chain them.

And Alia would not let her sister walk into that battle alone.

Bucky didn't like it. Didn't like the idea of his wife stepping into that room, surrounded by people who still saw her as a ghost, a threat, a problem to be solved. But he also knew that if his wife had made up her mind on something, then there was no stopping her.

He wanted to argue. Fuck, he wanted to, badly. He wanted to tell her that Natasha could handle herself, that she'd been doing it for years, that she didn't need Alia to stand beside her like some kind of shield.

He wanted to say that the only thing waiting for them in that room tomorrow was a diplomatic trap. The moment they stepped into that building, they'd be watching more than the signing of a piece of paper. They'd be handing over the last of their freedom, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of them but the idea of who they used to be.

But he didn't.

Because he knew her.

He knew the way her mind worked, the way she carried the weight of people like a second skin. She didn't do it for praise. She didn't do it for recognition. She did it because she felt it, because she had spent too many decades being a weapon that didn't choose, and now that she could choose, she would rather tear herself apart than let someone she loved to face a battle alone.

And maybe that was what scared him the most.

Because he had already lost her once.

Twice.

Too many times to count.

So, instead of arguing the point further, he leaned in and kissed her. Slow, deep, the kind of kiss that carried every unspoken fear, every silent promise in it. His fingers curled into her hair, holding her close, grounding them both in the now, in the real, in the fact that she was here, with him, and not some ghost from the past or shadow of the future.

When she deepened the kiss, he didn't balk. Bucky bit her lower lip instead, relishing briefly in the way she jolted and then melted into him. Still his.

"I'd follow you anywhere, sweetheart. You know that." He murmured against her mouth, already slipping his hands beneath her shirt, flesh and metal tracing her spine, "But you can't ask me to be there, too. Steve..." He trailed off with a grimace. Steve was grieving, right now. And he didn't support any of this, Bucky knew that. And just the same way that Alia did not want to leave the woman she considered a sister out to dry, he also couldn't back a move that would alienate the man he considered a brother.

She knew that. That was why he wasn't surprised, when Alia simply nodded, "I know, James. I understand," She murmured, her breath warm against his mouth, "I will go alone. And I will return here, as soon as it is over. Then we will leave, and go back to Amsterdam. To our little apartment. To our lives."

For as long as they may have them, anyway. It was the best he was going to get.

"And you don't leave Natasha's side for a second," Bucky warned, tightening his grip on her, "Understood?"

She just laughed, and twined her arms around his neck, "I understand, husband."

He groaned. She was not playing fair with that. Because the word husband curled through him, warm, dangerous, and impossible to ignore. Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on her waist as he pulled her flush against him, "You say that like it's nothing," He muttered, his voice rough with something between amusement and frustration, "But you know damn well what it does to me when you talk like that."

Alia tilted her head, a slow, knowing smile playing at the corner of her lips, "I do not think it is nothing," She murmured, her fingers threading through the longer strands of hair at the nape of his neck.

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, "You're impossible."

"And you are predictable."

Bucky rolled his eyes, but there was no real bite to it. He let his hands slide up her back, slipping beneath the fabric of her shirt, fingers mapping the familiar ridges of her spine. She shivered under his touch, just slightly.

He leaned in, pressing his lips to the curve of her jaw, just below her ear, "You better not be flirting with me when we're supposed to be having a serious conversation," He warned.

Alia's fingers tightened in his hair in response to that, "I am always flirting with you. And besides, I am not the one with my hands up your shirt. That would be you."

His mouth curved into a smirk against her skin, the heat of her body seeping into his palms as he traced slow circles along the dip of her lower back, "Yeah, well," Bucky murmured, his breath warm against the delicate shell of her ear, "Maybe I just like reminding you whose ring's on your finger, sweetheart." His teeth grazed the sensitive spot beneath her jaw, eliciting a sharp inhale from her, the kind that told him he'd hit his mark.

Alia arched into him, her grip in his hair tightening just enough to make his pulse kick, "Possessive," She breathed, though there was no reproach in it. Only that dark, knowing amusement that always made his blood run hotter.

"Damn right," He agreed.

She laughed, soft and breathless, but it dissolved into a gasp when his hands slid higher, thumbs brushing the underside of her ribs, "And yet," She managed, voice uneven now, "You are the one who cannot stand the thought of me walking into that room tomorrow without you." Bucky stilled for a fraction of a second, his fingers flexing against her skin as she dragged him right back into the fight.

But he wasn't going to keep her from going if that's what she really wanted. He pressed his forehead to hers again, his voice dropping to something low and rough, "Just come back to me," He said, simple and raw, "That's all I ask."

Alia's expression softened, her fingers loosening in his hair to cradle the back of his head instead. She didn't promise, they'd both learned the hard way how fragile promises could be. But the way she kissed him then, slow and deep and certain, was answer enough.

I will.

Chapter Text

The White Widow

The dress was new, for the occasion.

Dark navy, with a fitted bodice and sleeves that fell just past her elbows. Elegant, but not overly formal. Conservative enough to avoid drawing unnecessary attention, but tailored in a way that still allowed for movement if needed. Not that she anticipated needing it, but one could never be too careful. Especially a Widow.

The Vienna International Centre loomed ahead, all sleek glass and sharp angles, buzzing with diplomats, security personnel, and press. Alia adjusted the strap of her small handbag, which was more of a prop than anything else, and exhaled slowly, centreing herself. She could feel the weight of Bucky's absence like a physical thing, the space beside her too empty, too quiet without his presence.

But she had wanted to be there for her sister, and she wasn't going to back out now.

Natasha was already waiting near the entrance, dressed in a pantsuit that straddled the line between professional and lethal. Her expression was neutral, but Alia caught the way her shoulders relaxed just slightly when their eyes met.

"You came," Natasha said, falling into step beside her as they moved through security.

Alia offered a small, wry smile, "I said I would."

Natasha's gaze flicked over her, assessing, "And Barnes?"

"At the hotel." The words came out clipped, but not unkind, "He did not wish to come."

Natasha hummed, something knowing in the sound, "But you did." Alia didn't answer that. She didn't need to.

The hall inside was already filling, voices layered over one another in a dozen different languages, the air thick with tension and the faint, sterile scent of polished marble. Alia kept her posture relaxed, her hands loose at her sides, but her eyes never stopped moving, tracking exits, identifying potential threats, and marking the faces of those who looked at her a beat too long.

Finally, she glanced over to Natasha, "...Ya ne khotel, chtoby ty v odinochku protivostoyal volkam." (...I did not want you to face the wolves alone.) Alia admitted, softly, gesturing with her chin to the masses of officials starting to fill the room.

Natasha's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile, it was too sharp and too knowing to be that, "Wolves?" She repeated, her voice low, just for the two of them, "I think you're giving them too much credit." She gestured subtly toward the milling officials, her fingers flicking dismissively, "Sheep in suits. They bare their teeth, but they don't know what real fangs look like."

Alia exhaled through her nose, the ghost of amusement tugging at her. She had missed this, admittedly. Missed her.

Natasha's gaze slid sideways, scanning the crowd before landing back on Alia, "You didn't have to come," She said, quieter now, "But I'm glad you did."

Alia didn't respond immediately. Instead, she let her eyes drift over the room again, marking the clusters of diplomats, the way security personnel lingered at the edges, their postures just a fraction too rigid. Then, finally, she glanced back at Natasha, "Neither of us should have to stand alone," She said simply.

Natasha's expression softened, just for a moment, before she nodded once and turned her attention forward.

"—Excuse me, Ms. Romanoff?" A new voice suddenly chirped. Both Widows' heads turned at the exact same time to see a UN staffer standing there, clutching a folio to her chest, "These need your signature." The staffer's eyes shifted from Natasha to Alia, then back to Natasha. Without skipping a beat, the Black Widow reached for the documents and scrawled her signature, the staffer managing a nervous, "Thank you." Before retreating.

"Thanks." Natasha muttered, half-heartedly, after her, before turning to glare at Alia, "God, I can't take you anywhere, can I?"

Alia just raised an eyebrow, "What did I say?"

"Nothing, that's the problem. You could've at least said hello, instead of just staring at them."

"Oh, they did not want to talk to me." She replied dryly, "Besides, the spotlight, that is not for me." Natasha just shook her head and laughed, when a new voice, a male voice, this time, chimed in.

"I suppose none of us are used to the spotlight." He supplied smoothly, stepping up to join them. It wasn't a man Alia recognized, dark-skinned with eyes that seemed worldly. His suit was well-appointed, his hair short and his accent almost as thick as Alia's, though definitely not Russian.

Natasha's lips quirked at that, glancing over at the newcomer, "Oh, well, it's not always so flattering," She said, nudging Alia, who scowled in response, until Natasha finally said, "Alia, this is Prince T'Challa, of Wakanda."

Alia looked him up and down, then, thirty-some years of Red Room etiquette training snapping her to attention, "It is a pleasure, Your Highness."

The man, the Prince, just nodded, "The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Barnes." Alia tried not to look surprise from the recognition, though there was no hiding the way her cheeks pinked a little, hearing her married name, "And, might I say, Miss Romanoff," T'Challa continued, studying Natasha, still, "You seem to be doing alright so far. Considering your last trip to Capitol Hill... I wouldn't think you would be particularly comfortable in this company."

"Well, I'm not." Natasha replied dryly, "Neither is she." Eliciting another scowl from Alia.

T'Challa smiled properly at that, "That alone makes me glad you are both here, Ms. Romanoff, Mrs. Barnes."

That made Natasha raise her eyebrow, "Why? You don't approve of all this?"

"The Accords, yes." T'Challa replied, "The politics, not really. Two people in a room can get more done than a hundred—"

"—Unless you need to move a piano." An older male voice cut in.

"Father." T'Challa murmured deferentially.

T'Challa's father stepped up next to his son, nodding, "Son. Ms. Romanoff. And...?"

"Alia Barnes," Alia supplied softly, "An associate, of the Avengers."

"Ah." That word could have meant everything and nothing coming from a man like this, the sort of man who understood the power he wielded and when to use it. Natasha chose that moment to try to salvage the suddenly awkward moment.

"King T'Chaka," She said, "Please, allow me to apologize for what happened in Nigeria."

"Thank you," The King replied, and Alia was surprised to find genuine gratitude in his voice, "Thank you for agreeing to all this. I'm sad to hear that Captain Rogers will not be joining us today."

"Yes, so am I." Natasha agreed quietly. Alia exhaled, managing to keep her face even as her mind flickered back to the thought of Bucky, alone, in their hotel room.

Thankfully, they were saved by the assembly being called to session. T'Challa turned to leave first, with his father, "That is the future calling. Such a pleasure."

"Thank you." Natasha murmured, watching him go. The echo of heels on polished marble faded as the diplomats funnelled toward the main hall. Alia exhaled slowly, the weight of formality pressing in around her like a too-tight corset.

And yet, she had stood beside Natasha. She had chosen this.

And the prince had called her Mrs. Barnes. It still made her breath catch, because it was a reminder that she wasn't just the White Widow, or an Avenger.

She was someone's wife.

And she had walked into a room full of kings, councilmen, and warriors who had once seen her kind as threats to be contained, and she hadn't flinched.

Natasha nudged her shoulder with a quiet, "Hey." Alia blinked, refocusing.

"You're doing fine," Natasha murmured, low enough that only she could hear, "Stop looking like you're waiting for a sniper round."

Alia exhaled through her nose, a dry smirk tugging at her lips, "Old habits."

"Old ghosts," Natasha corrected, her voice softer now.

They walked in step toward the grand hall, the noise swelling; cameras flashing, voices rising, delegates murmuring, all of it a cacophony she wasn't at all used to. Alia kept her face neutral, but her mind was elsewhere.

Back at the hotel.

The Winter Soldier

The television flickered in the corner of the room, some Austrian news channel babbling in heavily-accented English, accompanying images flashing across the screen. Wide shots of the International Centre, aerial footage of motorcades weaving through the city, sweeping over flags from a hundred nations flapping in the cold spring wind...

Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, fingers steepled under his mouth, his metal arm resting just slightly askew as if it, too, had given up the pretense of pretending to relax.

He'd turned the volume up just enough to fill the silence. Not because he was watching. Not because he cared.

But because the quiet made it too easy to think.

To imagine.

To hear her voice in his head— I will return here as soon as it is over —And wonder if the next time he saw her, if she'd still be his Alia, his wife, or if the world would have already already started chipping away at her again. His real hand flexed, at the thought. Then clenched into a fist that he forced himself to release.

He stood abruptly, pacing a short circuit from the bed to the window and back, his boots heavy on the carpet. Outside, Vienna sprawled beneath an overcast sky, gray and patient, unaware of the storm growing in a listless hotel room on the 12th floor.

He'd tried reading earlier, some battered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo he'd found in the bedside drawer, the spine cracked and various pages dog-eared as if someone before him had also been trying to distract themselves from dread. He hadn't made it past the first chapter before the words had started to blur.

Before tackling it again, he moved over to the suite's coffee machine, going through the motions of brewing a fresh pot. And Bucky had just finished pouring himself a mug, when he heard it.

"...More than 70 people have been injured. At least 12 are dead, including Wakanda's King T'Chaka..."

The coffee cup instantly shattered in Bucky's hands, but he barely noticed the sting of the hot coffee, or the cut of the glass. He just turned to watch at the TV, face etched with terror at the sight of the Vienna International Centre going up in smoke. A bomb. Oh, God, Alia. His wife was there—

"...Officials have released a video of a suspect who they have identified as James Buchanan Barnes, formerly of the Avengers..."

