Chapter Text
New York at dawn was a city in limbo—caught between the last shadows of night and the first hesitant streaks of daylight. The streets in this part of town, far from Midtown’s towering wealth, were quiet.
Old brick buildings towered overhead, their facades weathered and stained. The air was thick with the damp, stagnant scent of smog and garbage.
There, in a narrow alley off the Bowery, they found her.
She lay sprawled on the cold pavement, her body limp, one arm awkwardly bent under her. Her dress, elegant but out of place, was rumpled and stained, its lace collar evidence of a time long past. Her blonde hair, pinned in an old-fashioned updo, had come undone in places, loose strands framing her pale face. The scent of whiskey clung to her like a second skin. She was unconscious, lost in whatever stupor had brought her here, unaware of the two men standing over her.
One of them knelt, pressing two fingers to her neck. “She’s alive.” he muttered, voice low and rough. “Lucky, too. Another hour out here, she might not have been.”
His partner, taller and leaner, crossed his arms. “Lucky’s not the right word for it. She’s been dodging us for too long.”
The first agent exhaled sharply and adjusted his grip before lifting her into his arms. She was way lighter than she looked.
He hesitated for a beat, then stood, cradling her against his chest.
“Nick Fury’s gonna want to hear this.”, the second agent said as he turned toward the waiting van. “We finally got her.”
The van was parked at the alley’s entrance, engine idling, back doors open. The agent carrying her stepped inside first, settling her onto a bench seat. The other climbed in behind him, slamming the doors shut with a heavy thud.
The van pulled away, blending into the waking city. A city that had no idea that, in its quietest hour, a ghost from another time had just been taken into custody.
____
Pain.
It was the first thing she registered, sharp and unrelenting, spreading through her limbs like fire. A dull ache pulsed along her shoulders, down her spine, coiling in her wrists and ankles. Her body was twisted into an unnatural position, her hands and feet bound behind her, forcing her into a contorted, agonizing stillness.
Her mind swam, caught in a thick haze. The space around her was cold. A faint buzzing filled the air, and when she forced her eyes open, the harsh glow of overhead neon lights burned into her retinas. She winced, trying to focus, her breath shallow as nausea coiled in her stomach. The stench of alcohol still clung to her, sharp and acrid.
She swallowed hard, trying to piece together where she was. Or more importantly, when she was.
The room was small, walls smooth and metallic, featureless except for a single heavy door that lacked a handle. No windows. No furniture. Just the empty hum of electricity, the artificial light turning everything a sickly shade of white. The air was cool, controlled. Not a prison cell, but something close.
Her pulse quickened. Think. Focus.
Her last memory was the alley. The cold pavement beneath her. Rough hands grabbing her. Darkness swallowing everything.
She inhaled sharply, biting back the instinct to curse aloud. Not the first time you’ve gotten yourself into trouble, idiot.
A sound in the distance made her freeze. Voices—muffled, indistinct. She strained to listen, but the words blurred together, too far away to make sense of. The cadence was familiar, fast, clipped. Maybe English.
Her body ached, a dull throb pulsing through her limbs as she shifted slightly, testing the restraints. The bindings we’re digging into her skin tight and unforgiving. She clenched her jaw.
“M-Merda… Dove sono?!”* she muttered under her breath, voice hoarse, the words barely escaping past her lips.
The sound of her own voice grounded her. The sharp syllables of her native tongue felt like an anchor, something real in the sterile void surrounding her.
She exhaled slowly, steadying her breath. First, she needed to regain her strength. Then, she needed to figure out exactly what kind of mess she had landed in this time.
Before she could think any further, the metallic door rattled, a mechanical clank echoing through the sterile space. Her pulse jumped. She barely had time to tense before it slid open with a smooth, controlled motion.
Boots stepped inside—three pairs, heavy.
From her awkward position on the ground, the first thing she saw was a pair of polished black shoes, followed by two sets of combat boots flanking them. She blinked against the harsh light, her gaze dragging upward, taking in the crisp cut of dark pants, a long coat that brushed just past the knees. Then, the broad shoulders, the straight posture, the strong jawline partially obscured by the shadows cast by the neon glare.
Recognition slammed into her like a punch to the gut.
Nick Fury.
The man studied her for a long moment, expression unreadable, before exhaling through his nose. “You gave us quite the chase,” he said, his voice calm, steady. “But I knew we’d run into each other again.”
She tilted her head slightly, lips twitching. “Didn’t realize I was being hunted.” Her tone was dry, almost amused, despite the pain coiling in her limbs.
Fury let out a quiet chuckle. “You weren’t.” He took a step closer, crouching slightly to meet her gaze. “But you disappeared without a word.”
She arched a brow, shifting against her restraints as much as her position allowed. “If I’m not being hunted, and I’m not your prisoner, then maybe you should untie me.”
Fury’s gaze didn’t waver. “We’ll let you loose,” he said, “if you promise to listen to what I have to say.”
She rolled her eyes, but the truth was, she didn’t have much of a choice. She could barely move, let alone fight. More importantly, she couldn’t activate her powers. At least not like this. Time travel required a certain precision, a fluidity of movement she simply didn’t have right now.
She sighed. “Fine. I’ll listen.”
At a subtle nod from Fury, one of the men moved behind her, working at the bindings. As soon as her wrists were freed, firm hands caught her forearms, keeping her from lashing out or making any sudden moves. Her legs were next, the pressure on her joints finally easing. She bit back a wince as blood rushed back into her limbs, the prickling sensation nearly unbearable.
The grip on her wrists remained tight as she was pulled to her feet. She staggered slightly, her muscles stiff and protesting, but she squared her shoulders and held her head high.
“Come on,” Fury said, already turning toward the door. “Walk with me.”
The agents led her out of the room, down a long, brightly lit corridor. The air smelled of antiseptic and metal, the walls lined with reinforced panels, security cameras positioned discreetly in the corners. This wasn’t just any holding facility, it was something more sophisticated. Governmental. Military, perhaps.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
She kept her expression neutral, taking in every detail as they walked. The further they went, the clearer it became, this was no ordinary interrogation space. The corridor led to another door, which slid open to reveal a room that fit the classic profile of an interrogation chamber. A plain table. Two chairs. A long, dark mirror lining the far wall. The kind of mirror that always had someone watching from the other side.
Fury gestured toward the chair opposite him as he took a seat. “Have a seat, Jane.”
Her jaw tightened. “That’s not my name.”
Fury leaned back slightly, folding his hands together. “You’ve gone by a lot of names,” he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Too many for me to keep track of. You’ve always been Jane to us.”
He held her gaze, waiting for her reaction. She didn’t break. Didn’t flinch.
She just sat down.
And waited.
Fury watched her in silence for a moment, his fingers steepled against the table’s surface. Then, with the same composed demeanor he always carried, he spoke.
“You’re in the year 2017.”
Jane’s stomach tightened. 2017. She let the number settle in her mind. It was always hard to keep track when the years blurred together, but this number felt… distant.
Fury continued, his voice even. “The world isn’t the same place you left behind. It’s a world that’s constantly on the edge of destruction.”
She scoffed, leaning back in her chair. “That’s nothing new.”
He didn’t react to her sarcasm. Instead, he pressed forward, his words precise. “Aliens have attacked this planet more than once. Gods walk among men. There are threats beyond human understanding, and we’ve faced them all.”
Jane frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Fury exhaled sharply, as if he had expected her confusion. “There’s a team, Jane. A team built to handle the threats no one else can. They’re called the Avengers.”
She tilted her head. “Never heard of them.”
His brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t seem surprised. “The Avengers Initiative was created to protect Earth from extraordinary threats—be it enhanced individuals, rogue nations, or, more recently, extraterrestrial invasions.” He leaned forward, his tone firm. “A few years ago, a group of exceptional individuals was brought together under one banner. Super soldiers, assassins, gods, billionaires in metal suits. People who could stand between humanity and annihilation.”
Jane scoffed. “Sounds like a fairy tale.”
Fury’s gaze didn’t waver. “Tell that to the people of New York, who watched an alien invasion rip through their city in 2012. Or to the ones in Sokovia, who saw an entire country lifted into the sky.”
Jane narrowed her eyes. “And what does this have to do with me?”
Fury gave her a look, the kind that told her she already knew the answer. “You know exactly why this concerns you.” He leaned forward slightly. “You were part of a mission once. One of the most important we’ve ever had. You know how I work, Jane. I find extraordinary people and put them where they’re needed.”
She clenched her jaw. “I’m not extraordinary.”
“Not according to the files I have on you.”
His tone was unreadable, but Jane wasn’t in the mood to play his games. She exhaled sharply. “Alright, so what do you want? You dragged me here for a reason.”
Fury didn’t hesitate. “I’m offering you a chance to do something that matters. To be part of something bigger. You could join the Avengers.”
Jane blinked.
Then, before she could stop herself, she burst into laughter.
Fury remained impassive, waiting as she shook her head, amusement dripping from every breath. “You think I want to go back to working for you? That I’d be interested in being part of your little superhero club?” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “I barely made it out of the last time I worked with S.H.I.E.L.D. I have no intention of going back.”
Fury let her words hang in the air for a few moments before responding. “I thought you might say that.” He reached into his coat, pulling out a small device and placing it on the table. With a tap, a projection flickered to life.
An image materialized in front of her—several figures, battle-worn but standing tall. And in the center, a man in a suit of red and gold, his mask retracting to reveal his face.
Her breath caught.
Fury’s voice was steady. “Tony Stark.”
For a second, her mind refused to accept it. The face before her was older, sharper, the weight of the years visible in the faint lines around his eyes. But it was him.
Her hands trembled. A cold wave rushed through her, drowning out every thought.
She looked away abruptly. “I want to leave.”
Fury studied her carefully. Then, after a long pause, he said, “I’ll give you the night to think about it. If you still want to walk away tomorrow, you’ll be free to go.”
Jane rose, her legs unsteady beneath her. The image of Tony burned in her mind, too raw, too much.
“I want to leave.” she repeated, voice quiet but firm.
Fury nodded once. No argument. No pressure.
Jane turned toward the door, ready to leave, but the moment she moved, two firm hands caught her wrists. She barely had time to register the touch before the two agents had already locked a new set of restraints around them. This time, the bindings were in front of her torso—not as restrictive as before, but still tight enough to keep her powers in check.
She inhaled sharply, her muscles tensing. “Seriously?” she muttered, shooting Fury a glare.
“You’re not a prisoner,” Fury said evenly. “But we can’t have you disappearing on us.”
She bit back a sharp remark, choosing instead to clench her jaw as the guards led her out of the interrogation room. Fury didn’t follow this time. He simply watched as she was taken away.
Her new “room” was at least an improvement over the last one. It was small, but functional. Metal walls, a single bed against one side, and at the far end, a minimalistic bathroom with a toilet and a sink. Surelly not hospitable, but at least she wasn’t lying on the floor anymore.
Her gaze drifted to the bed. A metal tray sat atop the thin mattress, holding what looked like a simple meal: some bread, a portion of protein, a glass of water. Irony dripped from the sight. With her hands bound, eating would be damn near impossible.
But what caught her attention wasn’t the meal. It was the small box sitting beside it.
Her brows furrowed as she looked up at the guards. One of them, a tall man with a stoic face, simply nodded toward it. “Fury wanted you to have it. Said you’d be happy to get those back.”
Jane’s chest tightened.
The agents stepped out, locking the door behind them. The sound of the magnetic lock clicking into place echoed through the quiet room.
She lowered herself onto the bed, her movements stiff. With some difficulty, she maneuvered her bound hands enough to pry open the lid of the box.
Inside, neatly stacked, were documents. Passports, identification cards, all under the name Jane Russo. Her S.H.I.E.L.D. alias.
Her breath hitched when she pulled out the first document. A file from the early 1990s, her own face staring back at her. Platinum blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, stormy gray eyes staring at the camera. The same pale skin, the same strange, almost otherworldly presence in her features.
She hadn’t aged. Not really. Every time she traveled, she reset. Her body always returned to the age she had been during her first jump—twenty-five.
And yet, looking at the photo, she could see what had changed. Her hair was longer now. The light in her eyes was dimmer. A weight clung to her that hadn’t been there before.
Her fingers traced the edges of the old documents before she set them aside, reaching deeper into the box. Clothes, a few handwritten notes detailing mission objectives from decades past. And then—
Her breath caught.
A photograph.
A young Tony Stark stood beside her, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. Her head rested against his, a rare moment of closeness frozen in time. He was younger in this picture, no more than twenty-three or twenty-four, his dark eyes filled with the same reckless energy she had once admired.