—And then he was horrified to find his own face, blurry, but unmistakeably him, staring back at him. The footage depicted him slipping through an underground car park, hat pulled over his head, but it was him. He'd known his own fucking face anywhere.

"...Motive is presently unknown. Barnes' role among the Avengers is shrouded in secrecy, though he is known to be the purported best friend of Steve Rogers, better known as Captain America..."

Bucky staggered back as if struck, as if he could outrun the news anchor's voice, but he only hit the far wall of the hotel room, instead. Had he— Did someone—

—It was impossible. It was supposed to be impossible. Tony and Bruce had shown them the evidence. The HYDRA programming had been rerouted. Burned out of them.

But what if that wasn't true? What if he'd been activated and he just couldn't remember it? Because, that was him. It looked exactly like him.

Alia... Alia had been at the signing. She'd know. She could tell him if someone had activated him. But his hands shook as he fumbled with his smartphone, and then another terrible thought dawned on him before he could call.

They'd be coming here. The authorities. The joint terrorism task force, whoever. They'd know he was here because Alia was, and their marriage was public record. Would he make her a target by getting in touch?

Without even thinking, Bucky grabbed his duffel, shoved his baseball cap low over his face, and ducked out of the hotel room without another word.

There was one safehouse in Vienna he knew he could go to where nobody would find it. HYDRA had been good at maintaining its boltholes over the years; he'd crashed in this one before, during his year on the run.

A rented flat above a boarded bakery; three rooms, thin walls, and the lingering smell of yeast and rot.

May 22nd, 1989. Where he and Alia had experienced their first real breakdown in programming. The first time they'd really reached for one another, trying desperately to hold on.

But now he knew he needed to stay as far away from his wife as he possibly could. They'd assume she was complicit if she wasn't already. If he'd been activated, after all, then surely she could have been, too. It might even explain why he couldn't remember, if she'd ripped it out of his head again.

It was his worst nightmare come to life before his very eyes.

Bucky didn't bother with hailing a cab.

He ran.

He was still damn good at running, because he'd never really forgotten how.

Chapter Text

The Captain

The wind off the Thames was sharp, carrying the scent of damp stone and the distant tang of diesel. Steve kept his hands in his coat pockets, his shoulders hunched slightly against the chill, though he barely felt it.

The suit he wore still carried the faint scent of roses, Peggy's favourite. He hadn't wanted to take it off after the service, not right away. It felt wrong, somehow, to let go of the last piece of that moment so quickly.

Sharon walked beside him, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. She was quiet, giving him space, but not the kind that felt like abandonment. The kind that said I'm here, whenever you're ready.

He appreciated that more than he could say.

The streets of London were quiet this time of day, the city moving around them in a blur of umbrellas and hurried steps. Steve kept his eyes on the path ahead, but his mind was miles away, again. Back in the past, in a time when the world had been simpler, when Peggy had been young and sharp-tongued and unafraid to tell him when he was being an idiot.

He had spent so long holding on to her memory, carrying it like a relic, a piece of a life he had lost. And now, she was truly gone.

Not just from the world.

From him. He had known this day would come. Had prepared for it, in his own way. But knowing something was coming and living it through it were two completely different things. Sharon glanced at him, her voice soft when she finally spoke, "You okay?"

Steve exhaled, watching the breath curl in the air before him, "Yeah," He replied, though the word felt hollow even as it left his lips, "Just... Thinking."

Sharon nodded, not pressing, "...She would've liked that," She said after a moment, "The service, I mean. The way people remembered her."

"But she would've hated all the fuss." He mused, shaking his head just a little.

"Yeah. She probably would have."

"A lot of people turned out to remember her, though." Steve added, his voice softer now. 'A lot of people' was a gross understatement on his part. Not when nearly the entire British intelligence community, plus a solid handful of remaining S.H.I.E.L.D. alumni, and a handful of World War II veterans had all packed into Saint Luke's Cathedral for the service.

It'd been wall-to-wall bodies, in the pews. If Steve hadn't been asked to be part of Peggy's funeral party, he wasn't even certain that he and Sam would have been able to get seats. Sharon's fingers brushed his sleeve as they turned the corner toward their hotel.

"She would've hated you moping, too," She murmured, her voice edged with the same dry wit Peggy once had.

Steve huffed, shaking his head, "I'm not moping."

"You're brooding, then," Sharon corrected, arching a brow, "Which is maybe worse."

He couldn't argue with that. The weight of the last few days felt like a physical burden on his shoulders. Peggy's casket being lowered into the ground, the way the priest had stumbled over Captain America in the eulogy like it was the only thing worth saying about her. The quiet fury in Sharon's eyes, when some old SSR relic had called Peggy 'a hell of a dame for her time' during the gatherings afterward.

And then, there were the Accords, like a loaded gun being held at his back.

Tony's messages had been piling up in his phone, polite at first, out of respect for his grief. But then they'd become insistent, and then just plain pissed. We need you in Vienna. The world's watching. The team's splitting at the seams. Where the hell are you, Rogers?

And he hadn't answered, not yet. Because the truth was, he didn't know where he stood. Peggy had spent her life fighting for order, for accountability, but she'd also been the one to help build S.H.I.E.L.D. And look how that had turned out.

HYDRA in their walls.

Bucky's entire life taken from him.

Alia's mind scraped raw again and again.

And, Wanda... She hadn't meant to hurt anyone, but now the world saw her as just another killer.

Sharon slowed as they reached the hotel entrance. Her smile turned bashful, "My mom tried to talk me out of enlisting," She said, clearly trying to pull Steve back from those raw thoughts, "But, um, not Aunt Peggy. She bought me my first thigh holster."

"Very practical." Steve answered as they stepped in through the revolving door. Hearing 'Aunt Peggy' out of Sharon's mouth was still a little surreal. Sure, he'd heard her surname thrown around every once in a while when Hill had briefings for them with CIA intelligence after the Triskelion, but he would've never assumed the connection.

In hindsight, he probably should have. He could see echoes of Peggy in the way Sharon effortlessly crossed the opulent, white-marble hotel lobby towards the elevator banks, in the way she carried herself, the pride.

It wasn't exactly a coincidence that they were all staying at the same hotel, the Jumeirah Carlton — The funerary planners had blocked out half the tower for the high-profile attendees in town for Peggy's service. Sharon just smiled at him again as she tapped the elevator call button, "Practical, and stylish," She replied to him, eyes sparkling.

"So the CIA has you stationed over here now?" Steve asked.

"In Berlin," She replied, "With the Joint Terrorism Task Force."

"Right, right. Sounds fun."

"I know, right?"

Steve just nodded his head, a smile playing at his own lips. He was suddenly pretty grateful Sam was back in their room already so he wasn't here attempting to 'wingman' him, a double entendre that had never failed to amuse Tony whenever it had come up—

—Damn him, for thinking of Tony Stark again, and this whole mess they were in.

"I've been meaning to ask you," Steve said, pushing the thought away, "When you were spying on me from across the hall..."

Sharon tipped her head up to watch the descending elevator, "You mean when I was doing my job?" She replied, amused.

Steve bit back a scoff. Fair play. Back then, she'd been a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent too, "Did Peggy know?"

Her expression softened at that, "She kept so many secrets. I didn't want her keeping one from you." The elevator chimed as it arrived, the doors starting to slide open, "Thanks for walking me back."

Before he could think of what to say to that, he was surprised to see Sam stepping out of the elevator, his expression ashen, "Steve," He said, his voice full of relief at having found him, "There's something you've gotta see, man. On the TV. It's all over the news."

One short elevator ride later and all three of them were standing in Steve's double queen suite, with BBC news blaring as Sharon spoke on the phone rapidly.

"...A bomb hidden in a news van ripped through the UN building in Vienna. More than 70 people have been injured. At least 12 are dead, including Wakanda's King T'Chaka..."

"Who's coordinating?" Sharon's voice cut through the anchor's, pacing rapidly in the background as she tried to get a handle on the situation from her end.

"...Officials have released a video of a suspect who they have identified as James Buchanan Barnes, formerly of the Avengers..."

Both Sam and Steve froze up, immediately. The security footage shown on the screen, and it was him. Undeniably. And weren't he and Alia in Vienna for the signing, too, with Natasha? All the while, Sharon muttered quietly into her phone, "Good. They're solid. Forensics?"

"...Okay. Steve," Sam warned, "What the hell is going on? That can't be Bucky, can it?" Steve didn't reply, because he was already fumbling with his own phone, pulling up Bucky's contact, dialling it. It went to voicemail immediately. Steve rubbed his mouth with his free hand, before trying Alia.

The same thing. Neither of them were answering.

"I have to go to work," Sharon cut in then, her expression apologetic as she looked at the two, "I've got the first flight out to Berlin. Are you two—"

"—Yeah. Go, Sharon," Steve managed to say, lowering his phone again, "We'll probably be on the flight right after yours."

She just nodded, and slipped out. The moment the door shut behind her, Sam whirled on him, "You can't get a hold of either of them?"

"No. You don't think..."

Sam just turned and shook his head, his hands on his hips, "I don't know what I think, Steve, but that, that's Bucky, man. It looks just like him." He lifted a hand to point at the television screen.

"Could— Sam, could it be fake?"

"Anything can be fake, Steve." Sam answered, honestly, "But right now, it's real. That's all that matters."

Before Steve could think of something to say to that, his phone rang. N. Romanoff. He picked up before it even finished ringing, "Nat?"

Natasha's voice was clipped, controlled, but beneath it, he could hear the tension, the barely leashed urgency, "Steve. Tell me that you and Sam are watching the news."

"Yeah. We're watching it right now. Putting you on speaker." He held the phone out between himself and Sam and tapped the speaker button so that her next words filled their hotel room.

"Good. Okay." Natasha exhaled, the breath a whoosh of static over the line, before she said, "I'm not entirely convinced that it's him, in the footage."

Sam's head snapped up at that, his eyes locking onto Steve's, "What have you got?" Steve asked, his pulse hammering.

"Well, I know Barnes. The face is a dead ringer, but the rest didn't look right to me. The gait's off. The way he holds his shoulders, it's close, but it might not be him. It's hard to tell." Natasha replied, her voice lowering, "Not saying it means anything, though, if he's..."

She didn't say activated, but both of them knew what she meant. Steve closed his eyes for a second, relief and dread warring in his chest, "And what about Alia—?"

A sigh from Natasha's end, her voice going quieter, "Well, she was with, me at the signing," The Widow muttered, "But after the bomb went off, I lost track of her."

"She could just be spooked," Sam put in, crossing his arms, "Or, she could just be looking for him."

"Yeah, Wilson. You know that, Steve knows that, and I know that. The taskforce doesn't know that. Look—" Natasha sighed again, "—The Accords are law, now, Steve. This is complicated."

"It's actually very simple, Nat," Steve retorted, "Someone's framing him."

"Yeah, maybe someone is. Or maybe someone isn't. But if they are, then they're doing a damn good job of doing it." She answered, her voice suddenly tired, "And from what I've heard, they've already issued a shoot-on-sight order if they resist arrest, Steve. For the both of them."

Sam cursed under his breath, turning away to pace the length of the room. Steve's jaw clenched, "Where are you now?"

"Safe. For the moment." Natasha's tone shifted, "Still at the scene, actually. It's... It's bad here, Steve." She hesitated, before adding, "You both should know this. Stark's moving to Berlin, to link up at taskforce HQ. I only know that because he's sending the quinjet to pick me up."

Both Steve and Sam looked at each other at the same time, then. The same horrible realization dawning in both men.

"Shit," Steve swore, a rarity for him, "Condition Four. Nat, you and I both know what Tony's going to do. If he thinks Buck's the Winter Soldier again, he's going to—"

"—I know." Natasha replied, her voice equally bleak, now, at the thought, "I-I know, Steve. But, he's letting the terrorism taskforce take the lead on bringing in the two of them, for now. The Accords are keeping him in line, too."

The silence in the room was deafening. For now. Those two little words felt like they were carrying the weight of the world. Sam exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"Jesus," He muttered, "Tony wouldn't actually do it, would he?"

"No, Sam, he would do it," Steve cut in, grimly, "He made that promise for a reason. Bucky didn't kill his parents, but the Winter Soldier did. And Buck agreed." Because he knew deep down that the man he thought of as a brother would rather be dead then be someone's weapon all over again.

But they didn't know if he was. And that was all the ambiguity Steve needed, to have hope.

Natasha's silence on the other end of the line, meanwhile, spoke volumes.

Steve finally turned, grabbing his go-bag from the bed with one sharp motion, "Okay. Nat, listen. I need you to stall. Tell Tony we're on our way, but do not let him go after Bucky and Alia without me." He hesitated, before asking, "Have they left the city? Do they know?"

"Steve, you know I can't promise you that. And the taskforce's got reason to believe they're still in Vienna, so they're converging."

"Okay." Steve said, already moving toward the door, Sam right behind him, "Just try, Nat. That's all I ask."

He hung up before she could say anything more. Sam was already pulling up flight times on his phone, "Alright. Next direct flight to Vienna leaves in two hours—"

"—No," Steve said, shoving his phone into his pocket, "We don't have time."

Sam blinked, "You got another idea?"

"Yeah, actually," He admitted, "We call the one person who doesn't answer to the Accords."

He pulled out his phone again, dialling a number he hadn't used in months. It rang twice before a familiar, gruff voice answered.

"Rogers. I heard Carter's service was good."

Steve didn't waste time, "Nick. I need a favour."

"Let me guess. You need a ride." Fury said, dryly, "Because you never just call me to ask how the weather is."

Steve exhaled, "Yeah, a ride. Fastest one you've got. Vienna."

Fury's chuckle was dark. "Oh, I get it now. You're lucky I'm feeling nostalgic. Wheels up in thirty at Heathrow. Don't be late," Before he added, "Oh, and if Barnes really is back in Winter Soldier mode? Kick his ass for me, Rogers."

Steve grimaced, "Yeah, okay, Nick, sure... Thanks."

And just like that, the race was on.

Chapter Text

The Winter Soldier

The faucet dripped now. It hadn't done that back in '89. A slow, maddening rhythm. Plink. Plink. Plink.

Bucky sat on the edge of the bathtub, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed. The porcelain was cold against his bare skin where his shirt had ridden up. His metal hand flexed, the plates shifting with a whisper of hydraulics, too loud in the suffocating quiet of the safehouse.

He didn't remember. He should remember.

The security footage played on a loop behind his eyelids, his own face, his own gait, his own damn arm, carrying the bomb. Walking away. Twelve dead. Twelve. And Alia—

—Where was she?

Had she been there? Had she seen him? Had she known?

A shudder ripped through him. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until colours burst behind his lids.

Did I do it? The question gnawed at him, like a rat in the walls.

He'd checked himself, his gear, for any traces or any signs that he'd actually been behind the attack. But there was nothing. No blood. But that didn't mean anything. He was good. Too good. HYDRA had made sure of that. If he'd been activated, if he'd slipped—

Plink. Plink. Plink.

—Would he even know if he had?

The last time he'd been in this apartment, it had been 1989. The mission where he and the White Widow, Alia, had been ordered to keep quiet; then deviated from that, in order to experience their first real moment of connection. Now, the walls were yellowed with age. The mattress in the other room sagged with decades of neglect. The scent of rotting flour clung to everything. If anyone else had come through here in the years since then, they hadn't taken very good care of this place.

His breath was coming too fast. Too shallow. Panic attack, he recognized immediately. The kind Alia got, sometimes.

Bucky lurched to his feet, stumbling into the main room of the apartment, the same room where, decades earlier, Alia had pressed her forehead to his and whispered, "I know you." Right before she'd dragged them both back under.

Now, the floorboards groaned under his weight, the sound too loud in the hollow dark. He gripped the edge of the rusted kitchen sink, knuckles bone-white, and stared at his own reflection in the grime-streaked window above it. His own face stared back, haunted. Unrecognizable.

Did I do it?

He couldn't tell.

That was the worst part.

He'd spent months piecing himself back together, clawing his way out of the Winter Soldier's shadow before Alia had saved him. Tony and Bruce had sworn the triggers were gone. That the programming was burned out of him. That he was free.

But what if they were wrong?

What if he'd slipped?

What if he'd killed those people and just... Forgotten?

A sound tore from his throat. His fist slammed into the window, glass shattering, the shards biting into his skin. Blood dripped into the sink, swirling in rust-coloured eddies. He barely felt it.

Where's Alia?

Because, if she were dead, if he'd hurt her somehow... The thought sent him reeling. He staggered back, away from the windows, and knocking into the rickety table behind him. The wood splintered under his weight, crashing to the floor in a cloud of dust.

No. Even when the Soldier had been activated, he'd never hurt the Widow. He'd only ever protected her. But then again, hadn't that golden rule been broken when she'd hunted him down in Berlin, in the first place?

God, he was losing it.

He was losing it.

And for the first time in months, he was truly terrified of himself.

Until he felt it. Her. Like a guiding star, he suddenly felt her presence slam into his mind, a mixture of anger and fear and relief surging through him. Alia's emotions, entangling through her psychic bond. She was nearby. She'd known to look here first.

She didn't speak into his head the way she usually did, and he didn't think to reach out. He just... Sunk to his knees, afraid of his own wife, because, what if she was here to force him back into compliance?

Another lick of anger, not his own, shot through him from that. And then, finally, the door to the safehouse (left unlocked, he was so fucking negligent) swung open.

There she stood. Not in the pretty dress she'd left their hotel wearing, the morning of the signing. Instead, she was dressed casually, a hoodie and leggings and sturdy running shoes.

"James," She whispered, dropping next to him, "Ty v poryadke?" (Are you alright?)

He flinched. Not from her voice— God, her voice —But from the sheer force of what came running down that bond of theirs.

Anger. Fear. Relief. And something deeper. Something raw. Hurt.

He couldn't look at her. Couldn't meet her eyes. His breath came in short, uneven bursts, his body still coiled tight with the terror of what he might have done, "Ne," (Don't,) He rasped, his voice barely holding together, "Ne trogay menya, pozhaluysta." (Don't touch me, please.)

Alia didn't listen. Her hands found his face anyway, warm and grounding, and the moment her skin met his, the psychic floodgates opened. Not words. Not memories. Just sheer emotion, a tidal wave of her, crashing into his. Shock. Grief. Love. And beneath it all, righteous fury.

His body shuddered under the weight of it all, "Ya ne znayu, on ya ili net," (I don't know if I'm him or not,) He choked out, his voice breaking and the Russian getting strangled in his throat, "Ya ne pomnyu. Ya ne znayu, pomnyu li ya—" (I don't remember. I don't know if I—)

Her grip tightened.

"I do," His wife said, sharply, practically barking the words at him in English, "You did not do this, James. It was not you, and it was not the Soldier."

He finally looked at her, then, and met her pale gaze. Bucky swallowed hard, his throat tight.

"It was not you, James." Alia repeated, cradling his face in her hands, "You were not there. I did not feel you there. It was not you."

Bucky almost sagged with relief in Alia's arms when she said that. She wasn't lying. He knew that, could feel that. She couldn't lie to him, not really. And if her telepathy hadn't sensed him there at the site of the bombing, then he could trust her word in saying that it really hadn't been him who had orchestrated the attack. But, still, the news report... The footage...

"It looked like me." He finally rasped back, burying his face in her neck, grateful for how she anchored him at the moment, her arms like bands of steel around his torso, now, cradling him, "The bomber looked like me, sweetheart, and I thought I'd been—"

"—No. It was a trick. Or a prosthetic. Or any number of things. James, it was not you. Someone wants the world to think it was you." Alia repeated.

It wasn't me.

The words echoed in his mind, not his own, but hers, threading through the psychic link like a steady pulse. Not a command. Not a manipulation. Just truth, as she saw it. As she felt it.

And he believed her.

God help him, he believed her.

His arms finally moved, slow and uncertain, as they wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, as if he could bury himself in her presence and never come up for air. His metal fingers flexed against her back, testing, grounding. Real. She was real.

And she wasn't afraid of him. That was the part that nearly broke him all over again. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke, "I thought— I thought I'd lost it again." His fingers curled into the fabric of her hoodie, knuckles white, "I thought I'd gone back under, and I wouldn't even know if I had."

Alia's lips pressed to the side of his head, a fleeting, grounding touch, "But you did not." Her voice was quiet, but firm, "It was not you."

He swallowed hard, the weight of the last day and a half pressing down on him like a collapsing building, "Then who the hell was it?" Bucky asked, his voice weak.

"Well, that is the question, is it not?" Alia replied grimly, shaking her head, "We will figure this out, James. We can call Natasha, or Steve—"

"—Can we?" Bucky asked her, bitterly, "Don't tell me you forgot, Alia. Tony promised he'd kill us, if he thought we were re-programmed."

Alia stiffened. So maybe she had put it out of her mind, but Bucky hadn't. He couldn't, not when Tony Stark had made Condition Four abundantly clear to him that day. Not when he knew Tony did it because he still looked at Bucky, and sometimes saw the man who'd murdered his father and strangled his mother.

All the friendly jabs and late night drinks and parties in the world couldn't erase that. Not really.

"Do you truly believe that Steve, or Sam, for that matter, would let Stark execute us?" She asked, honestly.

Bucky didn't answer right away. He let his forehead rest against hers for a moment, breathing her in, letting the warmth of her presence steady the tremors still running through his body. But the fear didn't go away. It just shifted, coiled tighter, waiting.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his jaw tight, his voice low and rough with something like grief, "I don't know what I believe anymore."

His real hand slid from her back to her arm, fingers pressing lightly, as if to reassure himself, she was still there. Still his. Still them.

"I know Steve," Bucky said after a few moments of silence, his voice quieter now, "I know he won't let Tony pull the trigger. Not without trying to talk me down first." His lips twisted, bitter, "And if that doesn't work, Sam'll probably tackle him before he gets the chance."

A flicker of something like amusement crossed Alia's face at that, but it didn't last, because his expression darkened all over again, "But that doesn't mean they'll succeed." He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face, the sting of his split knuckles a sharp reminder of how close he'd come to losing himself again, "Tony's not wrong to be scared of me, Alia. He's not wrong to be angry. I did that to his parents. I killed them."

His wife flinched, just slightly. Not at the words, but at the way he said them, like he was trying to convince himself that he didn't deserve to be forgiven. Bucky shook his head, continuing, "And now this? A bombing, by a guy that looks exactly like me? You think Tony's gonna see that and think, 'Oh, well, maybe it's not him after all?'" His voice turned sharp, bitter, "No. He's gonna see it and think, I told you so."

"You were only the weapon, James. HYDRA is the one who pulled the trigger." Alia murmured, shaking her head. How many times had he heard that phrase in therapy with Doctor Marceau, back at the tower? God only knew. Bucky rubbed his face again and this time, she caught his hands.

Squeezing them, she said, "We will let Steve know where to find us. That is it. And then we shall see what they do with us. If we keep running, James, then they will assume our guilt for us."

He knew that. He fucking knew that. And yet, he still wanted to run. To grab her and flee and just escape this entire nightmare. Go back to their apartment in Amsterdam, back to their quiet lives by the canal— God, their apartment. Interpol was probably tearing it to pieces right now, looking for evidence for a crime he didn't commit. Would they ever get a chance to see it again?

As if sensing his distress, Alia only held him tighter, and he let her. He let her hold him. Let her squeeze his hands like she could anchor him to this moment, to this life, to this fragile, flickering thing they were trying to build together.

But the instinct to run clawed at him from the inside, sharp and insistent.

He knew she was right. Knew that running would only make it worse. That hiding would only feed the fire. That if they disappeared now, Steve would have to believe the worst. That Tony would have to act. That the world would see them as fugitives, not victims.

He knew all of that.

And still, all Bucky wanted to do was pull her into the shadows and never let go. His voice was quiet when he finally spoke, "I just keep thinking... What if this is how it ends for us?"

Alia's grip tightened further at those words.

He didn't look at her. Couldn't, when he whispered, "Not in a fight. Not in some big, dramatic showdown." Bucky's breath hitched, barely noticeable, "Just like this. Me, losing my mind. You, trying to hold me together. And then..." He exhaled, bitter and tired, "Then Tony shows up with his suit and his rage, and I have to choose between letting him kill me or killing him first, because I swear to God, sweetheart, if he hurts you, I will—"

"—Stop. Stop that. Just give me your phone," Alia cut him off, firmly, "Because we do not run from this, James, even if this is the end."

For a second, Bucky just stared at her, his chest tight, his throat working around words that wouldn't come. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the burner phone, the one he'd always kept in his bag, just in case. The one he hadn't had a reason to ever use, yet. He placed it in her palm.

His hands didn't shake. But his voice did, "You call him," He said, "Not me." Because if he heard Steve's voice right now, if he heard the doubt, the hesitation, or God forbid, the fear, he wasn't sure he'd survive it.

Alia's fingers curled around the phone, and just nodded, before kissing his temple, still holding him close as she raised the phone to her ear.

Sam and Steve arrived four hours later.

Chapter Text

The White Widow

The apartment was far too small for four people, Alia observed first.

She sat cross-legged on one of the sagging mattresses, her back pressed to the damp wall, her knees brushing Bucky's thigh where he sat beside her. Steve stood near the window, his posture tight with tension, his eyes scanning the street below. And Sam leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, his gaze flicking between Bucky and the city outside like he expected an ambush at any second.

She didn't blame him. She also didn't blame Sam and Steve for coming in uniform, either. It was smart. Thee weight of this moment pressing down on them all. The air was thick with exhaustion, with fear, with the unspoken truth that none of them were safe. Steve finally turned from the window, his jaw set.

"The taskforce is mobilizing. They've got a full extraction team en route. If we don't move soon, we won't have a choice in how this ends." He said.

Bucky stiffened beside her. Alia didn't look at him. She didn't need to. She felt him, felt the way his pulse spiked, the way his muscles coiled, the way his mind braced for the worst. She reached for her husband's hand without thinking.

He let her take it. Steve's eyes flicked to their joined hands, just for a second. A flicker of something, relief, maybe, passed through his expression before it hardened again, "I believe you," He continued, keeping his voice low, "I do. But that doesn't mean that the world will."

Alia exhaled slowly, "Then what do we do?"

Sam pushed off the wall, his voice quieter than usual, "We buy time. We find proof. We make sure Tony doesn't go full auto-nuke on your asses before we can clear your names."

Bucky's fingers tightened around hers. Alia tilted her head slightly, just enough to catch his eye.

We stay together.

She didn't say it out loud.

She didn't have to. But then, Alia's attention snapped to something the others had yet to identify, and she felt her entire body go cold. A dozen or so individuals, charging up the stairwell to their little sanctuary,  "They are already here." She warned, her voice lowering, "It is a full breach team."

The silence that followed her warning was absolute.

Steve's spine straightened. Sam's breath hitched, his fingers twitching toward the holster at his hip, and Bucky didn't move at all. But she felt it, the way his pulse spiked against her palm, the way his mind sharpened into razor-edged focus.