She had thought she lost this photo decades ago. And yet, here it was, carefully preserved, waiting for her all this time.
Her throat tightened as emotion crashed over her like a tidal wave. Her fingers trembled as she held the picture closer, her vision blurring with unshed tears.
Then, with a sharp breath, she dropped it. The photograph fluttered to the ground, landing face-up against the cold metal floor.
The box followed a second later, its contents spilling haphazardly across the room as she curled in on herself, pressing her hands to her face.
A ragged sob tore from her throat.
She had spent years convincing herself she had moved on. That she had buried the past where it belonged.
But seeing him again—seeing that version of him, untouched by time and unscathed by fate—made her realize the truth.
He was still there. Buried under her skin. Eating her alive.
The sheets were tangled around her legs, twisted and warm from restless sleep. The dim glow of dawn seeped through heavy curtains, casting soft golden streaks along the dark wooden paneling of the room. Jane stirred, her breath slow, deep, as if surfacing from beneath deep waters.
She blinked blearily at her surroundings. The air in the room was thick, carrying the scent of old bourbon and something faintly floral, perhaps perfume, now faded with time.
Her gaze flicked to the mirror embedded in the boiserie to her left. The reflection staring back at her was a mess. Her hair was wild, tangled from sleep, and the dark smudges beneath her eyes were made worse by the remnants of last night’s makeup, streaked and smeared in uneven lines. The deep red of her lipstick had faded, leaving only a trace of color against her otherwise pale lips.
She groaned, rubbing a hand over her face, only to realize she was still wearing her dress from the night before. The fabric clung to her, wrinkled and creased from hours of wear.
You drank too much, again.
The realization came slow, creeping like an unwelcome guest.
Beside her, the bed was empty but not untouched. The sheets on that side were just as tangled, the pillow bore the faint imprint of someone else’s weight. Whoever had been there was gone now, but not long enough for the space to have gone cold.
Her stomach twisted suddenly.
A sharp, searing pain tore through her lower abdomen, deep and all-consuming. A gasp left her lips, her body doubling over as her fingers clutched at her stomach. What—?
It came again. Worse this time.
A deep, nauseating agony that spread downward, toward her thighs.
Her breath hitched. Something was wrong. Something was—
Wetness.
Warm and sticky between her legs.
Her breath turned shallow as panic seized her chest. Her hands trembled as she reached down, fingers brushing against the fabric of her dress—soaked.
And then she lifted her hands, and the world stopped.
Crimson. Thick, fresh, staining her skin in deep, vivid streaks. The scent hit her next—coppery, metallic, overwhelming.
Blood.
It was everywhere.
Seeping through the sheets, pooling beneath her, spreading like ink on parchment. The mattress beneath her felt drenched, warm and sickly damp. The walls seemed to warp, the dim light turning sinister as shadows stretched unnaturally across the room.
A sharp, strangled noise left her throat.
She tried to move, tried to get away from it, but her body felt heavy, pinned down by the weight of something unseen. The air thickened, suffocating.
And then she screamed.
A name, someone’s name, ripped from her lips, desperate and raw.
But she didn’t know who she was calling for.
The world tilted, warped—
Jane jolted awake.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, her chest rising and falling erratically as reality slammed into her.
The cell was dark, cold, sterile. The scent of blood was gone, replaced by the dull, artificial sterility of metal and stale air. But her body was damp with sweat, her clothes clinging to her skin uncomfortably.
For a moment, she just sat there, her mind struggling to reconcile the past and present. The sensation of blood was too real. Too visceral.
A tremor ran through her hands as she instinctively curled inward, her bound wrists pulling against each other. Her knees came up slightly, pressing together as though expecting to find more warmth, more wetness between them.
Nothing.
Just the rough fabric of her dress, the cold press of her skin beneath it.
She exhaled sharply, dragging her fingers through her hair. It was just a dream.
But it didn’t feel like just a dream.
She swallowed, trying to ignore the hammering in her chest. The ache in her arms and shoulders from the restraints hadn’t eased, and the dull pounding in her skull was a reminder of just how much had changed in a matter of hours.
Hours ago, I was in a— what? What did they call them back then? A tavern? A pub? A gin joint? Whatever it was, she had been in London, drowning in alcohol and trying to forget—forget what? Everything? That seemed about right.
Now she was here.
She pressed her head back against the cold wall behind her, staring at the featureless ceiling. Fury says he’ll let me go.
She didn’t believe that. Not really.
But he wouldn’t keep her like this forever. He’d need something from her eventually. And that was what unsettled her most.
When she had spoken to him earlier, she had been so sure of her answer. She wanted no part in anything S.H.I.E.L.D. was tangled up in, no part in anything that involved those so-called Avengers, no part in any of it.
But now?
Now she wasn’t sure anymore.
She was tired. So tired.
Tired of drifting. Tired of never belonging. Tired of waking up in different centuries, different timelines, different places, and never once calling any of them home.
She had spent years numbing the loneliness, drowning herself in whiskey and opium and distractions that never lasted long enough. And now… Now Fury was offering her something she had long since forgotten the taste of. Purpose.
But she also remembered what working for S.H.I.E.L.D. had cost her before. The mission. The years of nightmares that followed.
Her hands flexed against the restraints, the ache in her joints worsening. She forced herself to move, pushing to her feet despite the stiffness in her limbs. Slowly, she made her way toward the sink at the far end of the cell, twisting the faucet with difficulty.
Cold water ran over her wrists, numbing the burning sensation from where the restraints had rubbed her raw.
And if she said yes? If she agreed to this, to them—
What would she do when she saw Tony again? Would she pretend? Could she pretend?
She doubted it.
With a slow breath, Jane turned off the water, shaking the excess droplets from her hands.
She didn’t know if it was night or day. The cell had no windows, no clocks, no way to mark the passage of time.
But she knew one thing.
When Fury returned, saying no would be harder than before.
And she wasn’t sure she could.
____
The office was barely lit, the only illumination coming from the overhead lamp casting a pale glow onto the disorganized stack of papers spread across Nick Fury’s desk.
The file in front of him was old—very old. The paper was yellowed at the edges, worn from years of being shuffled between classified archives. The pages contained fragmented reports, inconsistencies, and observations spanning decades. Decades that Jane Russo, or Ginevra d’Acquaviva, or whatever name she had gone by at the time—shouldn’t have been alive to experience.
SUBJECT: UNCONFIRMED NAME
AGE: UNKNOWN
ABILITIES: TEMPORAL DISPLACEMENT (PRIMARY), TELEKINESIS (UNSTABLE), ELEMENTAL MANIPULATION (UNDEVELOPED), MIND CONTROL (UNDEVELOPED)
Fury sighed and rubbed his temple, his lone eye flicking to one particular sheet buried beneath the others. The ink had faded slightly with time, but the message scrawled across it in sharp, decisive strokes remained clear.
“AVENGER???”
Written in bold red letters, underlined three times, with three thick question marks following it. A note from a different era, back when SHIELD had been whole, before the fall, before Hydra’s corruption had torn them from the inside out.
“Do you really think this is a good idea?”
Maria Hill’s voice was measured, but there was a note of skepticism beneath it. She stood across from him, arms crossed, watching him closely as he flipped through the pages.
Fury took a slow sip from his glass before answering. “Define good idea.”
She exhaled sharply. “After S.H.I.E.L.D. collapsed, most of our resources went into rebuilding what we could. We’ve been operating in the shadows for months. There are more important things to worry about than chasing after a woman who isn’t even reliable.”
Fury leaned back in his chair, leveling her with a look. “Define reliable. ”
Hill’s expression didn’t waver. “She disappeared, Nick. After the mission with Stark, she filed one of the most vague reports I’ve ever read and then vanished. No trace. No explanation. What’s stopping her from doing the exact same thing if we bring her in again? What’s stopping her from disappearing in the middle of a mission?”
Fury didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he ran his fingers along the worn edges of the file before finally closing it with a quiet thump.
“She completed the mission,” he said simply. “That’s all that matters.”
Hill’s lips pressed into a thin line. “How she did it should matter.”
He raised a brow. “You think the world cares about the how ? You think the people walking the streets today—people who have no idea how close they came to not having a future—give a damn about the method? She got the job done. And that’s why she’s sitting in a cell right now instead of God-knows-when, getting drunk in a century she doesn’t belong to.”
Hill shook her head, unconvinced. “She’s dangerous.”
Fury let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “And who exactly do you think I’ve been working with all these years?”
He gestured vaguely toward the room, toward the files, toward the mess that was the world they lived in now. “A group of enhanced individuals, some with egos the size of the moon, some who can barely control themselves, some who started a damn war against each other.” His voice darkened slightly. “We’ve had worse in the ranks, Hill.”
Maria Hill exhaled, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Even if you could trust her, she’s nowhere near ready. If these reports are anything to go by, she’s barely scratching the surface of what she can do. Her telekinesis is unstable. Her elemental abilities are almost nonexistent. The only thing she has a full grip on is time travel.”
Fury nodded. “So she needs training.”
“She needs a lot of training,” Hill corrected. “A hell of a lot.”
Fury took another sip from his glass before setting it down with a quiet clink. “Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve put someone through the wringer to unlock their full potential.”
Hill frowned, considering his words. “And you’re convinced she’ll say yes?”
A slow smirk pulled at the corner of Fury’s mouth. “No.”
Hill blinked, caught off guard by the admission.
“I’m not convinced she’ll say yes,” he admitted. “But I know something’s eating at her.”
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. “I saw her face when I said Stark’s name. She tried to hide it, but I caught it, just for a second.”
Hill frowned. “And you think that’s enough?”
“I think she’ll want to see him again.” Fury’s voice was calm, certain. “And that is something I can work with.”
Hill didn’t reply immediately. Her gaze flickered to the file on the desk, to the notes scribbled along the margins. The uncertainty in Jane’s past. The unexplored potential of her abilities. The sheer anomaly that she was.
Finally, she let out a breath and shook her head. “You’re betting a lot on this, Nick.”
Fury smiled again, more visibly this time. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
*= S-Shit… Where am I?!
Notes:
Hey everyone! This is my first time writing a fanfiction set in the Avengers universe, but this story has been in my head for a long time, and I finally decided to bring it to life. It took me so long to start because, as I envisioned it, this is going to be a long and complex story, spanning from the aftermath of Civil War all the way to well beyond Endgame. That’s a huge timeframe to cover, and I want to do it justice.
I’ve always been a huge fan of slow burn, and this story will definitely follow that structure. Relationships will develop, but they will take time—I want to build Jane’s character properly, as well as her interactions with the rest of the Avengers, before diving into anything too fast. Slow burns are my favorite because they allow you to truly connect with a character, to grow with them, and to feel every step of the journey. This will be a long story, carefully unfolding chapter by chapter, so if you decide to stick with me, know that I’m committed to making it as engaging and satisfying as possible.
That being said, I know that the beginning might feel like the biggest hurdle—I want to take the time to introduce Jane properly and establish how she fits into the Avengers universe. But once we get past that initial setup, I promise the romantic plotlines will begin to unfold. So if you’re here for the emotional tension and the slow burn romance, hang in there! Once we cross that first bridge, it will all start coming together, and I think you’ll enjoy the payoff.
Also, a quick note—English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes! I’ll do my best to keep everything polished, but if you notice any errors, I appreciate your patience.
I’ll try to post at least a couple of chapters per week, and if time allows, maybe even more. I really hope you enjoy this journey with me!
Thank you for reading, and see you in the next chapter! ❤️
Chapter Text
Jane lay still, her body curled under the thin, scratchy sheet, staring across the room. The air was frigid, the kind of cold that seeped into the bones, making every movement feel sluggish. Around her, rows of metal-framed bunk beds stretched into the darkness, the stark military-like dormitory devoid of any warmth or comfort.
A battered clock hung on the far wall, its red digits glowing in the semi-darkness. 5:57 AM.
Three minutes.
She knew exactly what was coming.
They wanted her to know. Wanted her to anticipate it. Wanted her to feel the weight of inevitability pressing down on her every single morning.
She could already hear the distant hum of machinery in the walls, the subtle changes in pressure signaling the facility waking up. The cold was unbearable, her muscles stiff from exhaustion, her joints aching from yet another restless night.
Jane wasn’t sure how long she had been here. Six, seven months? Maybe more. Time had lost meaning in a place where the days blurred into each other, where there were no windows, no way to track the passage of weeks or seasons beyond the unrelenting cold. Wherever they were, it sure as hell wasn’t the United States. Not anymore. Not for what that was worth.