Then, the first sounds came, confirming what she'd sensed. Boots on the stairwell. Heavy. Methodical.

Too many of them.

Alia's fingers flexed around Bucky's. She didn't need telepathy to know what he was thinking.

We're out of time.

Steve's voice cut through the tension, low and urgent, "They're using the stairwell. Go balcony. Now."

Sam was already moving, yanking the rusted window open with a grunt. Cold morning air rushed in, carrying with it the distant wail of sirens. Bucky didn't let go of her hand. He pulled her up with him, his grip iron-tight, his eyes locked on hers for one fractured second.

Stay close.

She didn't need to hear it to understand.

Then the door exploded inward, and the world erupted into gunfire.

"Schieß die Tür auf!" (Shoot the door!) One of the breaching agents shouted in German. On instinct, everyone moved. Bucky yanked Alia away from the window, the two ducking for cover as Steve ripped the old, tattered rug out from under the approaching hostiles and set him flying.

One of them— Alia recognized them then as EKO Cobra, Austrian tactical agents —Lunged for them both as they tried to reach one of the bedrooms. Bucky didn't even hesitate to let go of her hand, grab the EKO agent with both hands, and throw him straight through the nearest wall.

"Okay, Buck, stop! You're gonna kill someone!" Steve shouted. Alia put a restraining hand on his shoulder and Bucky relaxed, only slightly. Sam took advantage of the chaos and slipped out the open window; Alia could hear the telltale sound of his suit's wings unfolding as he went airborne.

They only had seconds until the next group of agents burst in. Steve had his shield raised by then, though, and deflected the worst of the bullets as they moved through the safehouse towards another exit.

The agents advanced, and then it was Alia's turn to lash out, her power snapping out like an unseen whip to drop one of the agents before he could shoot again, "Did you kill him?" Bucky demanded grimly.

"No. He will not enjoy waking up, however." Alia replied. With the agents outflanked, they were able to move through to the secondary bedroom. Just below the window was the roof of the adjoining building.

Steve jumped first, crashing through the window with the shield to protect him from the worst of the glass. Alia and Bucky didn't hesitate in following. When they landed he reached out to steady her, though she swatted his hand, "Do not worry about me. Worry about not being shot."

"You're my wife, sweetheart. I'm always going t— Who the hell is that?"

That was all Bucky had time to get out before Alia's own senses flared in alarm. A black-suited figure lunged from the top of their building and pounced on him. Alia stumbled back as she was thrown, her powers scrambling to try to get a lock on the new foe, but she couldn't feel him at all. It was like he was being shielded somehow.

Fine. If telepathy was out the window, Alia had other ways to fight. Before she could move, to attempt to pull the mystery man off Bucky, though, the tell-tale whoosh of helicopter blades filled the air, followed by repeated machine gun fire.

Sam and Steve truly hadn't exaggerated on that shoot-to-kill order. Alia was forced to roll into cover instead as Bucky pushed back against his attacker. The bullets from the helicopter simply plinked off the man's suit.

"Sam!" Steve shouted from further down the rooftop, already turning around to get back to Bucky.

The Falcon banked low and sent the chopper spinning off course, breaking the suppressing fire. Bucky broke the hold the black-suited man had him in at the same time, before he ran back over to Alia, grabbed her hand, and they made for the next rooftop, Steve close behind them.

But so was their mystery foe.

"I cannot feel him at all," Alia said to Bucky as they moved across the roof, coming up on an underpass beneath them, "It is like he is invisible to me."

She watched her husband process that grimly, "That's not good. You ever experience that before with anyone?"

"No. Never."

"Well, I guess there's a first time for everything, then." Bucky muttered, right before they hit the underpass.

From there, things devolved into chaos. Their masked pursuer was relentless; no matter how far they went or how many vehicles they moved between, he did not give up the chase.

A motorcyclist came snarling down the road at the fleeing duo, and Alia's power snapped out on instinct. The motorcycle slid to a graceful stop in front of them as the driver slumped over the front, unconscious. Bucky didn't waste time in extracting him (with care) and climbing aboard. Neither did Alia waste time settling in behind him, her arms barely tightening around his waist before they took off down the underpass.

"Where is Steve?" Alia shouted over the rushing wind.

Bucky glanced back behind them, "I'm guessing he's the one driving the four-by-four, considering he's all over the goddamn road!"

Sure enough, Alia turned to look over her shoulder and spotted the vehicle racing behind them, though she could also see their black-masked friend perched atop it, "I do not think he is aware that he has company!"

"Probably not," Bucky agreed, pulling them into a sharp turn just as Sam swooped overhead, going for the mystery attacker. The man flipped deftly out of the way, though, and then latched onto Sam's leg midair. He sighed sharply, "Fuck. Come on, Wilson, get it together..." As Sam tried in vain to kick the attacker from him, the two rapidly losing altitude with the combined weight.

"They are going to crash." Alia panicked. Bucky and Steve must've had the exact same thought, as both the motorcycle and the four-by-four swerved on an intercept for the falling pair. At the last second, though, Sam finally managed to get the attacker to let go.

Only for him to land directly on their motorcycle. The force of the impact flipped the bike, with Alia going one way, and Bucky, another.

The wind was utterly knocked out of her as she landed, hard. Her head spun from the force of the impact, struggling to pull herself up. She could see Steve jumping from the four-by-four's driver side and rushing over to Bucky, who had the black-suited man back on him.

Alia was almost to her feet when Steve pulled the attacker away from Bucky. Before the fight could begin anew, though, the shrill cry of sirens filled the air. To make matters worse, the familiar whine of repulsors followed them, as James Rhodes, Tony's friend, landed in his blue-and-red suit of War Machine armour.

"Stand down, now." He ordered. The remainder of the EKO Cobra squad sent out to kill them now moved in for an arrest.

Alia grunted as one of the EKO Cobra operatives put his knee in her back to force her back to the ground, another doing the same to Bucky across the underpass. She shared a look with him, her powers curling in his mind.

'Do not resist,' she whispered silently, 'we will not win this.'

"Congratulations, Cap." Rhodey said, flatly, "You're a criminal."

The last thing Alia saw before she was hauled into the back of one of EKO's vans was that the masked man had been unmasked.

Prince T'Challa met her eyes momentarily, and they were full of nothing but grief.

And rage.

The prisoner transfer from Vienna to Berlin was a silent affair.

The mixture of EKO agents and counterterrorism taskforce agents all regarded Alia with varying degrees of wariness. She knew better than to try to fight them, though. Not when it would only bring down more trouble upon herself, or worse, Bucky.

After being handcuffed (which felt more for their comfort than her restraint, considering she was certain she could break them if necessary) and left in the van as it drove the agonizing seven hours to Berlin, she could feel Bucky, Sam, and Steve in the other cars around them. It was her husband she focused on, though.

The despair inside of him was palpable. The feeling of being a caged animal, again. She knew it all too well, was feeling it herself. But he had been spiralling before she had, and Alia had the impulse to try to staunch it, like a bleeding wound.

'Don't worry about me', he'd said wordlessly, 'Just take care of yourself'.

'Richer or poorer, sickness or health. We did not say those words for nothing'.

The briefest flicker of amusement, of nostalgia, wavered down their bond. Alia shut her eyes and hung onto that feeling. It helped keep her sane when they finally pulled into Berlin, the sun having long-since set. Each of Alia's arms were taken by taskforce agents, yanking her within their forward base.

She craned her neck to look over her shoulder and saw them doing much the same to Bucky, though pulling him in an opposite way, "No," Alia said, her voice cracking, "He is my husband. Why are you separating us?"

"Orders are to keep you detained separately, ma'am." One of the agents at her arm replied flatly, in heavily accented English.

"Whose orders?"

They did not reply to that. The room they dragged her into was clearly meant for interrogation; a one-way mirror, with a table and two chairs. They left swiftly after, though, leaving Alia to walk the room cautiously before taking a seat, spending her energy mentally mapping the surrounding facility, instead.

She was halfway through trying to discern how many agents were on the second floor when the door finally creaked open again. Another agent entered, and behind him was a blonde woman Alia didn't immediately recognize.

"Sharon Carter," She introduced herself, her voice American, "I'm a friend of Steve's."

Yes, that's right. Sharon. Steve had spoken of her, a few times in passing. Alia nodded, warily, as Sharon lingered at the back of the room. The other agent with her stepped forward, "Are you armed, Mrs. Barnes?"

She had to resist the urge to scoff, "No, I am not armed."

"Then you won't mind if I confirm that?"

Alia stood, spreading her arms defiantly. The agent shuffled forward and performed a rather rigorous pat-down. When he was satisfied that she indeed didn't have any weapons, he nodded for her to take a seat again, and she did, having her flimsy handcuffs removed in the process. She rubbed at her wrists as the agent approached again, carrying a small plastic bag.

"In that case, I'll just need your rings, then." He said, nodding to her hand. She froze at those words, her eyes flicking between the agent and Carter, lingering still in the background.

"What...? No," Alia recoiled from the agent, covering her left hand with her right as if that might do anything, "Do not take them. Why do you need them?"

"It's protocol, Mrs. Barnes. Either you hand them over willingly or we'll have to use force." He replied, not unkindly, at least. Not that it mattered to her. It still felt like an unspeakable cruelty, what he was asking her to give away.

But she didn't hold the power, here. With agonizing slowness, Alia slipped her wedding band and engagement ring from her fingers and handed them to the agent, ignoring the burn in her eyes as she did so.

Alia's red-rimmed eyes instead fell on the man's own wedding ring, "You are married?" She asked him, flatly.

The agent hesitated whilst sliding her own rings into the evidence bag, before replying, "Yeah. Four years, now."

"Then you know why asking me to take them off was wrong."

"It's just... Protocol," The agent repeated, his voice a bit dimmer now as he finally shuffled away.

Sharon Carter detached herself from the back wall once he was gone, uncrossing her arms, "I'm sorry." She said, quietly, "You just can't have anything that could be used as a weapon, right now. I'll see about having them returned to you, after your psych eval is complete."

"Your task force truly believes I could weaponize my wedding rings?" Alia snapped. She was so angry, she barely had time to register Sharon's implication of an upcoming psych evaluation for her. No doubt for Bucky, then, too.

"'My' task force," Sharon replied, carefully, "Believes you're one of the most lethal assassins of the 20th century, and that you could probably kill any one of us just by blinking."

Alia smiled, bloodlessly, "They are not wrong about that, at least."

"And you are not making a strong case for yourself right now..."

"Well, as you Americans often say, 'if the shoe fits'." Alia tapped her fingers on the metal interrogation table before she added, "—You need to contact Doctor Elodie Marceau. She was mine and James' therapist, in America, for close to a year. She will—"

"—The UN's already chosen their own psychiatrist to come in for your psych evals," Sharon cut in, "Doctor Theo Broussard. He's very qualified. And he'll be as fair as he can be, to you both."

Alia sighed, a bit too harshly, "Fine. Then, at least tell Stark to scan our brains, again. We can prove that the neural pathways have been rewritten. That we are not dangerous."

Shaking her head, Sharon crossed her arms again, "I'm sorry, but no. Tony Stark is hands-off on this, Alia. He's letting us do things by the Accord's book, not his. And we don't have experimental brain scans in our playbook."

Somehow, Alia resisted the urge to grit her teeth. Finally, she ceased her tapping, withdrawing her hand to her lap.

"And, let me guess. I cannot see my husband, face-to-face?" She asked, bluntly.

Sharon's smile, at least, was genuine, and sympathetic, "It's protocol, Mrs. Barnes. I'm sorry."

"Protocol. Of course, it is."

"If you want me to tell him anything, though, now's the time. I'm seeing him next."

"There is no need." Alia replied blithely, "We have our own ways to speak."

"Right. The infamous White Widow telepathy." Sharon exhaled, rubbing her forehead for a moment, "You are damn lucky we don't have neural suppression tech here."

Another bloodless smile from Alia, "Yes, I am feeling so fortunate, right now, Agent Carter."

Sharon gave her a look before finally turning to leave, calling over her shoulder, "I will try to get your rings back, I promise. Just... Just sit tight. And play the game, okay?"

Alia twisted her lips at that, and looked away.

She had been playing their games, since she was ten years old. They'd long-since lost their appeal to her.

Chapter Text

The Captain

The hum of fluorescent lights was the only sound in the sterile processing room. Steve sat on the edge of a metal bench, his hands resting on his knees, fingers curling and uncurling in slow, controlled motions. They'd taken the shield.

They'd taken the shield.

It shouldn't have felt like losing a limb. But it did.

Across from him, Sam leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw working like he was grinding his teeth down to dust. His wings had been confiscated the moment they'd been escorted into the facility, too. No negotiation. No explanation beyond standard protocol.

The door hissed open, and Sharon stepped inside, her expression carefully neutral.

Steve straightened automatically, "Where are they?"

"Alia's in holding. Bucky's being prepared for evaluation first." Sharon kept her voice low, her eyes flicking toward the security camera in the corner, "They're treating them like suspects at the moment. Full restraints if necessary. Psych evaluations. Had to take their rings for security reasons, which they weren't very impressed by."

Steve's stomach twisted, not at the idea of his best friend and his girl being forced to surrender their wedding rings. No, it twisted at the idea of restraints. After everything. After all the work they'd done to prove they weren't weapons anymore—

—Sam pushed off the wall, "And what about us?" He asked, shortly.

Sharon exhaled, "You're not under arrest. Yet. But you're definitely benched. Indefinitely."

Steve's fingers dug into his thighs, "We were only trying to help, Sharon."

"It doesn't matter to them." Sharon's voice dropped further, "Look. The bombing in Vienna, the man on the footage, it looked like Bucky. It's everywhere now, and the Accords are international law now. And, after Lagos..." She didn't finish the thought. She didn't need to.

Steve knew. The world wasn't just afraid of HYDRA's ghosts anymore.

It was afraid of them, too. Sam rubbed a hand over his face, "So what's the play here, then?"

"Right now? Hang tight." Sharon replied, nodding for the processing door to be opened, "Tony Stark's arriving shortly. I'm sure he'll want a word."

They were left with just each other for company, then. Hours passed. Sam didn't speak. Neither did Steve. They both knew the reckoning that was slowly coming.

"So. You think Nat is on our side with this?" Sam finally asked, quietly. Steve pressed his lips together at that. He knew how close Sam and Natasha had become over the last two years, a pair of unlikely friends.

Stretching out his legs, he shrugged, "I don't know if Romanoff is ever on a side in these kinds of situations," Steve confessed, quietly, "But she was willing to admit she thinks the video might not be authentic. That's something."

"Yeah. Except I doubt that she's got much pull, here."

"Probably not." Steve agreed, grimly. The two of them looked up as the processing room door slid open with a hydraulic hiss, revealing the sterile white corridor beyond. Sharon stepped aside as two armed security personnel entered, their expressions carefully blank beneath the harsh institutional lighting.

Sharon jerked her head to gesture to the hallway behind her, "Steve. Stark wants a word. Alone."

Steve stood slowly, his muscles coiled with barely restrained tension. The absence of the shield's weight against his back left him unbalanced, like missing a step in the dark, "Guess I'll hold down the fort," Sam muttered, crossing his arms.

The walk to the secure conference room was too long and too quiet.

Steve barely registered the weight of the guards flanking him. Their presence was perfunctory, a formality, but their fingers never strayed far from their sidearms. The facility hummed around them, a low thrum of tension and protocol, the kind of place where every door required clearance, every hallway was monitored, every decision was logged.

Sharon stopped outside a reinforced door, her hand hovering over the biometric scanner, "He's waiting for you."

Steve exhaled through his nose, "Thanks."

The door slid open.

Tony sat at the far end of the conference table, elbows planted on the polished surface, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He wasn't in armour—just a rumpled suit, sleeves rolled up, tie loose. The dark circles under his eyes were stark under the unforgiving overhead lights.

He didn't look up when Steve entered.

The door hissed shut behind him.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Tony leaned back in his chair, arms dropping to his sides.

"Oh, hey, you wanna see something cool?" Tony started, in that usual cavalier tone of his, "I pulled something cool from Dad's archives. Felt timely." He gestured to a slim box sitting before him on the conference table, two pens nestled in the fabric.

Steve manoeuvred around the conference table to sit down across from Tony. He spun the box towards Steve, tapping the open lid, "FDR signed the Lend-Lease bill with these in 1941. Provided support to the Allies when they needed it most."

"Some would say it brought our country closer to war." Steve remarked, quietly.

Tony sat back at that and shrugged, "See? If not for these, you wouldn't be here." Then he sighed through his teeth, "—I'm trying to... What do you call it? That's an olive branch. Is that what you call it?"

Steve exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. The weight of the past few days, or hell, the past few years, even, settled heavy between them, "Tony, we both know this is about Vienna—"

"—Of course it's about Vienna." Tony's voice was sharp, brittle, "It's about Lagos. It's about the Accords. It's about the fact that we're this close to having the world's governments decide they'd rather drop a bunker buster on us than let us step out of line again."

Steve leaned forward, hands flat on the table, "You think I don't know that? You think I wanted any of this?"

"I think you don't care." Tony replied, coolly.

"That's not true, and you know it."

"Then why the hell are you here, Steve?" Tony's chair scraped back as he stood, pacing the length of the room, "You had one job. One. Sign the damn Accords, keep the team together, and play ball. But, no, you had to go rogue. You had to go chasing after Barnes like none of the rest of us mattered."

Steve's fingers curled into fists, "Bucky didn't bomb Vienna."

"You don't know that."

"I do." Steve met Tony's glare head-on, "I know him. And so does Alia. They were framed."

Tony barked a laugh, harsh and humorless, "Oh, great. The murderous telepath vouches for him. That's real comforting."

Steve's voice dropped to a low, dangerous register, "No. You don't get to talk about her like that, Tony. They're your friends. You hosted their goddamn wedding."

Tony froze. For a second, Steve thought he'd gone too far.

Then Tony exhaled, dragging a hand down his face, "Were they my friends, Cap? Yes, but— Condition goddamn Four," He ground out, "If they're back in HYDRA assassin mode, Rogers..."

"Then you'll put them down. I know." Steve said, quietly, "But we don't know that they are."

"And that's what we're trying to find out. Why can't you just let us try and do that?"

Steve sat back in the chair, crossing his arms, "Because this isn't the right way to do it, Tony! Your people took their wedding rings, for God's sake—"

"—Admittedly, that is pretty shitty, but I've been told that it's protocol—"

"—And this could all be resolved by you just scanning their brains again and confirming what you already know is true." Steve continued, raising a challenging eyebrow to Tony. Daring him to do it.

And Tony...

...Tony backed down, "It's not happening, Cap. I am strictly a civilian non-combatant on this, more of an advisor than anything. I'm not authorized to bring my tech in on this, not like that."

"Not authorized... And that's precisely the problem, isn't it?" Steve retorted, "Because the Accords are holding you back from doing the right thing."

Tony finally stood, a bit too fast, "No, you know what your problem is, Rogers? You just can't give up control."

Steve actually had to laugh at that, out loud, "Even you have to admit that's a little rich coming from you, Tony." He said, eyebrows raised incredulously.

"Oh, I wear my hypocrisy proudly, Cap." Tony replied, waving his hand, "You, on the other hand, are currently dressing it up behind moral grandstanding." Then he sighed, and reluctantly, sat back down. He slid the boxed pens over to him, slowly.

"Look. You sign, and I can personally guarantee that Barnes and... Barnes, will be transferred to the custody of the U.S. Government. Ross will take them in, and get them out of here."

That didn't exactly inspire much optimism, in Steve. He'd seen what Ross tended to do with dangerous things. He just threw them away in prison and swallowed the key, "So he can put them in the Raft like he did the Maximoffs?"

"If that's what he thinks is best."

"And what do you think is best?" Steve countered.

The look Tony fixed him with was cold, "I don't think you want to hear the answer to that right now."

"You can't just condemn them to death when we don't even know if they're guilty, Tony!"

"Betting odds right now are that Barnes injured seventy good people. That he took another father from another son. What, exactly, do you want me to do here, Steve? Because right now, my hands are pretty tied, and I'm not exactly inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt."

Steve finally sighed. They weren't getting anywhere with this, the constant back-and-forth, "I don't know." He confessed, "I don't know what I want you to do. Just not this."

Picking up one of the fountain pens, Steve rolled it between his fingers. If Bucky and Alia were sent to the Raft, he'd never forgive himself. But it could buy them time, him and Sam and maybe Natasha, to prove their innocence.

Tony apparently took the sight of him with the pen as an opportunity and crossed his arms, leaning against the glass walls of the conference room.

"So far, nothing's happened that can't be undone," He said, softer now, "If you sign, Steve. We can make the last 24 hours legit. The Barneses get transferred to Ross' custody, and then I'd file a motion to have you and Wanda reinstated..."

That made Steve's head perk up, "Wanda?" He repeated, "What about Wanda?"

"She's fine," Tony replied off-hand, "She's confined to the compound, currently. Her brother and her boyfriend are keeping her company—" Steve's harsh exhale cut Tony off, head shaking with disbelief.

"—Oh, God, Tony! Every time. Every time, I think you can see things the right way..."

"What?" Tony countered hotly, sitting up, "It's 100 acres with a lap pool. It's got a screening room. She's basically having a stay-at-home getaway with her lover boy android. There's worse was to protect people."

Steve scoffed, "Protection? Is that how you see this? This is protection? It's internment, Tony."

"Well, she's not a U.S. citizen—"

"Oh, come on, Tony..."

"—And they don't grant visas to weapons of mass destruction!" Tony retorted hotly as Steve rose, still looking at the antique fountain pen.

"She's a kid," Steve retorted, and finally, Tony snapped. Just a little.

"Look, just give me a break!" He shouted back, before pausing to rub his mouth with his hand, voice lowering, "I'm doing what has to be done, to stave off something worse. Believe it or not, Steve, I'd rather not kill my friends."

Steve just nodded, faintly, "You keep telling yourself that, Tony, and see if it helps you come to a decision." Then he put the pen back in the box, next to its twin, "—I'd hate to break up the set."

The Winter Soldier

The glass containment unit was soundproof.

Bucky knew that the second they'd sealed him inside. No hum of machinery, no distant voices, not even the shuffle of footsteps on concrete. Just the sterile white lights overhead and his own reflection staring back at him from every angle.

They'd taken the ring first.

One agent, broad-shouldered, wedding band glinting on his own finger, had asked politely enough. Bucky had hesitated. Just a second. Just long enough for the man's posture to shift, for the other guards in the room to tense.

Then he'd handed it over without a word spoken. He'd been too busy feeling Alia's own distress, mirroring his own.

The agent had dropped them into a plastic evidence bag like they were contraband.

Then came the restraints, which were worse.

Not handcuffs. No, these were sleek, clinical things — Pressure-sensitive, locking automatically if his pulse spiked too high. They'd fastened them around his wrists, his ankles, the harness over his chest just loose enough to breathe.

Like a dog.

The worst part? He'd let them.

Because that was the game now, wasn't it? Prove you're not a threat. Prove you're not the Winter Soldier.

Prove you're still human.

Bucky flexed his hands, the plates of his prosthetic whirring softly. They hadn't taken the arm, at least. Small mercies.

A door hissed open outside the chamber.

Bucky didn't turn. He kept his eyes on the mirror— One-way glass, observation room behind it, probably half a dozen suits watching his every twitch —And waited.

A man stepped into view. Early fifties, salt-and-pepper hair, a tailored suit that screamed government. He carried a tablet under one arm and a too-polite smile. Something about the way he carried himself made Bucky's senses tingled in recognition, but he couldn't place from where.

He took a seat at a simple steel table set up just outside his containment unit. A few tablets were arranged around him, and after he tapped one, suddenly a cacophony of ambient sound flooded his little glass cage. So he'd disabled the soundproofing.

"Sergeant Barnes, hello." The man greeted him, his German accent impeccable as he settled into the chair, "My name is Doctor Theo Broussard. I've been sent by the United Nations to evaluate you. Do you mind if I sit? Your first name is James, yes?"

He didn't say anything to that, still eyeing this man critically. The doctor continued.

"I'm not here to judge you. I just want to ask you a few questions. Do you know where you are, James?" When he didn't reply to that, the doctor sighed, "I can't help you if you don't talk to me, James—"

"—Only my wife calls me James," He finally said, teeth grinding as he cut the doctor off, "You can call me Bucky."

The doctor, Broussard, made a few notes at that, idle scratchings in his file, "Ah, your wife, yes.... Anatalia, her name is? I will be evaluating her next." Then he leaned forward, locking eyes with Bucky through the glass walls of his cage.

"Bucky, then. So, tell me, Bucky. You've seen and done a great deal, haven't you?"

And Bucky swore that he recognized that hungry look in the doctor's eyes. He just didn't know from where.

Chapter Text

The Captain

Sharon stepped into the office room where Steve, and later, Sam, had both been brought after processing. Nobody seemed quite sure what to do with them; they weren't under arrest, not yet, but they also weren't free to go.

"The receipt for your gear." Sharon finally said, sliding a paper over the office table to the two. Sam looked down at it first, sighing.

"'Bird costume'? Come on..."

She just smirked, "I didn't write it." Before she turned, eyes following where Steve was looking; the monitor that was playing the live feed of Bucky's psychological evaluation with Doctor Theo Broussard.

"Sergeant Barnes, hello. My name is Doctor Theo Broussard. I've been sent by the United Nations to evaluate you. Do you mind if I sit? Your first name is James, yes?"

"Who is this guy, exactly?" Steve asked, rubbing his mouth with his hand.

Sharon glanced over at him, "The UN's chosen psychologist."

"Right."

"I'm not here to judge you. I just want to ask you a few questions. Do you know where you are, James? I can't help you if you don't talk to me, James—"

"—Only my wife calls me James," Bucky finally spoke, and Steve had to hide a smile behind his hand, "You can call me Bucky."

"That's classic Barnes." Sam muttered.

"Ah, your wife, yes.... Anatalia, her name is? I will be evaluating her next. Bucky, then. So, tell me, Bucky. You've seen and done a great deal, haven't you?"

Steve finally looked away from the monitor as the interrogation continued. His eyes fell on the stills of the security footage sitting on the conference table, "Hey, Sam," He muttered, quietly, "Walk with me for a second, here. We spent over a year looking for Buck, right?"

Leaning over the table, Sam nodded, "Yeah. Chasing a damn ghost."

"Right. But in that all time, did he ever let himself get caught by CCTV? Even once?"

Sharon looked over at him, now. Frowning, Sam sat back, "...No," He admitted, "The only footage we ever got of him was from drones. Or from Redwing. What're you saying, exactly, Steve?"

Steve glanced back to the monitor of the interrogation, crossing his arms over his chest, "I'm saying the Winter Soldier doesn't let himself be seen, unless he wants to be seen."

"So you're saying he wanted to be seen?" Sharon asked now, looking down at the still image.

"I'm saying," Steve mused, glancing over at her, "That whoever framed him, wanted him to be seen. Wanted it to be unquestionable."