Her body screamed at her to stay under the covers, to steal another few moments of stillness before the chaos began. But she also knew the consequences. Staying in bed when the moment arrived would only make things worse. More difficult. More painful.
And then—
The alarm exploded through the room.
A high-pitched, piercing wail that drove into her skull like a knife, making her recoil instinctively. The sheer force of the sound sent sharp pain ricocheting through her temples. Her breath hitched as she bolted upright, forcing herself into motion.
The noise would only get worse. She had sixty seconds before it increased in frequency, drilling deeper, setting every nerve in her body on fire.
Jane ripped the sheet away, her bare feet hitting the icy floor. The rush of cold sent another jolt through her system, but she ignored it, reaching for the black suit folded neatly at the foot of her bed. It wasn’t standard military gear—nothing like the rigid uniforms of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents she remembered. No, this was something else. A sleek, elastic material that clung to her like a second skin, flexible but reinforced in ways she couldn’t quite understand.
She barely had time to zip it up before the alarm ratcheted up a notch.
The pressure in her skull increased, the sound becoming unbearable. It clawed at her mind, relentless. Move. Faster.
She staggered toward the heavy door at the far end of the dormitory—the only exit. It loomed ahead, an unyielding slab of reinforced steel, cold and impenetrable. She reached it, her breath coming fast, her fingers twitching at her sides.
But she couldn’t touch it. That was the point. The alarm would only stop when she opened the door, but without her hands.
She exhaled sharply, her pulse hammering in her ears. This was the real test. The one she had failed, over and over, in those first weeks.
They had told her from the beginning: The gestures are a crutch. Your power comes from within.
She had spent years guiding her abilities with deliberate motions: her hands, her arms, her entire body working in sync with her intent. It wasn’t just instinct; it was how she controlled it, how she had learned to keep from tearing the world apart when she didn’t mean to.
And now they wanted her to unlearn everything.
Jane’s jaw clenched. Idiots. They acted like they understood her powers better than she did. Like they knew what she was capable of.
And yet, she hadn’t left.
She could have run. Could have tried. Seven months in this hell, and she still hadn’t made a move to escape. Why?
She shoved the thought aside and focused. The door trembled slightly. Good.
The alarm grew louder, a shrill, agonizing screech that made her vision blur. She gritted her teeth, don’t move your hands , don’t give them the satisfaction—
The door shuddered but didn’t open.
Sixty seconds had passed. The sound spiked. White-hot pain lanced through her skull. Damn it.
Her fingers twitched involuntarily, and with the smallest movement—just the barest flick of her left hand—the door wrenched open.
The alarm cut off instantly, leaving a painful ringing in her ears.
Jane exhaled, chest rising and falling with the force of her breath. Almost. She had almost done it without moving her hands. Not quite. But closer.
The cold hit her immediately as she stepped through the doorway, a biting wind rushing down the narrow corridor beyond. And, as always, he was there waiting.
He stood with his arms crossed. Barton.
She wasn’t sure if that was his real name, but it was the only one he gave. She didn’t know who he really was, only that he was fast, precise, and relentless. He had been her shadow since the beginning. Her handler, her tormentor, her only link to the outside world.
Barton looked to be in his forties, though he still moved with the sharpness and precision of someone half his age. Years of combat had left their mark. Not in the way he carried himself, still athletic and controlled, but in the lines etched around his sharp blue eyes, in the slight stiffness of old injuries. His short, dark brown hair was slightly unkempt, a few strands of gray catching in the dim light. He wasn’t the kind of man who demanded attention, but there was a quiet intensity about him, a sense of someone who had seen too much and survived anyway.
He smirked faintly. “Eighty-three seconds. Better than yesterday’s eighty-eight.”
Jane shot him a glare, her head still pounding, her body aching from exhaustion. She hated his voice, hated his face, hated the way he seemed to enjoy watching her going through this endless cycle of torment.
But deep down—though she’d never admit it—she felt it too. The smallest sliver of satisfaction. Because this was working. The training, the torture… It was working. She was getting stronger.
Jane had thought about that moment many times. The moment she said yes to Fury. And even now, months later, she still didn’t fully understand why she had done it.
And yet, she knew she wouldn’t take it back.
She had never been the type to look back, to question a decision once it was made. No matter how much it tormented her, no matter how much it made her suffer. Once a choice was made, it was made.
Now, she was here. And she would see it through.
Time wasn’t a concern for her. She had all the time in the world. Years. Decades. Centuries, even.
Behind Barton, two doors loomed. One she ignored. The bathroom. She wouldn’t be allowed to use it until at least noon. Maybe later. It wasn’t even worth thinking about. No, what mattered was the other door, the one that led to the next stage.
She knew what waited beyond it. But before she could move toward it, Barton struck.
Jane barely had time to react before he lunged, his fist slamming into her ribs, knocking the air from her lungs. She staggered, pain flaring through her side, but she had no time to recover. Another blow came, a brutal punch to her shoulder, sending her reeling backward.
He didn’t hold back. He never did. This wasn’t training in the way she’d always imagined it. No disciplined techniques, no structured martial arts. Just raw aggression.
Jane had never been trained in combat. Not like this. And it showed.
For the first stretch of their fights, she had done nothing but take the hits. Bruises lined her ribs, her arms, her legs—proof that she had been on the losing side every single morning.
But she had grown tired of being hit.
The moment his next strike came, something inside her shifted.
She ducked.
He swung wide, expecting her to take the blow as usual, but she wasn’t there. Her body reacted before she even processed it, instinct guiding her now.
Her hand shot out, just once, and she landed a punch of her own, square against his ribs.
It barely moved him.
He smirked. “Better.”
Then he drove his knee into her stomach.
Jane gasped, the force of the blow folding her forward. Her vision blurred, her body screaming in pain. But she wasn’t done. Not yet.
She had never been trained to fight. But she had been born with something far more dangerous.
She reached out, not with her hands, but with her mind.
Barton’s body lurched backward, an invisible force slamming into his chest and sending him stumbling. His smirk vanished.
Jane straightened, breathing heavily. Her body ached. Her muscles screamed. But she was still standing.
The fight went on for minutes. L ong minutes.
Time became meaningless as they clashed again and again. She fought with her fists when she could, but her real strength came from the power beneath her skin. The air crackled with energy as she hurled him backward, immobilized him, slammed him against the cold concrete.
Then, suddenly, something snapped. Her vision flashed white.
Barton’s body lifted off the ground, far too high. And then, without warning, he was sent hurtling across the room, smashing into the far wall with a brutal thud.
The fight was over.
Jane exhaled sharply, her body trembling from exertion. The door to the next phase unlocked.
Barton groaned as he pushed himself to his feet. He was slower than usual, but he still tried to mask it. Seven months. Every morning, they did this. And every morning, Jane had gotten stronger.
Without a word, they moved forward. The hallway beyond was even colder, the air biting through her thin suit. It wasn’t heated like the dorms, not even close. She exhaled, watching her breath turn to mist as they walked.
At the end of the corridor, the final door waited.
Inside, five people stood by the walls: observers, not participants. They weren’t here for her. They were here to document.
She barely spared them a glance. Her focus was on the room itself.
Buckets of water lined one side. On another, potted plants , tiny and delicate in their ceramic vases. Against the farthest wall, a fireplace crackled, flames dancing in the dim light.
She already knew the test.
Step one: The water.
She stepped forward, eyes locked on the buckets. This was the easiest for her. Water had always answered her call.
The moment she focused, the liquid rose.
She lifted it without her hands. No movements. Just will.
The water twisted in the air, shifting form before instantly freezing. Razor-sharp shards hovered before her, suspended like deadly blades.
With a flick of her eyes, she sent them forward. The ice spears impaled the lined-up training dummies across the room. Direct hits.
Step one: Complete.
She moved on.
The plants.
Earth wasn’t as natural to her, but it was still connected to water. She hovered her hands over them, her fingers itching to move, but she fought it.
The pots shook.
Cracks splintered through the clay pots, and then, suddenly, roots burst free. The plants grew. Expanded. Vines climbed up the walls, taking over.
Jane smirked then flicked her focus toward one of the five observers.
A vine lashed out, grabbing his wrist and yanking him upward.
The man yelped, flailing as he was lifted off the ground. His feet dangled two meters above the floor, panic flashing across his face. Jane felt Barton’s gaze on her before he even spoke.
“ Let him go, Russo. ”
She smiled. Then, with deliberate slowness, the vine uncurled.
The observer dropped, landing with a harsh thud. He groaned, but Jane was already turning toward the final trial.
The fire.
It roared, hungry and relentless, licking at the walls, devouring the air around her. Heat pressed against her skin, beads of sweat sliding down her spine as the flames danced and snapped, threatening to consume everything.
This was the part that always broke her. The moment when exhaustion clawed at her muscles, when doubt whispered in her ear, telling her she couldn’t do it. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts, her body trembling from exertion. But she had to push through.
She had to extinguish the flames.
Not with water. With air.
She forced herself to focus, to drown out the pounding of her heart, the dizziness clouding her mind. Breathe. That’s what Barton always told her. You lose control when you stop breathing.
So she inhaled deeply, feeling the energy stir beneath her skin, a pulse of something old and untamed waking inside her. It responded to her desperation, to her need. The fire crackled, embers spiraling into the air, but she stood firm, planting her feet as if grounding herself to the earth could anchor the power inside her.
It’s working.
A flicker of movement, something deep in her core shifted, like a pressure valve finally turning. She could feel it now, the way the air bent and coiled around her fingertips, waiting for release. The flames surged, as if mocking her efforts, but she clenched her jaw and pushed harder, willing the oxygen to move, to shift, to bend to her will.
Then, with one final push—
A gust of wind erupted outward, fierce and sudden.
The fire snapped and vanished , swallowed whole by the force of the wind. Ash swirled in the air, the lingering heat pressing against her skin before fading into nothing.
For the first time in seven months , she did it.
Her chest heaved, muscles screaming in protest, but she turned to Barton anyway, expecting something. Approval, acknowledgment, even the faintest flicker of recognition in his sharp blue eyes.
But his face remained unreadable.
His voice cut through the silence, cool and measured. “Again.”
Her stomach twisted. She had to reignite the fire.
Jane stood frozen, staring into the dark hearth where only a moment ago, flames had been completely extinguished. The room still smelled of scorched air, of ozone and something else, something raw and primal.
She had done it. She had finally done it.
But it wasn’t over.
She had never reached this stage before, had never been able to extinguish the flames fully, so she had never attempted the next step: reigniting the fire.
Her pulse pounded in her ears as she swallowed back the mounting dread clawing at her chest. She knew this was the hardest test of all. If manipulating air had taken every ounce of her concentration, controlling fire— creating fire —was something else entirely.
Jane clenched her fists at her sides. Her muscles ached, exhaustion pulling at her limbs, but she had no choice. If she failed, it meant another day of this same endless torment. Another morning of pain, of repetition, of Barton standing there watching her struggle, impassive.
She wouldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t.
Drawing in a slow breath, she focused on the dead embers. Nothing stirred. No movement, no warmth, only the ghost of a fire long since extinguished. She didn’t even know where to pull the energy from, how to summon something that had never once obeyed her call.
Come on. Come on.
Her jaw tightened as she pushed harder. Reached deeper.
And then—
A flicker. Tiny, weak, but there. A single spark danced across the ash before vanishing. She nearly gasped aloud. It was happening.
Her heartbeat surged. She gritted her teeth and willed the spark to grow, to catch onto something—anything. The tips of her fingers tingled as warmth began to coil within her, something unfamiliar yet instinctive, like it had always been buried there, waiting for the right moment.
Another flicker. Then another.
Her vision blurred, the room seeming to tilt, a strange energy building within her that she couldn’t quite contain. Her breath quickened. The flickers became flames, crawling hungrily up the wood, twisting and crackling with unnatural speed—
And then her eyes flashed white.
A surge of heat erupted from her core, from somewhere deep inside where she had never dared reach before, and suddenly the fire was no longer just in the hearth. It leaped outward , sweeping across the floor in a violent cascade of flames.
The fire shouldn’t have spread. The floor was cement. It shouldn’t burn.
But it did.
The flames expanded, consuming everything.
The walls, the floor, the very air ignited. A rush of heat slammed into her, but it didn’t hurt. Not yet. For one brief, fleeting second, all she felt was exhilaration.
She had done it.
And then Barton’s hand closed around her wrist.
She barely had time to react before he yanked her backward, dragging her out of the room, past the roaring inferno, past the sound of alarms blaring throughout the facility. The door slammed behind them, but it did nothing to contain the blaze. The glow of the fire bled through the cracks, licking at the edges as if seeking escape.
Jane’s chest heaved, her body shaking. Not from fear, not from pain, but from euphoria.
She looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers, feeling the raw power that still lingered beneath her skin. I did it.
For the first time in seven months— no, for the first time in her entire life—she had commanded all four elements.
Water. Earth. Air. And fire.
It was real. She was real.
A small, wild laugh nearly escaped her lips, but then she noticed the others.
A crowd had gathered. She could hear voices, urgent, frantic. The five observers had scattered, some disappearing down the hallways, no doubt searching for fire suppressants. Others stared at her, their expressions hard to decipher, and she felt the weight of their gazes like a thousand needles pressing into her skin.
But what made her stomach drop was the sight of the injured.
One of the observers had collapsed near the doorway, his arm cradled against his chest. Burns—her fire had done that. Another agent was being helped to his feet, his face singed, coughing violently as smoke still clung to his clothes.
She had been so focused on what she had accomplished that she hadn’t even realized.
This power wasn’t just incredible. It was destructive.
Her breath hitched. The euphoria soured, twisted into something cold and sharp.
She had hurt people. Not just a training dummy, not just some test. Real people.
Barton’s grip on her wrist tightened briefly, grounding her. He was watching her, but for once, there was no amusement in his face. No challenge. Just a silent understanding.
And that was somehow worse.
For the first time in her life, Jane felt it.
Fear.
Not of Barton. Not of S.H.I.E.L.D. Not even of what might happen next.
Fear of herself.
____
Clint Barton sat on the edge of his bed, still damp with sweat, his muscles aching from the day’s events. The fire had taken hours to put out, refusing to die even when logic said it should have. The damage was extensive. Too extensive. That section of the facility was useless now, charred beyond recognition. The air was still thick with the acrid stench of smoke, clinging to his skin, his clothes, his lungs.
And Jane?
She had been smiling.
Clint ran a tired hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. He had seen a lot of things in his years with S.H.I.E.L.D., had witnessed power beyond comprehension, but Jane… she was something else. Unpredictable. Dangerous. Unstable.
And now, Fury wanted to unleash her.
The burner phone on his nightstand buzzed, the sound sharp in the silence of his small quarters. He didn’t need to check the time, he already knew. Monday. 10 p.m. On the dot.
Switzerland.
Nick Fury never missed a call.
Clint grabbed the phone and pressed it to his ear, answering on the second ring. “Yeah.”
“I heard about today.” Fury’s voice came through, steady.
Clint didn’t hesitate. “Then I assume you’re just as concerned as I am.” He leaned back against the headboard, rubbing his temples. “Her powers are growing at an insane rate. She’s stronger than we thought. Way stronger. And if today proved anything, it’s that we can’t control her. Not fully.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end. Then—
“She’s ready.”
Clint froze. For a moment, he thought he had misheard. His brow furrowed. “Wait, what?”
“She’s ready.” Fury repeated, unshaken.
Clint swung his legs off the bed, gripping the phone tighter. “ Ready is not the word I’d use, Fury. Yeah, she’s stronger, but she’s not in control. There’s a difference. She barely held it together today. We’re lucky no one was seriously injured.”
Fury was unmoved. “She can control the telekinesis. She can control the elements. She can travel through time. She’s exactly where she needs to be.”
Clint let out a humorless laugh. “Oh yeah? And what happens when she loses it again? What if next time, we don’t put the fire out? She nearly burned the damn place down—”
“She didn’t.”
“She could have.”
“But she didn’t. ” Fury’s tone was final. “We’re out of time, Barton. She won’t be perfect. She won’t be polished. But we need her in the field.”
Clint leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “So what’s the plan?”
“She’s going to New York.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Clint blinked. “Excuse me?”
“She’ll be stationed at the Avengers Tower,” Fury continued, as if this was just another routine mission. “She’s not the only candidate for the new initiative. Tony’s been keeping an eye on Parker—says the kid’s got potential. Won’t accept the offer yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Whether he joins or not, we need them. We need new people. Half the Avengers are scattered across the world, off the grid. We can’t afford to wait.”
Clint exhaled, rubbing his face. “And you think dropping her in the middle of New York is a good idea?”
“She won’t be alone.”
There was another pause.
Then Fury said it. The part Clint had been waiting for.
“You’re going with her.”
Clint’s grip on the phone tightened. “You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I’ve been here for months. I lost count. You’re telling me I’m getting out of this frozen hellhole just to be her babysitter? ”
“She’ll need a handler.”
“Yeah, well, I need a break. ”
Fury didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. Clint knew the deal. He had known it from the moment he had agreed to this assignment.
Still, he had to ask.
“This get me out?”
Fury was silent for a beat. “We’ll talk about it.”
Clint scoffed. “Right. ‘We’ll talk about it.’ Like we did the last time. And the time before that. I did what you asked. I stayed out of the way after everything that happened. I know I helped Rogers. I know I helped Nat. But God’s knows I am playing my part now. Doing everything is asked. Never a complaint. And now you’re sending me back to New York. So tell me, when exactly do I get to go home to see my family? Because I think I’m paying too much for my mistakes.”
Fury sighed. “I don’t work for the government anymore, Barton. I can’t decide that.”
Clint let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Oh, come on. You and I both know that doesn’t mean a damn thing. You might not be on their payroll, but your word still carries weight. You say I’m free? I’m free. So say it.”
Fury didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was measured. “Do your job. Train her. If she succeeds, if she proves she can be one of us, we’ll revisit this conversation.”
Clint closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. “And what exactly am I training her for?”
“She doesn’t just need to control her powers,” Fury said. “She needs to learn to work as part of a team. She’ll keep training, but she has to integrate. Learn how to function with others. If she can do that, if she can be trusted, we introduce her to the world as an Avenger.”
Clint snorted. “What, she gets a fancy suit and a PR campaign? A ‘look at our new hero’ kind of deal?”
Fury didn’t deny it. “A little propaganda never hurts.”
The call was ending. Clint could feel it. He sighed, flopping back onto the bed, then he ran a hand over his face. “Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll take her to New York.”
He could practically hear the approval in Fury’s silence.
“You’re leaving tomorrow. I’ll be in touch.” was all Fury said before the line went dead.
Clint tossed the phone onto the nightstand, staring at the ceiling. The exhaustion weighed on him, heavier than before.
He still wasn’t convinced this was the right call. But maybe, just maybe , this was his shot at getting his life back. If he trained Jane, if she became what Fury wanted her to be… maybe they’d finally let him go.
Maybe he could finally go home.
For now, he had no choice but to try.
____
Jane stood in the dormitory bathroom, staring at her reflection as she secured her hair into a high ponytail. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a stark glow over her tired features. Her expression remained calm, but there was something in the way she moved. Something rigid, restrained.
The door was already slightly open when a knock echoed against the frame. Barton leaned in, arms crossed. “Mind if I come in?”
Jane didn’t look away from the mirror. “It’s not like I can stop you.”
Taking that as permission, he stepped inside and immediately noticed her new attire. The gray tracksuit hung loosely on her frame, at least two sizes too big, the color a washed-out shade that did her no favors.
He smirked, shaking his head. “Didn’t realize we had a fashion emergency on our hands.”
Jane shot him a flat look through the mirror. “These clothes smell like mold.” She tugged at the sleeve. “They’re not even my size.”
“Yeah, well, beggars can’t be choosers.” Barton tilted his head. “I didn’t think style would be at the top of your concerns right now.”
She scoffed, turning to face him. “Trust me, it’s not.”
His smirk lingered. “There’s always the option of rolling up the sleeves. You could start a new look—oversized prison chic.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.
“Are you trying to be nice? Because it only feels weird.”
Then, more seriously, she asked, “Where are we going?”
Barton exhaled, leaning back against the sink. “New York.”
Her brows furrowed slightly, and he continued, “That’s where your next phase of training is. You’ll meet some of the Avengers, work with them.”
And for now, it wasn’t necessary to tell her that he was one of them.
Barton watched her carefully as the words settled in. He wasn’t surprised when she tensed. Her shoulders locked, her fingers twitching slightly at her sides.
Then she asked, “Will Tony Stark be there?”
Barton’s smirk faded. The way she said it, somehow, put him on alert. He narrowed his eyes slightly. “You know Stark?”
Jane hesitated. It was brief, but noticeable. “No,” she answered after a moment. “I’ve just heard a lot about him.”
He didn’t quite buy it. But he didn’t push, either.
“The helicopter leaves in a few minutes,” he said instead. “So unless you wanna stick around, I’d suggest hurrying up.”
Jane nodded, adjusting the laces of her sneakers—plain white, slightly too tight, but functional enough. When she stepped out of the bathroom, she spotted a backpack sitting on her bed. Barton gestured toward it.
“Some extra clothes, fresh gear, the essentials.” He paused before adding, “And a phone.”
Jane frowned. “A phone?”
Barton shrugged. “Yeah. Not for social calls. More like a direct line to Fury.”
She let out a dry chuckle. “Right. Because I have so many people to talk to.”
Barton didn’t respond, just motioned for her to follow. “Let’s go.”
For the first time in months , Jane stepped outside.
The sunlight hit her like a physical force, a sudden, blinding contrast to the dim confines she had grown used to. Her breath caught, eyes squinting against the brightness as she stepped forward, her sneakers sinking slightly into the uneven ground. The air was crisp and thin, carrying the sharp bite of lingering winter. The wind cut against her skin, threading through her hair with an almost bitter edge.
Around her, the landscape stretched wide and open. R ugged mountains rising in the distance, their peaks still crowned with snow , while lower down, the thaw had begun. Patches of ice clung stubbornly to the rocky terrain, melting into slick rivulets that carved through the earth. The scent of pine lingered in the air, fresh and clean, untouched. Beneath her feet, the remnants of winter crunched softly in the melting snow, giving way to the first hints of exposed earth beneath.
It felt alien. Open, endless, so different from the closed, controlled space she had been confined to. The sky stretched above her, vast and pale, like it had been waiting for her to step into it.
She hadn’t realized how much she had missed it.
Barton, a few steps ahead, slowed his pace. He turned slightly, observing the way she stood there, frozen, taking it all in.
That’s when it hit him. She hadn’t been outside in months.
He had known, of course—knew exactly what kind of training she had endured, how isolated she had been. But knowing it and realizing it were two different things. And for a brief moment, something unfamiliar settled in his chest, guilt.
Jane didn’t linger. She adjusted quickly, blinking away the discomfort and stepping forward as if nothing had happened. As if the lack of sunlight hadn’t mattered.
Barton shook off the thought and kept walking.
They approached the waiting helicopter, its rotors already whirring. Barton climbed in first, waiting as Jane followed suit.
“Ever flown before?” he asked as he buckled in.
Jane smirked, securing her own straps with ease. “I’ve seen and done more than you’d expect, Barton. You’d be surprised if you knew half of them.”
He raised an eyebrow but let it slide.
“My name is Clint, by the way. Clint Barton. Thought you should know that.”
The helicopter lifted off, the facility shrinking beneath them, swallowed by the vast expanse of white.
Jane exhaled slowly, watching the place she had been trapped in disappear.
It still felt strange to see him acting that way with her. During training, he had been distant, always focused, always pushing her past her limits. There had been no room for small talk, no space for anything but discipline and control. And he had made it hard , harder than it probably needed to be. She knew, logically, that he had only been following orders, doing what he was supposed to do. But still, seeing him now, joking so easily, slipping into something that almost felt natural , unsettled her. It was unfamiliar, yet oddly effortless at the same time. Oddly pleasing. And that was the strangest part of all.
But maybe it was because she had reached that point, where she needed this. Human connection. The ability to talk to someone like a person, not a weapon in the making. And that’s probably why it felt so easy now, why she wasn’t pulling away from it. Maybe it wasn’t really about Barton at all. Maybe it was just the fact that, for the first time in a long time, she desperately needed someone.
She still couldn’t believe it.
She was finally leaving that nightmare behind.
The helicopter ride to New York lasted several hours, most of it spent in silence. Jane sat with her arms crossed, eyes locked on the view outside, though she wasn’t truly seeing it. Her mind was elsewhere, trapped in the uncertainty of what awaited her.
She knew what New York meant.
It meant Tony Stark.