Sharon's eyes flicked up to his, "But that would just guarantee that we'd catch him." She replied, her voice suddenly thoughtful.

He met her gaze head-on, "Exactly."

"...Oh, shit." Sam breathed.

"Who'd you say this guy was again?" Steve asked, jerking his chin towards the monitor.

The White Widow

The observation room was colder than the cell they'd pulled her from.

Alia stood rigid between two guards, her wrists locked in new, reinforced cuffs. Not the sleek pressure-sensitive restraints they'd put on Bucky, but just old-fashioned steel. For enhanced individuals, they'd said. Standard protocol.

The one-way glass gave her a perfect view of the chamber below. Bucky sat motionless inside it, his back straight, shoulders squared. He hadn't so much as twitched since they'd brought her in. But she didn't need to see his face to know the tension coiled in him. She could feel it, still. A low, simmering pulse through the threadbare psychic bond they'd maintained since Vienna.

Then the door opened.

The man who stepped inside was unremarkable at first glance, middle-aged, well-dressed, the kind of face that blended into a crowd. But the way he moved set every instinct in her body alight.

Alia's breath hitched.

The guards on either side of her tensed. One reached for his sidearm.

She ignored them. Below, Broussard took his seat, arranging his tablets with the quiet confidence of a man who'd done this a thousand times before. When he spoke, his voice filtered through the observation room's speakers, polished, German and professional.

"Sergeant Barnes, hello."

Bucky didn't react.

"My name is Doctor Theo Broussard."

Alia's fingers curled into fists.

'Liar.'

The doctor didn't react, beyond his head tilting just slightly towards the one-way window she was watching from. The gesture was enough to have the hair on the back of her neck standing up.

It was almost like an invitation. Just for her.

She obliged, her invisible power snaking out to take the man's mind into her grasp—

—Alia's eyes widened. No. This wasn't possible. He did not look anything like... 'Ah. Frightened, White Widow?' Zemo replied, his temperament amused, 'I thought fear was something you could not feel.'

Oh, Alia would kill him for that. How easy it would be for her to reach inside his mind and twist—

'—No. Do that, and your husband dies.'

He wasn't bluffing. She could see from the interrogation window the way his finger hovered over one of his tablets. If the electrical warnings posted up around the room were any indication, at the push of a button, Zemo could hit Bucky with enough volts to kill an elephant, much less a super soldier.

And all the while he talked quietly in that false voices to Barnes, prattling on about choices and consequences and other nonsense Alia was currently tuning out in favour of the silent conversation happening beneath.

'Reach out to him and he dies,' Zemo continued in her mind. He knew she was still listening and taking advantage of it. It was unbelievable. It was also classic Zemo, 'Reach out to try and inform any of the others, and he dies. Dig too deep in my mind, and he dies. It is a simple game, Widow. Learn the rules.'

'What do you want?' Alia finally snapped back, her fury difficult to contain. She had to fight to keep from letting her reactions show, lest she tip the guards off that something was amiss.

And she swore she saw a smile tug on that borrowed face.

'To see an empire fall.'

How appropriately vague of him. Alia could feel a deep-seated rage steadily building inside of her. Helmut Zemo was sitting three feet from where she stood now, taunting her husband, and filling her head with poison. And none of the people in this building had a single clue about it except for her.

'You should join me again in Siberia,' Zemo continued, somehow managing to keep both the mental conversation with her and the actual conversation with Bucky simultaneously, 'There are so many more of you there, now, after all.'

'Liar.'

'Am I lying? I suppose you'd have to look, and see...'

No. She would know. They would know, if Zemo had successfully reverse-engineered the HYDRA programming. Stark had said he'd destroyed all trace of their data from Zemo's servers. He couldn't have them anymore. Could he? Through Ultron?

'...Now you are catching on. You are so full of wrath, Widow. Are you not tired of having to play the victim, all the time?'

A part of her knew what Zemo was doing. He was taunting her, riling her up. Triggering her not through words or conditioning but through trauma. Like targeting a pressure point.

And it was working. All it would take was her searching Zemo's mind to see if he was being truthful or not. But she couldn't risk Zemo triggering the cage.

'You can claim that you are different all that you like,' He continued, maintaining both conversations effortlessly, the one aloud to her husband as he tried to psychoanalyze him, and the one just for her, where he tried to break her, 'You and I both know that deep down, the Widow is all you have truly ever had. Now, mission report, February 21st, 1970. Do you recall it?'

She was gritting her teeth, now. The command might not compel her to do anything the way it would have if she was activated, but it didn't stop Alia's mind from conjuring the day just from sheer association. How did Zemo even know of it?

February 21st, 1970. That was the activation where Doctor Zola had woken them both from cryogenic sleep, to study their developing codependency, to needle and poke at them like they were lab rats performing a task. The way he'd made HYDRA's men attack the Soldier, as she watched, ordered by her handler not to intervene, to just sit and watch as they hurt him—

'—But you did intervene, didn't you?' Zemo's thoughts slithered through the memory. She hadn't even realized she'd tied them together enough that he could've witnessed it, too. A side effect of him having once been her handler, she supposed, 'You protected him, your Soldier. You broke compliance to keep him safe. Will you do so again?'

Alia's hands curled into fists.

'Or will you just stand there, ready to comply, and watch, as I bring him to his knees?' His hand hovered too close to the tablets, again. She could feel the impulse in Zemo's head, maybe even before he did. He was going to hurt her husband. She knew that absolutely.

Just the same as she felt from those men, in that room in Siberia, fourty-six years ago. They were going to kill the Soldier.

They were going to kill him, and make her watch. And she had to save him. She had to. She couldn't let him die.

That was what made Alia finally snap. That steel they'd said would keep her contained snapped like plastic. The first guard crumpled before he could even gasp.

Alia's elbow had cracked into his throat with surgical precision, with just enough force to drop him, not enough to kill. The second guard barely had time to fumble for his sidearm before she twisted, driving her knee into his ribs. Bone snapped. He staggered back, choking—

—And then she was moving. The observation window shattered beneath her boot.

Shards of reinforced glass rained down into the chamber below as she vaulted through the gap, her cuffs still locked around her wrists. She landed in a crouch, the impact reverberating up her thighs.

Bucky, the Soldier, was already shouting, "Alia, no. Don't!" Too late. She lunged for Broussard, for Zemo, but the bastard was already moving. His hand slammed down on the tablet as he darted away out of her grasp, slippery as an eel.

The chamber lit up like a lightning storm. The Soldier's body arched violently as electricity ripped through him, his jaw locked in a silent scream. The scent of something burning filled the air.

Alia scrambled for the console, slamming her fist down exactly as Zemo had done in a mad panic to stop it. His pain had rocketed down their bond, the psychic equivalent of being hit by a train, and it did nothing to quell her instability. The arcing electricity ceased and she didn't feel relief. If anything, it only made things worse.

That was when the alarms began to blare. Footsteps pounded in the hallway outside, dozens of them. Armed response. Containment protocol.

But the world, for her, narrowed to the sound of the Soldier's ragged breathing— Thank God, still alive, still breathing, he was still alive, he was still safe —And the flicker of Zemo's smirk as he slipped through the emergency exit.

She took one step to follow, but there then was a deafening crashing sound—

—And metal slammed hard into her ribs, locking around her like a vice. The Soldier's prosthetic arm was hooked around her waist, yanking her back just as the first rubber bullet whizzed past her ear and embedded itself in the wall.

"Hands behind your head! This is your final warning!" A German-lilted voice screamed at them, but Alia barely heard it.

"Sweetheart. Whatever you're doing, you have to stop it." The Soldier growled in her ear. Alia just jerked herself half-free, though the remaining arm banded around her waist even tighter, "Because we need to go. Right now."

"Net, ty ne—" (No, you do not—)

—Another shot grazed her shoulder, making her snarl, "On your knees!" The agent shouted again, "Or we will use lethal force!"

The Soldier swore, dragging her backward toward the shattered remains of the observation window, their only exit.

Alia's vision was swimming with static, now. Zemo's taunts echoed in her skull, still. The way she'd been so scared, thinking that Zola was going to make her watch him die, the only person who had ever looked at her and saw her as something other than an asset...

His flesh-and-blood palm pressed against her sternum, grounding her, "Breathe," He ordered, no, begged her, "Alia, look at me, please. Just look at me, and breathe."

She did. His pupils were blown wide with adrenaline, his lips parted around uneven gasps. The collar of his shirt was singed where the currents had licked at his skin.

And suddenly, she wasn't in Berlin at all.

She was back in Siberia again, watching them drag him back from another wipe. The stench of antiseptic. The whine of voltage coursing through restraints. The way that the Soldier's body had jolted—

—Oh, yes. She remembered it all.

HYDRA's lab coats hadn't been suits. Their instruments hadn't been tablets. But the way they watched, clinical and detached, that was the same. And the Soldier, he was holding her back from keeping him safe. Why was he still holding her back?

Alia twisted in his grip, her elbow driving upward. The Soldier grunted as the blow connected with his ribs, but he still didn't let go, "Alia— Stop!" His voice cracked. The agents were shouting. More weapons leveled. Red dots danced across the Soldier's chest, her forehead, and the wall behind them.

She didn't care. Zemo was getting away.

With a snarl, Alia dropped her weight suddenly, slipping underneath his arm. His fingers grazed her wrist, too slow to catch her, and then she was moving.

The first agent went down with a kick to the knee. The second barely had time to register her before she wrenched his sidearm from its holster and pistol-whipped him across the temple. Blood splattered the tile and she dropped the gun.

The Soldier shouted her name again.

She didn't stop.

Alia vaulted over a toppled chair, sprinting for the door Zemo had disappeared through. More agents poured into the hallway, blocking her path.

No matter. She moved.

A throat crushed under her forearm. A trachea collapsed beneath her palm. Someone fired; the bullet grazed against her bicep, but the pain barely registered. She ripped the rifle from their hands and swung it like a club, sending the shooter spinning towards the floor.

Somewhere behind her, the Soldier was fighting too. She could hear the crack of bone, the thud of bodies hitting the floor, but she didn't turn and look back. The hallway blurred around her. Alia rounded a corner at full speed, and instantly collided with Steve and Sam. Their eyes widened. No armor, no weapons, just Steve's raised hands and Sam's sharp inhale.

"Alia, stop!" Steve barked, stepping forward, "You need to—"

She didn't let him finish. These weren't her friends. This was some sick game of Zemo's, she was sure of it. More masks. More unseen danger.

—Alia's fist snapped out. Steve barely dodged, but she was already pivoting in anticipation of it, her knee driving into Sam's gut before he could react. He doubled over with a pained oof, and Steve lunged, grabbing for her shoulders.

Bad move.

Alia dropped low, sweeping his legs out from under him. Steve hit the ground hard, but rolled with the impact, springing back up, just in time for her elbow to connect with his jaw. His head snapped back.

Sam recovered faster than she expected, tackling her from the side. They crashed into a supply cart, medical equipment scattering across the floor. Alia twisted, driving her heel into his ribs. He gasped, grip loosening—

—And then Steve was there again, arms locking around her from behind.

"Enough!" He growled in her ear. And for a second, she almost listened. Then she heard the Soldier's voice shouting her name down the hall and something inside her broke again, because that was why she'd broken compliance, to protect him, and she wouldn't let anyone else stand in her way of doing that.

With a snarl, Alia slammed her head back. Steve staggered, his grip slipping just enough for her to wrench free. Sam tried to grab her ankle, but she kicked his hand away.

And then she was running again, Zemo's laughter echoing in her skull.

'You see? This is who you are.'

She didn't look back.

Chapter Text

The Captain

The taste of copper filled his mouth from the punch Alia had given him. She had a mean right hook, just like Buck did.

Steve pressed the back of his hand to his split lip, watching the blood smear across his knuckles. Next to him, Sam was still on one knee, cradling his wrist, his fingers already swelling where Alia had kicked them. The surrounding hallway was a wreck.

And then Bucky rounded the corner.

He looked wrecked, too.

His hair was wild, sweat-damp strands clinging to his forehead. His left sleeve was torn at the shoulder, the plates of his prosthetic gleaming under the flickering fluorescent lights. There was blood on his hands, not his own, Steve realized with a sick twist in his gut.

But it was his eyes that made Steve's breath catch.

Wide. Frantic. Terrified.

Bucky's gaze darted between them— Noting Sam's wrist, and Steve's busted lip —Before locking onto the empty stretch of hallway where Alia had vanished. His chest heaved like he'd been running for miles.

For the first time in decades, Steve saw the ghost of the man who'd dragged him out of back alleys as a kid. Desperate, furious and helpless. And trying like hell to do the right thing.

So he felt nothing but relief when Bucky thrust a hand in front of Steve. He took it, letting his best friend pull him to his feet, "What the hell is going on?" Bucky demanded, "What the hell is she doing?"

"I was kinda hoping you'd tell me that, Buck." Steve admitted, wiping his face again.

Bucky's breath just caught as he fought to keep himself calm, "No, I don't know. The doctor was just doing his thing with me, and then she completely lost it on him out of nowhere. Not HYDRA's programming. She'dve listened to me if it was."

Sam sucked in a sharp breath as he pushed himself up with his good hand, wincing as he cradled the injured one against his chest.

"Yeah, you're right about one thing, that wasn't any kind of programming," He ground out, shaking his head, "That was pure fight-or-flight. Seen it a hundred times with vets fresh outta combat zones. Something triggers 'em, and suddenly, they're right back in the shit." His dark eyes flicked to Bucky's face, steady despite the pain.