Nick Fury had been vague with the details about the Avengers team, but she remembered the images he had shown her with absolute clarity. She could still see them in her mind. A man, older than she expected, clad in a red and gold steel suit, moving with practiced ease. And then, in one frame, the mask lifted, revealing his face beneath it.
What the hell was she supposed to do if she saw him?
Would he recognize her? Would he remember?
No. He wouldn’t.
She had made sure of that.
Her stomach twisted at the thought, a cold knot settling deep inside her. Because it wasn’t just that Tony wouldn’t remember her, it was that he couldn’t . She had taken that from him.
It was a power she rarely used, one she barely let herself think about. The ability to bend memories, to rewrite them, to erase them entirely if she wanted to. She had always known it was there, buried beneath the surface like something volatile, something that shouldn’t be touched. She had only ever used it a handful of times in her life, and each time had left her shaken, hollow.
Because what did it say about her, that she had the power to reach into someone’s mind and take pieces of them away?
She had sworn she’d never use it again.
But Tony… Tony had been different.
The last time she had reached into someone’s mind, it had been his. The memory was hazy, blurred by exhaustion and grief, but she remembered the way it had felt, the way her power had curled around his thoughts like mist, delicate and insidious all at once. The way she had forced herself to break something that should never have been broken.
And now, after all this time, the thought clawed at her.
What if?
What if something had gone wrong? What if there were pieces left, fragments buried deep that she hadn’t wiped away completely?
What if, despite everything, he still felt her absence?
After what felt like an eternity, Barton’s voice finally cut through her haze. “Look ahead.”
Jane blinked, pulling herself from her thoughts. And there it was. The Avengers Tower.
It loomed against the New York skyline, a gleaming monolith of glass and steel, its architecture striking and unmistakable. Unlike anything she had ever seen before. The large ‘A’ branding its side gleamed in the sunlight, a blatant reminder of who resided there.
She stared, taking it in, feeling the weight of what it meant.
“That’s home base,” Barton explained, watching her reaction. “Or at least, it was. Things have been… complicated.”
Jane tore her gaze away from the tower and looked at him. “Complicated how?”
Barton exhaled, shifting slightly in his seat. “You know who the Avengers are, right?”
She gave him a look. “Fury wasn’t exactly forthcoming with details.” Then, after a pause, she smirked slightly. “Imagine I’ve been locked in a time capsule for a century. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Barton let out an amused breath. “Right. Wait—You really know nothing about who the Avengers are? Okay.”
He leaned back and started explaining.
The Avengers. Earth’s mightiest heroes. A group formed to defend the planet against threats no single person could handle alone. Led by individuals like Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, and Thor, they had saved the world multiple times. Aliens, artificial intelligence, even entire armies. Stark Industries had been the backbone of the team, providing tech, funding, and resources.
But that was before.
“Things aren’t exactly the same anymore,” Barton admitted. “Ever heard of the Sokovia Accords ?”
Jane shook her head.
He sighed. “Long story short, the Avengers split. Big disagreement on how much control the government should have over us. It got ugly. Some of us went underground. Some of us stayed. Stark? He stayed.”
Jane absorbed the information carefully. So Tony had stayed. That meant he was still involved, still here.
But then something caught her off guard.
Us.
Her mind latched onto the word, her pulse skipping. Us?
She lifted her gaze to Barton, her expression shifting. “What do you mean, ‘us’? You’re… you’re an Avenger?”
For a split second, his face betrayed him. A flicker of something, the barest hesitation, like he’d just realized he had slipped.
Then, he said nothing.
He didn’t confirm it. He didn’t deny it. And that silence was answer enough.
Jane stared at him, the realization settling in her chest. All this time… he had been one of them. And she hadn’t seen it. She hadn’t even considered it.
But, really, why was she so surprised? It made sense. They were preparing her for something bigger, shaping her into something more. And if that was the case, then who better to train her than someone who had already been through it? Someone who could assess if she was even capable of becoming one of them?
It was perfectly logical. Obvious, even.
So why hadn’t she figured it out sooner?
Her fingers tightened slightly in her lap.
Barton studied her, but didn’t press. Instead, he gestured to the skyline. “Anyway, welcome to the mess.”
Moments later, the helicopter began its descent, landing on the rooftop of Avengers Tower. The landing was smooth, and as the doors opened, the city air hit her immediately: warmer, busier, alive.
Waiting for them was a man dressed in a sleek, well-tailored suit, his posture crisp and professional. His tie was perfectly knotted, his polished shoes gleaming under the light. He carried himself with the efficiency of someone who didn’t have time to waste, but what caught her eye was the work badge clipped to his jacket . Beneath the printed name “Daniel Whitmore” were two unmistakable words: Stark Industries.
Jane’s gaze lingered on the name for a moment. It was evident, Tony had made Stark Industries flourish. His empire hadn’t crumbled after his parents’ deaths. And even after she was gone, somehow, he had held on to it. But she wasn’t surprised.
He had always been brilliant, always found a way to get what he wanted. His mind worked differently from anyone else’s: calculating, creating, always moving faster than the rest of the world.
And Jane was glad .
Glad that Stark was no longer just a name, a legacy, inherited from his father. Now, it was his.
And then, Jane felt it—that familiar sting behind her eyes , the sharp, sudden pressure in her throat. The overwhelming urge to let go , to let it all crash down on her , to curl in on herself and just sob until there was nothing left.
But no.
No. Enough.
She clenched her jaw, forcing down the lump rising in her chest, digging her nails into her palms as if the pain could ground her. Hold it together.
Because it was the past. And the past had to stay right where it belonged, behind her. It had been too long, too much distance, too many lives lived in between. The person she had been back then? She wasn’t that girl anymore.
And Tony?
Tony was—had to be—nothing more than a memory. A fragment of another life, one that no longer had a place in this one.
“Mr. Stark is expecting you for dinner later.” he informed them. “For now, you can settle into your designated apartments.”
Jane remained quiet. Barton, however, nodded. “Got it.”
The man then turned toward her, hesitating. “I apologize in advance, Ms. Russo. The apartment assigned to you previously belonged to Wanda Maximoff. Some of her belongings are still there. If you’d like, we can have it cleared out—”
Jane glanced at Barton, who was already watching her. “Maximoff?”
“One of the Avengers,” he explained. “She… sided with Cap during the split. She’s been off the radar ever since.”
Jane nodded slowly. “I don’t mind. I’ll take it as it is.”
The man looked relieved. “Very well. Follow me.”
They were led inside, descending through the luxurious hallways of the tower. Jane barely paid attention, her mind was still caught between the past and the present, between where she was and who she might see.
When they arrived at her assigned apartment, Barton turned to her. “Get some rest. You’ll need it.”
She didn’t argue.
The door slid open, revealing an immaculate penthouse.
Spacious, modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the skyline. The living room was sleek, furnished with plush seating and dark wood accents. The kitchen gleamed, every appliance state-of-the-art.
And the bedroom— large, elegant, untouched.
She took a slow step inside, eyes grazing over everything. There were still remnants of Wanda’s presence. Clothes hanging in the wardrobe, books stacked neatly on the shelves.
It felt… lived in. But empty.
The first thing Jane did was strip off her clothes and head to the bathroom.
For months, she had endured nothing but ice-cold water. Training, exhaustion, repetition. But now—
The water was hot.
The moment it hit her skin, she nearly collapsed from the relief. It soaked into her muscles, steam rising around her as she let herself relax for the first time in months.
When she finally stepped out, wrapping herself in a towel, she opened the wardrobe without thinking.
It was full of Wanda’s clothes.
Jane hesitated, then reached for a simple black dress. Nothing extravagant, just comfortable enough. Over it, she pulled on a denim jacket she found tucked away, something casual, something grounding.
She stepped into her sneakers, catching her reflection in the mirror.
She looked normal.
Not like a soldier. Not like an experiment.
Just… Jane.
It was unsettling.
She wasn’t sure if she liked it.
Her hair was still dump and visibly too long. It cascaded down her back, almost reaching her waist, and she knew—just as she knew the year was no longer 1908—that it was time for a change.
Inside the bathroom, she searched for a pair of scissors, rifling through drawers and cabinets. Nothing.
She sighed, stepping into the kitchen. There. A pair of kitchen shears lay on the counter. Not ideal, but they would do.
She returned to the mirror, gripping the scissors tightly. Her reflection stared back. Pale, platinum hair framing a face that had seen centuries. She thought briefly of an old saying, one she had heard men joke about in the 1950s: When a woman cuts her hair, she’s about to change her life.
A bitter smile ghosted her lips. Then, without hesitation, she cut. The sharp blades slicing clean through.
The strands fell silently to the floor, pooling around her feet like discarded remnants of an old self. When she finally lowered the shears, her hair now brushed just below her chest , lighter, different. She studied them—silver-blond, unnaturally light.
Had she inherited it from her mother?
Her father had never spoken much about her. All she knew was that the woman had been a foreigner, a servant in the house of the Marquess, where he—already a married nobleman—had taken notice of her. It had been a passionate affair. He never said it outright, but Jane had sensed it in his voice, in the lingering resentment whenever he mentioned her.
The woman had vanished days after giving birth.
Some whispered that she had been accused of witchcraft. The church’s power had been absolute back then, and a woman who appeared different was often a threat. Her father had suspected it, but he had never forgiven her for leaving.
And so Jane— once Ginevra —had grown up a bastard, a child without a name or a title, burdened by shame.
Her looks had never helped. In southern Italy, a land of olive skin and dark hair, she had been an anomaly. A reminder of a mother no one dared speak of. The servants whispered, the townspeople stared.
La figlia del diavolo. The devil’s daughter.
She had known, even then, that she was different. That something inside her did not belong.
But those were old memories. Centuries old . She barely remembered them now.
There was only one memory that remained sharp—the moment she had discovered what she truly was.
Her first journey through time.
She had already begun to suspect she had abilities beyond the ordinary. But she hadn’t known how to control them, how to harness them. Until that day.
Her husband had been angry. No—furious.
That was nothing new. He had been violent since the very beginning of their marriage, and that night had been no different. She had wanted to escape. Desperately. She had prayed, not to a god, but to the universe itself, to take her anywhere but there.
And then, suddenly—
She was gone.
It had happened in the blink of an eye. One moment, she had been cowering under her husband’s rage; the next, she was standing in an unfamiliar square, surrounded by people dressed in strange tunics, speaking a language she barely understood.
It had taken her a moment to grasp where— when —she was.
She had traveled back.
Farther than she ever could have imagined.
The realization had been terrifying. Overwhelming. But there had been no time for fear. She had adapted. She had learned.
But she didn’t want to think about that now.
Not the past. Not the centuries.
She had already spent too much time looking backward.
Now, she had to focus on the present. On what came next. And the next step was just dinner. A simple, ordinary dinner.
And maybe, just maybe, it would even be pleasant. She tried to convince herself of that. She hadn’t had good food in… God knew how long. And maybe everything would be fine. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much as it seemed like it would.
Because years had passed.
And because what hurt her wasn’t the man himself, it was the memory of him.
She repeated that thought to herself. Over and over. Until she almost believed it.
Jane looked at herself in the mirror again. Her fingers ghosted over her face, bare of any makeup. Her reflection looked tired, but composed. Empty.
She missed having her things. Her beautiful things. Her makeup, her jewelry. She had always been a vain woman, why shouldn’t she be? In all the chaos, the violence, the uncertainty of her existence, why not soften it with something beautiful? Something delicate.
But she had long since learned that luxury didn’t last.
Every time she shifted from one timeline to another, she lost everything. The only things she could take with her were the clothes she was wearing and her own memories.
And so, every time, she had to start again. This was a new start. A fresh beginning. A new life.
That was what mattered. The new version of herself she would become from this moment on. She just had to focus.
Good food.
A place to stay.
A purpose.
Then, she heard a knock. A dull, firm knock against the door.
Jane was still in the bathroom, tying up the last strands of her hair when she heard it. At first, she hesitated, unsure if she had imagined the sound. But then it came again, steady.
Someone was there.
Barton? Maybe a staff member letting her know dinner was ready?
She sighed, smoothing down her clothes before heading toward the door. But when she opened it, the breath was knocked from her lungs.
Tony.
The last time she had seen him, he had been young—a promising young man, all sharp edges and ambition. There had been something unbreakable about him then, a glint of reckless certainty in his eyes.
But now…
Now, he was a man.
Older. More refined. More worn.
There were lines on his face, the weight of years etched into his features. His hair, still dark, was flecked with silver at the temples. His beard was neatly trimmed, but there was something unmistakably tired in the set of his jaw. And yet—
He was still him.
Still handsome. Still Tony.