"Triggered?" Bucky repeated, eyes narrowing.

"You know how it is, I'm sure Marceau's covered it at some point. The brain gets stuck in survival mode. Doesn't matter if the threat's real or not, the body reacts like it is," Sam explained, "Right now, I bet you anything she's running on nothing but seventy years of trauma and survival instinct, thinking she's right back in some HYDRA hellhole."

The words settled like stones in Steve's gut.

Because of course, Sam would know best. Of course, he would. He'd spent years counselling soldiers and fellow veterans through exactly this kind of spiral. The way the past could claw its way into the present, how a scent or a sound could drag you kicking and screaming back into your worst memories.

So Alia wasn't just reacting to some phantom command. She was terrified of something, a threat real or perceived, and was reacting accordingly. And that made her a danger, right now, to herself and to others, "Buck," Steve finally warned, softly, "You need to stop Alia before she gets someone hurt. Or worse."

"You seriously asking me to fight my wife, Steve?" Bucky panted, glancing over at him warily.

"Your wife is currently losing her shit, man," Sam put in again, groaning as he finally pulled himself to his feet, "So, yeah. Go fight your wife. She's not gonna stop unless we can get her out of here and calm her down."

Bucky grit his teeth at that.

Steve reached over and squeezed his shoulder, sympathetically, "I know this isn't ideal. But right now, she's loose in a building full of agents trying to put her down, and she's in full-on survival mode. We need to get her out of here before someone's killed."

"You realize those agents are also trying to put us, down, right?" Bucky snapped. Steve just squeezed a bit harder.

"Unfortunately, yeah. But you're the only match for her," He insisted, quietly, "You get Alia. Sam and I will clear a way out."

"Oh, great." Sam sighed from behind them, still bracing his hands on his knees as he caught his breath, "...Yeah, I'll get right on that, Cap, once I make sure I'm not bleeding internally."

The weight of Bucky's hesitation pressed against Steve's ribs like a physical thing. He could see the war in his best friend's eyes; duty and love tangled into something raw and impossible.

Sam was right. Alia was spiralling. And the agents flooding the facility weren't here to help her.

But Bucky wasn't wrong, either.

Steve had seen the way those agents had looked at them. Like threats, like they monsters. Like the Winter Soldier and the White Widow were just waiting to snap. And now, thanks to Alia, they had all the proof they needed that the two of them were unstable and dangerous, regardless of if it was the truth or not.

"Buck," Steve said, quieter this time, "We don't have time to argue. If we don't move now, this ends with Alia in a body bag or a cell. Or both."

Bucky flinched, "Fine," He bit out, "But we do this my way. No guns. No fighting her, unless we have to. And if anyone tries to put a bullet in her head..." Steve didn't need him to finish.

He squeezed Bucky's shoulder one last time before letting go, "Then they go through us first."

Sam groaned, pushing upright, "Christ, I hate when you two get all noble. Can we at least find my damn wings before the shooting starts?"

Steve almost smiled, "We'll try."

Then the alarms wailed again, closer this time, and the three of them moved. Bucky running one way; Sam and Steve another.

The Winter Soldier

The facility was a maze of locked doors and echoing gunfire.

Bucky moved fast, his boots slamming against the linoleum as he followed the trail of destruction Alia had left in her wake; overturned barricades, shattered glass, the groaning forms of agents slumped against the walls. Not dead, which was something. She was aware enough to know she needed to pull her punches.

Every few steps, another tactical unit spilled into the hallway, rifles raised, shouting orders he didn't bother to listen to. He disarmed the first one with a twist of his wrist, sending the rifle clattering to the floor before driving his elbow into the man's temple. The second got a knee to the gut. The third had a stun baton.

The crackle of electricity hissed past Bucky's ear as he ducked, grabbing the agent's wrist and squeezing until the bone gave way with a sickening pop. The baton dropped. Bucky kicked it down the hall, his breath coming in sharp bursts.

No time. No time.

Alia was getting farther away.

He could hear her; not with his ears, but in the way his ribs ached, the way his pulse hammered against his throat. Their bond was thin, frayed by panic and distance, but it still tugged.

The hallway narrowed ahead of him, emergency lights strobing red across the walls. Bucky rounded the corner—

—And a foot slammed into his ribs.

He barely had time to register the blur of red hair before Natasha Romanoff was on him. Her knee drove toward his gut; he twisted, catching her thigh against his forearm, but she was already pivoting, her elbow cracking against his jaw. Stars burst behind his eyes.

Bucky staggered, catching himself against the wall. Natasha didn't let up.

She lunged again, this time going for his legs. He barely dodged, her boot scraping his shin as he grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved. She flipped midair, landing in a crouch, eyes sharp.

"Natasha— Stop," He growled.

"Can't do that, Barnes." Her voice was calm, even as she adjusted her stance, "You know the rules. Rogue assets get contained."

Asset. The word hit like a punch. Bucky's vision pulsed red, "Don't fucking call me that, Romanoff." He spat, and he moved before he could think, his metal fist swinging. Natasha ducked under it, driving her knuckles into his kidney. Pain flared, but he didn't slow. He just grabbed her wrist, yanking her forward, but she used the momentum to plant both feet against his chest and kick.

They crashed through a supply closet door.

Shelves toppled. Bucky landed hard on his back, Natasha already rolling to her feet. She snatched a fire extinguisher off the wall and swung—

—He caught it with his prosthetic, the metal groaning under the impact. For a second, they were locked there, breathing hard, faces inches apart. Natasha's gaze flickered, "You're not thinking straight right now, Barnes."

"Neither is she," Bucky snarled back, "But it's not the programming, Nat. She's just fucking scared. Come on. You know us. Some part of you knows this is all bullshit."

Natasha's grip tightened on the extinguisher, her knuckles white.

Bucky could see the war in her face, her instincts warring with the orders she'd been given. She wasn't trying to kill him. Not yet. But she would if she thought he was a threat.

But he didn't have time for this.

With a sharp twist, he yanked the extinguisher from her hands and flung it aside. It clattered against the wall, bouncing off a stack of medical crates. Natasha moved instantly, reaching for something at her hip, and yet, he was faster.

His metal hand closed around her wrist before she could draw whatever she was going for. His other hand pressed flat against her collarbone, holding her in place.

"Listen to me," He hissed, his breath ragged, "Alia is not activated. She's not acting on programming. She's just terrified. And if you don't let me go right now, I will go through you."

She didn't answer. Bucky didn't bother to wait for her to decide.

Bucky shoved Natasha back with enough force to send her stumbling into the overturned shelves, medical supplies scattering across the floor with a clatter of plastic and metal. He didn't wait to see if she recovered — He was already moving, boots slamming against the tile as he burst back into the hallway.

The common area he burst into was already in chaos. Overturned tables, shouting agents, the strobing flash of emergency lights casting jagged shadows across the walls.

Bucky barely had time to register the movement to his left before a repulsor blast seared the air past his shoulder, scorching the wall behind him in a burst of sparks.

"Barnes!"

Tony Stark stood twenty feet away, his right arm encased in the gleaming red and gold of a single, detached gauntlet, his expression one of sheer, unadulterated rage. A far cry from the man Bucky had seriously started to consider his friend.

Bucky didn't stop. He lunged forward, dodging the next blast by a hair's breadth as it cratered the floor where he'd just been. Tony snarled, shifting his stance, but it was in vain. Bucky was already inside his guard.

His metal fist connected with Tony's jaw with a sickening crack. The engineer staggered, gauntlet whining as it recalibrated, and Bucky didn't let up. He grabbed Tony's wrist, twisting hard, forcing the repulsor to fire harmlessly into the ceiling.

Smoldering ceiling tiles rained down around them.

Tony spat blood onto the tile, gauntlet sparking where Bucky's grip strained against the servos. His free hand swung—a wild, desperate punch that Bucky caught without thinking. Pain flared as knuckles connected with vibranium, but Tony barely had time to curse before Bucky twisted, slamming him back-first into the wall hard enough to crack plaster.

"Back the fuck off, Stark," Bucky snarled, pressing his forearm against Tony's throat. The gauntlet sputtered against his ribs, its charge building, but he didn't much care.

Tony's lips curled into a bloodied smirk, "Wow. Domestic disputes really bring out the caveman in you, huh?" His voice was strained, but the taunt was clear, "I guess the Winter Soldier's still in there after all."

Bucky's grip tightened. The words dissolved whatever hesitation he might've had in fighting Tony. When it came down to it, Bucky was still the man who had murdered Tony's parents, and that's all he was seeing now when he looked at him.

He hated it. He fucking hated that he couldn't change it. But that was when he felt her.

Faint. Distant.

But unmistakable.

Alia.

Somewhere deeper in the facility, glass shattered. A scream cut short. The psychic hum of her presence, the raw panic, fury, and the terror, pulsed through him like a second heartbeat. Tony must have seen it in his face. His smirk died, "Barnes, wait—" He didn't wait to hear whatever it was that Tony had to say to him.

The security door was already crumpled inward, hinges shrieking as Bucky wrenched it the rest of the way open. The scene beyond was devastation; shattered monitors, sparking wires, and the groaning forms of three more agents slumped against the walls. Blood smeared the tile in dark streaks.

And there, in the centre of the wreckage, stood Alia.

Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her fingers curled into claws at her sides. The white-blonde strands of her hair were matted with sweat, sticking to her forehead. Her pupils were blown wide, her lips parted around silent, frantic words.

She didn't recognize him.

Not yet.

"Alia," Bucky said, stepping forward slowly, hands raised, "Hey. It's me. It's James. It's your husband, sweetheart."

Her head snapped toward him. For a second, he thought she saw him, really saw him. Then her gaze flickered past his shoulder, to the empty space behind him, and her expression twisted.

She lunged for him.

Bucky barely had time to brace before she was on him, her fists driving into his ribs, her knee slamming toward his gut. He caught it against his thigh, grunting as pain radiated up his side.

"Alia, stop!" He grabbed her wrists, forcing them down, "You're not there anymore. You're here. With me."

She snarled, twisting in his grip, then suddenly went limp. Bucky's stomach dropped. Too late, he realized, it was a feint.

Her elbow cracked against his jaw, sending him stumbling back. Blood filled his mouth. Alia didn't hesitate; she drove forward again, her foot hooking behind his knee, trying to take his legs out from under him.

He couldn't keep doing this. He had to get her out of here.

"I'm real sorry about this, sweetheart," Bucky said, quietly, as he caught himself. Steve had said he was the only match for Alia, and he was right, "But I've got no choice."

He moved on instinct. Alia came at him again, fists flying, her movements sharp and desperate, like she was still fighting ghosts. Bucky ducked under her strike, pivoting behind her in a single fluid motion.

She felt the shift a second too late.

His arm wrapped around her waist, yanking her back against his chest. She thrashed, her elbow driving toward his ribs, but he twisted, absorbing the blow before locking his forearm across her throat. Not hard enough to choke, just enough to hold.

She fought harder. Her psychic presence flared in his mind like a storm; raw, unfiltered terror, a thousand fractured memories clawing their way to the surface. He saw flashes, of what was currently running through her mind — Siberia. A cold metal table. The press of hands holding her down. Himself, in danger. God, she was doing all of this trying to save the Soldier...

He gritted his teeth, an idea crossing his mind that he didn't entirely like, but it was the only card he had to play with this shit hand he'd been dealt. If Sam was correct, and she really was stuck in some sort of trauma-induced flashback where she thought she was back with HYDRA, then maybe what he needed to do was play along.

"Otstan', Vdova." (Stand down, Widow.) Bucky whispered against her ear, feeling her struggles lessen immediately, at the familiar title and his harsh Russian, "Nikakoy ugrozy net. Vso v tvoyey golove." (There's no threat. It's all in your head.)

"Net. Ya ne pozvolyu im prichinit' tebe vred, Soldat." (No. I won't let them hurt you, Soldier.) Alia whispered back, and the sheer pain and terror in her voice made his heart sink. Her struggles against his hold started to lessen, though.

It was working, even if he hated that it was, "Nikakoy ugrozy net. Ne zastavlyay menya podchinyat'sya." (There's no threat. Don't make me force compliance.) He felt sick to his stomach, even just saying those words again, but it was a threat that Bucky knew would get through to her in this headspace.

He was right. Alia nearly went slack against him hearing those words, "Pozhaluysta, ne nado." (Please don't.) She breathed, with a desperate edge to her voice that wasn't there before.

"I know. I know. I won't. God, I'd never, never again. I've got you," Bucky said in English, now, stumbling over his words as he held her closer, "I've got you, sweetheart. I've got you."

And then he struck, a precise, controlled blow to the base of her skull.

Her body went limp instantly. Bucky caught her before she hit the ground, keeping her cradled in his arms. Her breathing was steady. Her pulse, under his fingers, was strong.

He exhaled, his chest aching. Alia's face was slack with unconsciousness, her lips slightly parted, her skin pale under the flickering lights.

He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, his thumb lingering against her cheek, "I'm sorry," He murmured again, his voice barely above a whisper, before he hooked one of his arms under her knees and slipped away from the chaos with her cradled to his chest.

Chapter Text

The White Widow

The first thing she registered was the smell. Diesel, damp concrete, and the faint metallic bite of old blood.

Then, the pain.

A dull throb pulsed at the base of her skull, radiating down her spine. Her wrists were secured, not cuffed, but wrapped in thick layers of fabric, some old curtain or bedsheet, tied just tight enough to keep her from lashing out. A precautionary measure.

Voices filtered in through the haze as she started to rouse.

"—can't stay here long. Ross has every agency in Europe looking for us." Steve, low and tense.