And when he smirked—because of course, he smirked—it was the same infuriating, prepotent expression he had always worn. The kind of smile that said he was already ten steps ahead of everyone else in the room.
Jane felt frozen. She couldn’t breathe.
Why was he here?
Tony, for his part, was watching her closely. His eyes, sharp as ever, studied her with an intensity that unsettled her. He was thinking— really thinking—before speaking.
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said lightly. “Just thought I’d drop by, check out the new recruit. ”
He hesitated, his gaze flickering over her face, and for a split second, something unreadable crossed his expression.
Then, after a pause, he asked, “Forgive me, but… have we met before?”
Jane’s heart clenched. A part of her—a small, desperate part— hoped.
Hoped that he remembered. Hoped that something inside him still recognized her, even if not fully, even if just a faint trace remained.
But before she could answer, before she could let that hope take root, Tony exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “Ah, never mind. Must be mixing you up with someone else.”
And there it was.
Disappointment flooded through her, even though she had known, of course she had known, that he wouldn’t remember.
Forcing herself to gather her composure, Jane finally found her voice. “They’ve told me a lot about you,” she said, her tone edged with something almost playful, almost mocking. “Now I finally get to meet the great Tony Stark. The famous Iron Man.”
She hoped she looked relaxed. Confident.
She had no idea if she pulled it off.
Tony quirked a brow, his smirk widening slightly. But there was something else behind his gaze—something off.
Maybe she was imagining it. Maybe she was just projecting her own turmoil onto him. But was there something different about him? Something restrained?
“Funny,” Tony mused. “I’ve heard a lot about you, too.”
Jane stilled.
He leaned casually against the doorframe. “Fury’s been keeping me updated on your progress for a while now. Says you’re quite the talent.”
They were alone. Truly alone.
Jane couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. The last time it had just been her and Tony.
How many years had it been?
She didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. Because it felt like yesterday. And that was the problem.
But this wasn’t the same Tony.
This was a man who had built an empire, who had survived wars, who had lived through battles she could hardly comprehend. And she needed to remember that. She needed to be in control.
So, she smiled—distant, practiced.
She slipped into the role she had perfected across lifetimes. The survivor. The enigma. The woman who knew how to hide.
“Well, Mr. Stark,” she said smoothly, tilting her head just so. “I’d be very curious to know what Fury’s been saying about me.”
Her voice was steady.
Her hands, clenched into fists behind her back, were not.
Notes:
I’m so happy I managed to publish the second chapter fairly quickly, and even more excited that we’re finally diving deeper into the story! We’ve started to uncover more about Jane’s past, getting to know her better, and now the first part of her training is over—and she’s finally crossed paths with Tony again.
I have to be honest, I can’t wait to bring Bucky into the mix! But we’ll have to be a little more patient—he won’t be making his entrance just yet. He’ll come in a bit later, and honestly, the most fun part for me will be when both Tony and Bucky are in play. That’s when things will really get interesting!
I hope you enjoyed the chapter and that the reading was engaging! I promise I’ll post the third chapter as soon as possible. See you soon! ❤️
Chapter Text
The dinner was already underway and yet, Jane’s mind was still stuck on her encounter with Tony barely an hour ago.
It had been brief. A handful of minutes at most. But even now, she wasn’t sure what to make of it. What had he wanted? He had asked a couple of vague questions, nothing too revealing, nothing too direct. And then, just as quickly as he had appeared, he had left.
It almost felt like he was there just because he couldn’t wait, but maybe that was just her own wishful thinking. Maybe it was just the desperate hope that, somehow, he was still looking for her too.
Anyway, Jane was now seating at the long dining table, the atmosphere warm and refined but not overly formal. The food was delicious , possibly the best thing she had eaten in years. But despite the comfort of the setting, there was something in the air that made her grip her fork a little too tightly.
Tony was watching her.
Not overtly, not in an obvious way. But she could feel it. His gaze flickered toward her between bites, between sips of wine, between his effortless banter with Pepper and Peter. It was subtle, but she wasn’t imagining it.
She had expected Tony’s curiosity , of course. She recognized that she could be an intriguing novelty in his eyes. What she hadn’t expected was Pepper Potts—elegant, poised, and so perfectly composed that Jane felt messy just sitting near her. Tony’s partner. But she should have seen it coming. He had always had a thing for beautiful women.
Thinking about it, the idea of him being single had been unlikely from the start, especially at his age. And, of course, there was Peter Parker, young, bright-eyed, and exuding the kind of naïve enthusiasm that Jane found almost alien after everything she had been through. Spider-Man. An unofficial Avenger, if only due to technicalities, and firmly under Tony’s wing—his protégé.
Introductions had been brief, but telling.
Peter had been the first to break the silence when she had walked into the room, clearly trying to be polite but radiating curiosity. He had practically bounced forward, hand outstretched. “ You must be Jane Russo!”
She had stared at him for a moment, unsure of whether she wanted to shake his hand. She glanced toward Barton, who merely gave her a slight shrug, before reluctantly extending her own. Peter had grinned. “ I’ve heard so much about you. Mr. Stark said you’re a total badass. ”
Jane had tilted her head slightly, an eyebrow arching. “Did he? ”
Peter had nodded enthusiastically. “ Yeah! I mean, I didn’t get to read everything. Some of it’s redacted, you know, spy stuff! But I did hear about how you basically obliterated every training record the S.H.I.E.L.D. had. ”
Jane had smirked. “ Oh. Well. I aim to impress. ”
She could feel it. Tony’s gaze was still on her. It didn’t move. Not even for a second.
So she had turned toward him, just to be sure. Just to see that it wasn’t all in her head. And there he was, sitting at the table with his fingers lazily wrapped around the stem of a wine glass, watching her with an expression that she could only describe as assessing.
It had taken her all of three seconds to realize that she needed to look away before she did something embarrassing.
Because, absurdly, here she was, sitting at Tony Stark’s dinner table, pushing food around on her plate while pretending not to be hyper-aware of every move he made.
The conversation had started out innocuously enough. Mostly Peter, eager and talkative, filling the space with his usual chatter. Clint had interjected now and then, adding a sarcastic remark here, a teasing jab there. Pepper had kept her involvement minimal, but present, watching over the scene with that sharp, calculating look that Jane had already decided made her more intimidating than anyone else in the room.
And then Peter, in his infinite lack of awareness , had said something that made her stomach knot.
“So, you’re here to stay.”
Jane had blinked. “I… suppose so?”
Peter nodded, excited. “There are so many things I’d like to ask you! It’s amazing that we have a new psychic in the team. They say your abilities are insane!”
Jane had stilled, her fingers tightening around her fork. She didn’t like being discussed. Didn’t like being analyzed.
She forced a smirk. “ Wow. Sounds like I should be getting royalties. ”
Peter, oblivious to the discomfort he had just created, continued. “ And your powers? Controlling the elements? That’s next-level stuff! Oh, and your past— ”
A sharp cough.
Jane turned her head to see Barton, who had been sitting back quietly until now, suddenly patting Peter on the back—hard.
“Hey, kid, maybe let’s not go through her entire classified file at the dinner table, yeah?” Barton’s tone was light, but his eyes told a different story. Back off.
Peter, realizing his mistake, looked sheepish. “ Oh. Right. Sorry. I just think it’s cool. ”
Jane exhaled, then smirked. “No worries, Peter. I like your enthusiasm. I promise I’ll answer all your questions when we have the time. It’s just… I don’t like talking about myself. So for now, grant me a pass. Just this once.”
Peter grinned. “ See? She likes me. ”
A low chuckle came from Tony. Jane turned to find his eyes already on her, glinting with something she couldn’t quite place.
“ You know, ” he mused, twirling the stem of his wine glass between his fingers, “ for someone Fury’s been so keen on, you’re still a bit of a mystery. ”
Jane arched a brow. “ I like to keep things interesting. ”
Tony smirked. “ Yeah? Is that what you were doing in Alaska? Keeping things ‘interesting’? ”
“ I don’t know, Stark. What were you doing in New York? Holding press conferences? ”
His smirk deepened. “ Among other things. ”
Jane didn’t drop his gaze. She could tell he was testing her, feeling out who she was, what she was.
Before he could push further, Pepper set down her wine glass with just a little too much control. “ Tony, maybe let our guest breathe? ”
Tony raised his hands in mock surrender. “ Hey, I’m just getting to know her. You always say I need to be more social. ”
Pepper didn’t smile. Barton, however, did.
Jane decided to take the out she was given. She leaned back in her chair and let her fingers dance along the stem of her own glass. “ I have to say, I wasn’t expecting such hospitality. I thought the infamous Tony Stark would be a bit more… ”She tilted her head, pretending to search for the word. “Elusive.”
Tony grinned. “ I’m full of surprises. ”
Jane let a slow smirk pull at her lips. “That’s what I hear. ”
The air felt thicker now.
Barton was watching. Pepper was definitely watching.
Peter, oblivious as ever, reached for more bread. “ This is really good. Do we eat like this every night? ”
Tony finally pulled his gaze away from Jane, focusing back on Peter with amusement. “ Only if you survive training, kid. ”
Jane took another sip of wine, forcing herself to relax.
She had spent seven months preparing herself for this new life.
And yet, sitting across from Tony Stark, she felt dangerously unprepared.
When the dinner had ended, the undercurrents of tension had not. The air in the room felt even heavier, at least for her. The shift from the structured seating arrangement to casual conversation was almost imperceptible at first—an unspoken signal that the formalities were over. Now, the room was scattered with small clusters of conversation, the clinking of glasses filling the silence where words failed.
Jane found herself instinctively keeping her distance. She stood near the edge of the room, fingers wrapped loosely around the stem of her glass, her gaze flicking between the people around her. Peter was still radiating his usual unfiltered enthusiasm, gesturing animatedly as he spoke to Barton, who responded with half-hearted nods, clearly more focused on scanning the room than on whatever the kid was saying. And then there was Tony, standing just a few feet away, talking to Pepper in a voice too low for Jane to catch—but she could see the tension in Pepper’s shoulders, the measured way she held herself.
Pepper moved toward Tony with an air of purpose, her steps deliberate. There was no outward sign of frustration, no obvious tell of irritation, but Jane had seen enough to recognize control when she saw it. This was a woman used to managing the chaos that came with Tony Stark, but right now, she wasn’t just managing. She was probing.
“Alright, Tony,” she murmured, her voice deceptively light. “What’s with the little game you’re playing?”
He barely reacted, tilting his glass slightly as if considering his answer. “Game? C’mon, Pep, you know me. I’m just being hospitable.”
Pepper’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You don’t do ‘hospitable,’ Tony. You get curious about people when they’re worth getting curious about. So what is it? Is there something I don’t know?”
He sighed, rolling the glass between his fingers before casting a glance toward Jane. She wasn’t looking at them, but he had the distinct impression she knew she was being watched. “She’s interesting.”
She gave him a flat look. “Oh, well, that clears it up.”
Tony smirked. “It’s not just that. Look, you’ve read her file. Or at least, the part of it they let us see. She came out of nowhere, just—boom. No records, no trace. Her abilities? Fury’s barely scratched the surface, and even he doesn’t know where she actually comes from.”
Pepper folded her arms. “So that’s it? It’s just another one of your puzzles?”
He shrugged. “What can I say? I like solving things.”
She exhaled through her nose, her eyes on Jane again. “I feel like you should be more careful this time.”
Tony raised an eyebrow. “Pep, you’re making it sound like it’s such a big deal. Your concern is adorable, though.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Just don’t get too invested.”
He shot her an almost amused look, tilting his head. “Pep, are you jealous?”
Pepper rolled her eyes, exasperated. “I’m not jealous, but I don’t like it when I don’t understand what’s going on.”
Tony huffed, trying to hide his amusement. “She’s just a kid. What is she, 22? 23? There’s nothing you should worry about.”
She shook her head, her expression unwavering. “Don’t underestimate her. She may be young, but she’s a woman. You can tell by the way she carries herself, the way she speaks. She knows life, Tony. Doesn’t matter how many years she’s been around.”
Tony didn’t answer, but the way he swirled the wine in his glass suggested he wasn’t going to take her advice to heart.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Peter had broken away from Barton and was hesitating just a little too long before approaching Jane. She caught the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot, clearly debating how to go about whatever it was he wanted to say.
“Hey,” he started awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “So, uh… I just wanted to say, you know, if I made you uncomfortable earlier, with the whole ‘classified file’ thing… I didn’t mean to.”
Jane turned to face him fully, raising an eyebrow at his obvious discomfort. It was almost endearing. Almost. “You’re apologizing for being enthusiastic?”
Peter huffed a small laugh, looking sheepish. “Well, yeah. Kinda.”
She tilted her head, considering him for a moment. There was something about him—his energy, his raw eagerness—that reminded her of someone else. Tony.
Not the man standing across the room now, older, weathered, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. No, Peter reminded her of the Tony she had met years ago—sharp, brilliant, reckless in ways he didn’t even realize. Unburdened.
She sighed, giving him a small smirk. “Don’t worry about it, Parker. You’re young. You’ll learn when to shut up eventually.”
Peter grinned. “Yeah, that’s what Barton said too. But I doubt it.”
Before Jane could respond, Barton himself appeared at Peter’s side, nudging him with his elbow. “Alright, kid. Go be annoying somewhere else for a sec. I need a word with our guest.”
Peter blinked but didn’t argue. He gave Jane a small nod before slipping away, leaving her alone with Barton, who wasted no time cutting straight to the point.
“You know,” he started, voice casual, “I may not be the genius that Stark is, but I know when someone’s hiding something.” He took a sip from his glass, watching her carefully. “And let me guess—this is a story you’re not ready to tell.”
Jane felt the tension coil in her stomach. She met his gaze, her expression unreadable. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, Barton.”
A beat of silence stretched between them before Barton huffed a quiet chuckle. “Fair enough.”
He didn’t press further, but Jane could tell— it was just a momentary truce.
____
Jane was standing in the section of the tower dedicated to Avenger training , her breathing steady, her stance firm. The space was vast, lined with reinforced walls and equipped with the latest Stark tech designed to push even the most advanced combatants to their limits.
It was her second day here.
Well, technically, her first full day —the first morning she had woken up in this place. And she had to be honest, despite finally having a warm room, a soft bed, and more comfort than she had dared to dream of , she hadn’t slept. Not really.
She had spent most of the night staring at the ceiling , her mind restless, her body unwilling to shut down. Too much to process. The dinner. Tony. Everything in between. It was too much, too fast, and now she was paying for it—her head pounding, exhaustion pressing behind her eyes.
And yet, what unsettled her the most wasn’t the fatigue. It was the sheer absurdity of it all.
After everything she had lived through, after everything she had been , she was here —under his roof, standing in his fancy skyscraper, being trained to be some kind of superhero.
Her. A superhero.
The thought nearly made her laugh. She had never seen herself that way. She had always been more of an irregularity —something that didn’t quite fit, something unnatural, something wrong .
But this wasn’t the time for self-pity.
She clenched her fists, forcing the thought away. She was here now, and whatever doubts clawed at the back of her mind, they would have to wait .
Right now, she had a job to do.
Across from her stood Clint Barton, arms crossed, his usual smirk playing at his lips.
“Alright,” he said, tilting his head toward her. “You can lift things with your mind. Cool. But if you can lift things, you should also be able to lift yourself.”
Jane narrowed her eyes. “You mean… levitate?”
“Bingo.” Barton gestured with two fingers. “I’ve seen you do it.”
Jane frowned. “No, you haven’t.”
Barton’s smirk grew. “Yeah, I have. While you were sleeping.”
She blinked, staring at him like he had just confessed to some bizarre fetish. “You watch me sleep? Should I be concerned?”
Barton rolled his eyes. “Relax, we had cameras on you the whole time in Alaska. Standard monitoring. Fury wanted to make sure you weren’t about to explode or something. One night, I checked the feed, and there you were. Floating. Just a few inches off the bed.”
Jane crossed her arms, unimpressed. “And you just let me keep floating? What if I had drifted off into the ceiling?”
“I figured gravity would handle it.”
Jane let out a dry chuckle before exhaling, rolling her shoulders back. “Fine. I’ll try.”
She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, focusing inward. Barton was right about one thing: if she could move objects, she should, in theory, be able to move herself. But theory and execution were two very different things.
She concentrated, envisioning herself as weightless. Her breath steadied, her pulse slowed, and just as she started to feel the shift—just as her feet barely skimmed off the floor—
“Russo!”
The sharp voice cut through her focus like a blade. Her eyes snapped open, feet planting firmly back onto the ground.
A man stood at the edge of the training area. Daniel, the same Stark Industries employee who had greeted them upon arrival. His neatly pressed suit made him look out of place in the high-tech combat facility.
“Tony wants you prepped,” Daniel announced, stepping toward them. “You’re being deployed.”
Barton stiffened immediately. “What? No. She’s not ready.”
Jane bristled at his words, turning toward him sharply. “Excuse me?”
Barton gestured toward her, his expression serious now. “It’s too soon. You’ve just arrived! She’s not trained enough for fieldwork.”
Jane’s jaw clenched. After everything she had endured, after seven months of relentless training, now he wanted to sideline her? Her voice came out cool, but beneath it was a flicker of something sharper. Wounded pride.
“I think I’ll decide whether I’m ready.”
She turned toward Daniel. “Where am I going?”
Daniel barely acknowledged Barton’s protest. “There’s a vehicle waiting at one of the lower exits. You’ll be briefed on the way.”
Jane nodded once, stepping forward without hesitation. Barton let out a breath, rubbing his temples. “Dammit,” he muttered, before following her. “Fine. But I’m coming with you.”
The adrenaline surged through Jane’s veins as they made their way down the corridors of the Tower, descending toward the lower exit. She wasn’t scared, not exactly, but there was a certain electricity to this. This wasn’t just training anymore. This was real.
The vehicle waiting for them was a sleek, black Jeep with tinted windows.
“Strap in,” Daniel instructed, sliding into the seat across from her. He pulled out a Stark-issued tablet, tapping at the screen. “I’ll brief you on the way.”
The Jeep pulled away from the Tower smoothly, the city blurring past them. Jane glanced toward the driver, getting a proper look at him. The man was stocky, with a gruff but oddly amused expression, the kind of guy who had seen too much but still managed to find things amusing.
“Alright,” Daniel began, eyes on the tablet. “There’s a robbery in progress at a high-end jewelry store downtown. Armed suspects, hostages inside. NYPD is on the perimeter, but they can’t engage without risking civilian casualties. The suspects are demanding an escape route or they start executing people.”
Jane nodded, taking it in. “How many hostages?”
“Six,” Daniel answered. “Store owner, employees, three customers.”
Jane exhaled, nodding again. This was happening.
A chuckle came from the driver’s seat. Jane’s eyes flicked toward him, narrowing slightly.
“Something funny?” she asked.
The man glanced at her through the rearview mirror, his smirk widening. “Nah. Just curious to see what you can do.”
Jane arched a brow. “And you are?”
The man took one hand off the wheel and gestured casually. “Happy Hogan. I’ve worked for Tony for years. He asked me to keep an eye on you.”
Jane didn’t know whether to feel flattered or irritated by that.
Before she could decide, the Jeep took a sharp turn, and up ahead, the scene of the crime came into view—
Blue police lights flashing, a barricade formed around the store, officers standing in tense formations, weapons drawn but hesitant. Inside, through the glass windows, masked figures were pacing, gripping firearms, desperate and dangerous.
And standing on the rooftop just across the street, crouched and ready in his red and blue suit, was Peter Parker.
Jane took a breath, steadying herself.
Time to see what she was really capable of.
Just as she was about to move toward the store, Clint’s hand landed on her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks.
She turned to him, already feeling a flicker of irritation. His blue eyes were sharp, serious.
“This is real life,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Where’re not in Alaska anymore. You need to be careful. If someone gets hurt here, you’ll be the one paying for it—for the rest of your life. So think before you act.”
Jane exhaled sharply, shaking his hand off her shoulder with an annoyed flick. Then she turned her attention back to Peter, who had just noticed her from across the rooftop.
His movements clearly showing excitement. “Oh, Russo! You’re here too? I love teamwork.” He waved enthusiastically.
Before Jane could respond, a sharp voice rang out from below.
“Step back! This is a police matter!”
Both Jane and Peter exchanged a glance. It was silent, but the message was clear: They weren’t going anywhere.
Then, in a flash, Peter moved.
He leapt from the rooftop, his web shooters firing as he swung toward Jane, scooping her up effortlessly before she could even react. Within seconds, they were back on the fire escape, climbing up to the roof of the jewelry store.
When they landed, Jane let out a breath and shot him a look. “Thanks for the lift.”
She was quite sure that Peter was smiling under his spider mask now. “Anytime.”
“Alright,” she continued, surveying the rooftop. “Any ideas on how to get in without making a scene?”
Peter tapped the side of his mask. “The best way is from above. We just have to figure out the right entry point.”
Jane frowned. “Is there a vault? Or maybe a separate back room where they keep the high-value stuff?”
Peter considered that for a second, then lifted his wrist. “Hey, Karen,” he said, activating the AI in his suit. “Scan the building for any structural layouts or vault locations.”
A second later, Karen’s voice responded. “Searching online databases… Blueprints found. There is a reinforced vault located beneath the store. Access points are limited.”
A small holographic projection popped up, highlighting the layout of the store. Karen marked a section of the floor just above the vault.
“Found it!”
Jane nodded. “Okay, let’s move.”
They climbed through a nearby window and landed inside what they quickly realized was an apartment.
An elderly woman shrieked.
“Who are you?! What do you want?! I have nothing to give you!”
Peter lifted his hands in a calming gesture. “Whoa, whoa, ma’am, it’s okay! We’re not here to hurt you!”
Jane, far less concerned, was already movi h. She headed straight for the location Karen had marked, eyes sweeping the room.
Her gaze landed on a bonsai tree sitting on a nearby table. An idea sparked.
She stepped forward, focusing, reaching deep into herself, into that well of energy she was still learning to control.
The roots trembled. Then they grew.
The ceramic pot shattered as thick, twisting roots forced their way out, stretching across the floor, weaving toward the marked spot.
Peter watched, wide-eyed.
“Whoa. Jane. That is so freaking cool.”
She barely heard him. The roots dug into the floorboards, pressing deeper, twisting, splintering the wood, then breaking through the concrete beneath.
Cracks spread.
Then, with a sudden snap, the floor collapsed inward, revealing a gaping hole leading directly into the vault below.
Jane took a slow breath, proud, not just of the result, but of herself. She had stayed focused. She had controlled it.
Peter peered over the edge. “Alright, I’m officially impressed.”
Jane smirked. “Good. Now let’s go.”
One after the other, they jumped down into the darkness of the vault.
It was pitch black. Jane could barely see a foot in front of her. Peter, however, activated the night vision in his mask , scanning the space. “Got it. We’re right by the main security door.”
Jane placed a hand against the steel. Now came the easy part. Telekinesis surged through her fingertips.
With a sharp click , the lock released , and they pushed the door open. Then, suddenly a voice from above.
“Nobody move! You try anything, and we start shooting!”
A hostage screamed.
Jane and Peter exchanged a glance.
Time to move.
Peter was the first.
He launched himself into action , webbing two of the armed men before they could even react. He had assumed—wrongly—that they were the only ones.
The sharp click of a safety being pulled back made Jane’s blood run cold.
“Don’t move! Stay right there or I swear, I’ll put a bullet in her head!”
The voice came from behind Peter.
Jane’s breath hitched as she spotted the third robber, crouched low, a gun pressed against the temple of a terrified woman . She looked to be in her late thirties, dark-haired, her face twisted in a mixture of fear and agony . Tears streamed down her cheeks as she clutched her hands to her chest, frozen in place.
Then another voice. Clint.
“If you kill her, I kill you.”
Jane’s head snapped to the side. Clint had appeared out of nowhere, standing a few feet away, his bow drawn, arrow nocked, aimed directly at the gunman. He had probably followed them from the start.
She stared, stunned. An archer. She hadn’t known that about him. But there was no time to process that now.
Her hands trembled. For a brief, paralyzing moment, she didn’t know what to do. Her mind screamed at her to act, but panic clawed at her chest, tightening around her ribs like a vice.
Move. Do something!
Her eyes locked onto the gunman, and she reached out with her telekinesis , pouring every ounce of her focus into wrenching the weapon from his hands.
He felt it, the invisible force prying at his grip. And in sheer panic, he pulled the trigger.
The bullet fired straight toward Peter’s back. Jane’s instincts took over.
She flung her power forward, twisting the bullet’s trajectory at the last second. It veered off-course, embedding itself harmlessly into the floor.
Peter whirled around, his masked face unreadable, but his voice said enough.
“Holy crap, that was fast.”
There was a beat, and in what seemed like just a few seconds the gun was in Peter’s hands.