"Then we move fast." Bucky. Exhaustion roughened his words, "But not until she's awake."

Sam sighed, "Man, you really married the most high-maintenance woman on the planet, you know that?"

A soft thump, which was Bucky shoving him, probably.

Alia stirred properly, her lashes fluttering as she forced her eyes open.

The warehouse was dim, lit only by a single battery-powered lantern casting long shadows across the rusted shipping containers stacked around them. Steve leaned against one, arms crossed, his uniform streaked with grime. Sam sat on an overturned crate, rubbing his bruised wrist.

She was struck by the most visceral sense of Deja Vu, then — Her waking up much the same in that warehouse outside of Prague one year ago, after Zemo had activated herself and Bucky, then leaving her behind for the others to deal with.

Bucky knelt beside her the second he noticed she was awake, his hands hovering like he wasn't sure if he should touch her. His hair was a mess, his jaw dark with stubble, his eyes red-rimmed with fatigue. For a second, they just stared at each other. Then his voice cracked, "Hey, sweetheart."

Alia swallowed. Her throat felt raw.

"...Did I kill anyone?"

Bucky exhaled, his shoulders sagging slightly, "Not that we know of. But you sure roughed up a hell of a lot of people."

"Including us." Steve said, pushing off the container he was leaning on.

Sam muttered, "Especially us," but there was no real bite to it.

Alia closed her eyes again. The memories weren't lost the way they would've been if she'd been activated. It hadn't been HYDRA programming that had sent her on a rampage; it had been nothing but sheer, unadulterated trauma, the flashbacks triggered in her by Zemo—

—Zemo. Alia's hands curled into fists, "The doctor who was performing your evaluation. He was Zemo." She snarled, her voice rough with exhaustion, "I do not know what sort of technology he used to disguise his face, but it was him."

The silence that followed her words was thick enough to choke on.

Steve went rigid. Sam's head snapped up, his expression sharpening. And Bucky— Bucky's face darkened like a storm rolling in, his metal fingers twitching at his side as if already itching to wrap around Zemo's throat.

"That son of a bitch," Sam muttered, dragging a hand down his face, "Yeah, we figured he was some kind of plant. But Zemo? He was right under our noses the whole damn time?"

Steve's jaw tightened, "It makes sense. He of all people would know exactly how to push your buttons and make it look like you'd gone rogue." His voice was steady, but the undercurrent of fury was unmistakable, "And now the world thinks the Winter Soldier and the White Widow just lost control all over again. He's playing us."

Alia flexed her wrists against the fabric binding them, testing the give. It was secure, but not painful. Bucky noticed the motion and reached out, hesitating for a second before carefully unknotting the restraints. His fingers brushed her skin as he worked, warm and calloused, before he finally drew her into his arms once she was free.

That gesture provoked a certain memory, and Alia withdrew her head, to narrow her eyes at him, "Did you hit me?" Alia deadpanned at Bucky once he let her go. Her husband had the good sense to look a little sheepish at her question.

"Yeah, well, sweetheart... You were scaring the locals." He replied, his ears burning red with embarrassment.

She huffed at that, but still let him wrap his arms back around her, this time gentler, to hold her and not constrain, "And you were scaring me." Bucky admitted, quietly, against her temple.

Alia shut her eyes, tucking her head into the crook of his neck.

"I scared myself." She admitted, "I felt like... I do not know who or what I felt like. Not the Widow. Not entirely. It was something else."

"Don't be too hard on yourself. It's a classic trauma response, just dialled up to 11," Sam put in, crossing his arms, "It's like Steve said, Zemo knew exactly what to say and do to put you in fight or flight, deep. Seen it too often, in some vets. You just lose yourself completely."

Bucky's grip tightened around her, just slightly. Not enough to trap, but just enough to anchor. Alia could feel the steady thrum of his pulse against her cheek, the rise and fall of his chest under her palms.

The memory of it was slick inside of her own skull. She could recall Bucky speaking to her in Russian, breaking through the sheer white noise in her head, but that was the clearest memory she had, of whatever had just happened to her.

She exhaled, slow, letting the tension bleed from her shoulders.

Sam was right. She knew he was right.

But that didn't make the shame any less bitter in Alia's throat. She'd still hurt all those people. Still let herself be manipulated by Zemo into playing right into his hands.

"Zemo... Because he was my handler, before, there is a connection because of it. It is like I am invited, to step into his mind. That is what I did, when I was brought to observe the evaluation. Then, he threatened to kill James," Alia explained, quietly, still keeping herself curled against Bucky, drawing comfort from his familiar presence, "He told me he wished to see an empire fall. And then he invited me to Siberia. He said—"

Alia swallowed, pulling back finally and setting her hands on her knees, "—He claimed to have replicated HYDRA's programming. He said that he had created more Winter Soldiers, to replace the ones we killed."

A heavy silence fell over the room at her words. The exact methods that were used originally by Doctor Zola to condition Bucky, and later Alia, had been lost over the years. It was why handlers like Karpov had struggled to keep the two maintenanced correctly, when they'd been the Soldier and the Widow.

When Banner and Stark had first analyzed their brains one year ago, in order to try to help them break free of their programming, Zemo had stolen those scans intending to reverse-engineering the conditioning once more.

But Stark had destroyed those files in his team's raid of Sokovia. Then again, Ultron had taken all of the Avengers intelligence with him, and he and Zemo had been allies for a time...

"...He may be telling the truth," Alia finally whispered hoarsely, "It is not impossible. The timelines, it would match. Through Ultron, he could have gained access to our data again, from the tower. And he would have had months, since then. He could have done it."

"You really didn't look in his head and see if he was telling the truth?" Sam interjected, his voice shaken but firm.

"He was threatening my husband's life," Alia snapped back, perhaps a bit sharper than she intended, "He said if I pushed too far that he would die. I was not exactly considering all of my options, at the time, Sam."

She hadn't meant to be so harsh with him, and her lips pressed together, more shame flaring through her. Steve's jaw clenched, his fingers flexing at his sides as if already preparing for a fight. Sam muttered a low curse under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face.

Bucky had gone utterly still beside her. Not the stillness of calm. The stillness of a predator catching a scent. His fingers twitched against her back, the faint whir of his prosthetic the only sound in the heavy silence.

Alia didn't need her telepathy, to feel the storm brewing in him. She reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. His grip was almost painful in its intensity when he clutched her back, but she didn't pull away.

Steve broke the silence first, "If Zemo's really managed to recreate the programming..."

"He hasn't." Bucky's voice was rough, edged with something dark, "He's lying. He has to be."

Alia squeezed his hand, "James—"

"—No." His head snapped toward her, eyes burning with a ferocity that made her breath catch, "He's been playing you. Playing us. He wants you to think he's got some fucking army of Winter Soldiers waiting in Siberia because he knows it'll send us running straight into a trap. We have no reason to believe anything he's saying right now. I don't trust a goddamn thing he says."

Sam exhaled sharply, "Barnes has a point. Zemo's whole game has been psychological warfare from the start. Dude literally posed as a therapist, just to mess with your heads. You really think he's not above bluffing about something like this?"

Alia swallowed. She wanted to believe them both. Wanted to cling to the hope that this was just another one of Zemo's twisted mind games.

But... The look in his eyes when he'd provoked her with it. The certainty. The pride.

She shuddered.

"I do not know," She admitted, voice barely above a whisper, "But, is that a risk we are willing to take?

Steve straightened, his shoulders squaring under the weight of it. Sam's expression darkened, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his thigh. And Bucky's grip on her hand tightened, his jaw working silently.

Alia could see the war raging behind his eyes. The part of him that wanted to scream no, to grab her and run as far from Siberia as possible. The part that still remembered the cold, the pain, the endless cycles of blood and ice. But then his gaze flickered to Steve, and she saw the exact moment he made his choice.

Bucky exhaled, slow and ragged, before lifting her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

"Guess we're going back to Siberia to finish this once and for all," He muttered against her skin.

Steve nodded, grim but resolute, "Then we move fast. Before Ross or anyone else catches up to us."

Sam groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face, "Oh, hell. I hated that place the first time around."

Alia didn't laugh. But for the first time since she'd woken up, the ghost of a smile touched her lips. Then she turned to Bucky, her voice low, "We are going to need better coats." A poor attempt of humour that only made his cheek twitch.

"We're gonna need better everything, actually," Sam corrected her, "Interpol's probably got the whole city locked down right now, not to mention JTTF on our asses. We need a way out of the country, and—" He looked at Steve, "—We need our shit back."

The sudden absence of her rings struck Alia like a brand. She toyed with the empty skin of her ring finger, and saw Bucky's eyes drop, "They should not have taken them from us," Alia murmured, gesturing to the now-empty finger on his prosthetic hand. He didn't speak, just nodded in agreement.

It was a foolish thing to fixate on, given the circumstances, but the weight of them had become as much a part of her as the scars on her skin. His jaw tightened, but he didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

Alia reached out, brushing her thumb over the bare metal of his prosthetic ring finger.

We'll get them back.

His gaze met hers, dark and unreadable.

Damn right, we will.

Steve was already moving, jumping into action as he always did, "Sharon already believes us about this being a set-up," He said, pulling out his phone, "She'll get us our gear. Tony won't believe us after what happened at the centre. And Natasha..."

"Yeah, she's undecided," Bucky put in, flatly, "Considering she didn't try half as hard as she probably could have to stop me."

"You fought Natasha?" Alia asked, raising an eyebrow, then. Bucky shrugged.

"She was in my way, sweetheart." He looked over his shoulder at Steve and Sam, who now both had cellphones out, "So, we're on our own?"

"Maybe not," Sam replied, "I know a guy." That was all he said before he stalked away, raising his phone to his ear to start making calls. Steve was busy texting, albeit slowly. She wasn't the only one who struggled with smartphones, sometimes.

The warehouse was quiet again, save for the faint hum of Steve's phone vibrating against his palm and the low murmur of Sam's voice as he spoke into his own phone. The tension hadn't lifted, not really, but it had shifted, like the calm before a storm that no one could quite predict the shape of yet.

Alia let her hand fall from Bucky's prosthetic, her fingers curling loosely in her lap. She stared at the empty space on her ring finger, the pale skin where the band had rested for months.

It wasn't just jewellery.

It was proof.

That she was herself. That she had chosen something, someone, and held on to it, even when the world tried to pull her apart. The loss gnawed at her far more than she'd apparently been willing to admit.

Bucky must have seen the shift in her face because his thumb brushed over her knuckles, grounding.

"We'll get them back," He echoed her earlier promise, and Alia swallowed, nodding once.

Steve exhaled sharply, tucking his phone into his jacket, "Okay, Sharon's got our gear stashed at a safehouse near Tempelhof. She'll meet us there in two hours, but she can't stay long."

"—And Barton's in," Sam called back, "He said he'll go pick up Wanda from house arrest at the compound, and then swing back to get my guy before making their way over here. You think Fury'll give them a lift?"

"Doubt it. Fury's a wild card, but he's not going to touch us with a ten-foot pole again after tonight." Steve replied. When Alia and Bucky both looked at him quizzically, Steve shrugged, "—Fury's the one who got us a flight out of London to come find you. How'd you think we got here so fast?"

"Honestly, Stevie, it wasn't even a question on my mind." Bucky replied flatly. Alia just smiled. It was absurd, really, how even in the middle of chaos, Bucky could still make her want to laugh.

Sam snorted, pocketing his phone, "Yeah, well, lucky for us, Barton's got friends in low places. And by that, I mean he knows a guy with a plane who doesn't ask questions. They'll be fine."

Bucky rolled his eyes, but Alia caught the faintest flicker of gratitude in his expression before he schooled it back into something neutral.

Steve clapped his hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet, "Alright. We move in two hours. Until then—" He hesitated, glancing between them, "—We should rest. Whatever's waiting in Siberia, we're gonna need to be ready for it."

Alia didn't miss the way his gaze lingered on Bucky. The unspoken, especially you hanging in the air.

Bucky's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue.

Sam stretched, groaning as his back popped, "Yeah, rest. Because that's definitely gonna happen." He jabbed a finger at Bucky, "But you. Sleep. Or I'm telling your wife to make you."

Bucky glared, "You're real funny, Wilson."

"I know." He drawled, stepping away.

Alia watched them for a moment, the easy rhythm of their bickering, the way Bucky's shoulders relaxed just a fraction, before she leaned into Bucky's side, her head resting against his shoulder.

"Don't like knowing you've got some kind of bond with Zemo, now." Her husband admitted quietly, pulling her closer.

Exhaling at that, Alia nodded against him, "I do not like it, either, James. But I do not know if I can control it. It is instinct. What they trained me to do, to my handlers."

His breath was warm against her temple as he pressed a kiss there, "Yeah," Bucky said, gruffly, "I know that. If you're going to be in anyone's head, though, sweetheart, it should be mine."

That made her laugh, a little, "Do not worry, James," Alia mused, setting her cheek against his collarbone, "You have nothing to be jealous of."

And then she closed her eyes, and let the steady beat of Bucky's heart drown out the rest of the white noise in her head.

Chapter Text

The Winter Soldier

The Beetle's suspension groaned as Steve took a turn just a little too fast, the tiny car protesting under the weight of three super soldiers (plus one Sam). Bucky's knee was jammed against the door, his metal arm braced on the seat behind Alia's shoulders to keep her from sliding into him every time Steve hit the brakes.

Not that she needed the help.

But he wasn't taking chances, either.

Sam twisted in the passenger seat, squinting at the map on his phone, "Next left, Cap. And for the love of God, slow down. We're not exactly inconspicuous when you're driving like you're in a drag race."