“I totally owe you another dinner now. Can’t promise it’ll be as fancy as last night with Mr. Stark, though.”
Jane barely had time to roll her eyes before the situation spiraled further out of control.
The gunman, now furious , snarled and snatched a knife from his cargo pants, pressing it to the woman’s throat.
“Let us go, or I swear to God, I’ll kill her!”
A thin line of red bloomed across the woman’s skin. He had already cut her.
Peter raised his hands, trying to sound calm. “You need to take a breath, man. The second the cops see you hurting a hostage, they’ll open fire. You don’t want that.”
But Jane wasn’t listening.
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she stared at the thin trail of blood dripping from the woman’s throat.
She had to stop this. She had to stop this now.
Her breath hitched. Her fingers clenched. And then the fire came.
Flames erupted over the man’s clothes, crawling up his sleeves, licking at his balaclava, his hood, his cargo pants.
The man screamed—a horrific, guttural sound—as the fire consumed him.
Clint reacted first.
“Jane! Put it out! Now!”
But Jane couldn’t move. Her chest tightened. Her breath came in short gasps. The fire terrified her.
Not again. Not again.
The other two robbers, still stuck to the walls by Peter’s webbing, began screaming in horror, thrashing against their restraints.
Peter hesitated for a split second, torn between shock and action. The acrid scent of burning flesh filled the air.
Then he made a decision.
He burst into motion , scanning the room until he spotted a large water dispenser in the corner.
Web. Yank. Smash.
The plastic shattered , sending a flood of water crashing over the burning man.
The fire died.
Silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the man’s ragged, gasping sobs as he collapsed to the floor, his body twitching from the pain.
Jane hadn’t moved.
She had frozen. Completely useless.
The doors burst open, and the police stormed in, stopping dead at the sight in front of them.
Jane had no time to process it. Because Peter grabbed her, pulling her into his arms again before she could even react.
Then— web. Swing. Escape.
The city blurred around them as he carried her away, soaring between buildings, putting as much distance between them and the scene as possible.
Jane clung tightly to Peter’s neck as he swung between buildings, the rush of wind and the abrupt shifts in direction making her stomach churn. The city blurred past in streaks of neon and concrete, and the nausea clawed at her throat. She couldn’t think, couldn’t process. All she wanted was for Peter to stop, to let her breathe, to let her catch up with what had just happened.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Peter landed on the rooftop of a nearby building. He set her down gently, but as soon as her feet touched the solid ground, her legs nearly gave out beneath her. She stumbled forward, catching herself just in time to drop onto the ledge, her gaze lost in the vast sprawl of the city below.
Had that man survived? How badly had she hurt him? She didn’t remember. The memories were too fragmented, drowned in the adrenaline and chaos of the mission. It had been a disaster. She had failed.
The weight of it pressed against her chest, suffocating. She had endured so much, years of hardship… She thought she was prepared. Those seven months of torture in Alaska were only the tip of the iceberg. And yet, in those brief moments, she had lost control.
She was always in control. Always.
Every choice she had ever made had been hers. Every step, every mistake, every victory—they belonged to her, not to fate or chaos. She had never been the kind of person to let things happen to her. She made things happen. That was the only way she knew how to live.
Her choices, her errors, they had to be her own. The idea of losing control, of becoming something reactive instead of decisive, was unbearable. She had spent a lifetime making sure that nothing, no one, ever dictated her path. She decided when to stay, when to leave, when to fight, when to disappear.
And she could have. At any time, she could have walked away from the training. She could have snapped her fingers, vanished into another timeline, disappeared into another life. But she hadn’t. She had chosen to stay, to fight, to carve out a place for herself in this era, on her terms.
And now, after all of it, she had slipped.
She had failed.
And maybe that man had deserved it. Maybe he was nothing but filth, just another parasite clinging to the streets.
But that didn’t matter.
Because the moment she lost control, the moment she let something other than her own will dictate her actions— she became something she hated.
She felt stupid. So, so stupid.
Her breath hitched, and she realized too late that she was crying. When had that started? The tears blurred her vision, her chest tightening like a vice. She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs refused to expand, her throat constricted as if something had wrapped around it. The world was closing in, shrinking, pressing in from all sides. She needed air, but she couldn’t get enough.
Somewhere through the haze she heard Peter’s voice, and when Jane looked at his face she noticed that he wasn’t wearing his mask anymore. “ Jane? Hey, Jane, are you okay? ”
She barely registered his words. Her heart was racing, her limbs trembling. She was sinking, falling into something dark and endless, and she didn’t know how to claw her way back up.
Then, suddenly, warmth.
Peter had moved closer. Closer than she expected.
And then, just like that, he wrapped his arms around her.
It wasn’t suffocating, not too tight. He left space between them, an unspoken understanding that she could pull away if she wanted to. But she didn’t.
Instead, she let herself fall against him, resting her weight in his hold. She clung to him, tight.
It felt ridiculous, pathetic, like she was grasping at anything to keep from drowning, but she needed this. God, she needed this.
Because for so long, too long, she had felt this small. No matter how hard she tried to hide it. She had been fighting this battle for what felt like a lifetime, a battle she couldn’t even begin to put into words. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she allowed herself to lean on someone else.
They remained in that embrace for a while. Maybe seconds, maybe minutes. Jane couldn’t tell. But slowly, with each passing breath, the pressure in her chest began to ease. Her lungs found air again, and her heart, though still racing, no longer threatened to shatter her ribs with every beat.
Eventually, Peter loosened the hug and stepped back slightly. “The first time’s always like that,” he said quietly. “My first mission? Total disaster. I ran home and puked up my entire breakfast. It’s a mess. But hey, we did it. We saved those people.”
Jane raised a hand, stopping him. “Peter, you’re sweet. Really. But I don’t want to talk about it right now. Please.”
Peter blinked, then nodded slowly. “Okay. Fair. But since we’ve got time…” He tilted his head with that familiar curiosity. “How about answering one of those questions you promised you’d get around to? Something about your past?”
It wasn’t just curiosity. Jane could tell. He was trying to distract her, to steer her thoughts away from the chaos of what had just happened. It was subtle, but it was kind. And she appreciated it more than she could say.
“Alright. Shoot. What do you want to know?”
He thought about it for a moment, rocking back on his heels. “Where are you from? Your file said no one really knows.”
Jane’s expression shifted. “You want the S.H.I.E.L.D. version or the real one?”
Peter shrugged. “Both?”
Jane sighed. “Well, according to S.H.I.E.L.D., I’m the daughter of immigrants. Came over from Italy when I was thirteen. Grew up here in New York. And yeah, name’s Jane Russo. Only…” Her voice dropped slightly. “That family doesn’t exist. That life doesn’t exist. And truth be told, my name isn’t Jane either. Not really.”
She paused, glancing up at him. “It’s been so long since anyone’s called me by my real name, it doesn’t even feel like mine anymore. But it was Ginevra. Ginevra D’Acquaviva.”
Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait—seriously? Italian? That’s wild. My aunt’s Italian too.” He paused, squinting at her. “But you don’t even have an accent. Like, at all. I’d never have guessed. I thought you were… I don’t know. Finnish? Danish? One of those European countries where it’s always cold and warriors wear blonde braids and have scary tattoos.”
Something about the way he said it—so genuinely surprised, so earnestly confused—tipped something in Jane.
“You know Vikings don’t exist anymore, right?”
She let out a laugh, sudden and sharp and maybe just a little bit hysterical. It bubbled up from somewhere deep inside her, uncontrollable.
God, this kid. He was ridiculous. In the best way.
Minutes ago, she’d been drowning in her own mind. Now she was laughing like an idiot on a rooftop.
Maybe she was going crazy. Maybe Barton was right. Maybe she’d never really be ready for this life.
But she couldn’t dwell on it. Not now.
They talked for a while longer. About how Jane had traveled the world for years before coming back to the States, and how he, an awkward teenager, had suddenly found himself living life as Spider-Man, and how Tony had helped him through it all.
Peter was truly a good kid. Genuine. Kind-hearted. The kind of person who couldn’t stand by and watch someone get hurt, even if it meant putting himself in danger.
And he was made for this life, you could tell. There was a sharpness to him, a brilliance that shone through even when he didn’t seem fully aware of it himself. It was in the way he moved, the way he thought on his feet, the way he talked about doing the right thing like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He was young, yes, and still carried that boyish awkwardness, but there was no denying it: Peter Parker had the heart of a hero.
The sky had already shifted into the soft hues of sunset when Jane realized it was probably time to head back.
She wiped her eyes and looked at Peter again. “We should get back. They’re probably wondering where we are.”
Peter tilted his head, then put his mask back on. “Back to the Tower?”
Jane nodded. “Yeah.”
He held out a hand. “I’ll give you a lift.”
She groaned, remembering the swinging chaos from earlier. “God, that was awful.”
Peter grinned under his mask. “Close your eyes this time. Pretend it’s a rollercoaster. It helps.”
When Peter landed on the roof of the Avengers Tower, setting Jane back on her feet, she was still tense from the journey, her body stiff as she forced herself to stand properly. One thing was certain: she hated going around New York like that. But she didn’t say anything. She wasn’t exactly in a position to complain.
Waiting for her on the rooftop was Clint Barton, his arms crossed, his expression clearly unimpressed. Jane exhaled sharply and turned to Peter. “Thanks. Now you can go.”
Peter hesitated. “You sure? Need anything else?”
Jane shot him a look. “Look, I’m older than you. I should be the one taking care of you, not the other way around. So go, before I have to kick you off this roof myself.”
Peter chuckled. “Alright, alright. I get it.” With a flick of his wrist, he launched another web and disappeared over the edge of the Tower.
Jane turned back toward Barton, inhaling a slow, steadying breath. He didn’t even look angry. Just… tired.
“You were gone for hours,” Barton said, his tone edged with frustration. “Where the hell did you go?”
Jane rolled her shoulders. “I was with Peter. Didn’t realize it had been that long.”
Barton let out a breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “You can’t just disappear after a mission, Jane. That’s not how this works. For a second, I thought you’d run.”
Something flared in Jane’s chest—annoyance, exhaustion. She crossed her arms. “If I wanted to run, I would’ve done it months ago. Not now.”
Barton studied her, but Jane wasn’t done. “And even if I had, I don’t owe anyone an explanation. I’m not here because of some personal ambition. I’m here because I was asked to be. I wasn’t the one in need. Maybe you should remember that.”
With that, she turned on her heel and stalked toward the rooftop door leading inside. She needed a shower. And sleep. God, how long had it been since she’d actually slept? Would she even be able to? She doubted it. There were too many thoughts clawing at the edges of her mind.
Barton called after her. “We’re not done talking.”
Jane stopped but didn’t turn around. Instead, she exhaled, voice steady. “You’re not my father, Barton. I don’t need a lecture. Today has been bad enough already. I’m taking a shower, and you’re going to leave me the hell alone.”
For a moment, there was silence. Then, finally, Barton let it go. He didn’t follow her.
Jane didn’t know where she had found the strength to stand her ground, but she didn’t care. She reached her quarters, shut the door behind her, and let her legs finally give out. Sliding down against the wood, she sat on the floor, her back pressed against the door, her head tilting up as she let out a slow breath.
Through the large windows, New York’s skyline stretched out before her, shimmering under the night sky. It was hypnotizing, almost unreal.
In that moment, she made herself a promise.
She would never lose control again.
Never.
When Jane finally rose from the floor, she exhaled sharply and tugged at the zipper running down the side of her black training suit. The material clung to her skin, too tight, too suffocating. Every muscle in her body ached. She unzipped it halfway, just enough to breathe easier, then moved toward the center of the room where a sleek sectional couch sat in an L-shape facing a low glass coffee table.
It was then that she noticed something resting on the table. A small card, folded in half, and next to it, a tiny box, maybe palm-sized. Curious, Jane stepped closer and picked them both up.
The card was simple, handwritten in Tony Stark’s unmistakably cocky scrawl:
Consider it a welcome gift. Meet me in my personal Batcave. She’ll tell you what to do.
-Tony
Jane arched an eyebrow and opened the box. Inside sat a sleek, matte-black earpiece. Clearly Stark tech. She turned it over in her fingers, hesitating only a moment before fitting it gently over her right ear.
With a faint click, the device powered on.
A soft, distinctly feminine voice chimed in her ear—warm, crisp, and laced with the faintest hint of sarcasm:
“Recognition complete. Agent Jane Russo registered.”
Jane blinked. “Okay… and what exactly am I supposed to do with you?”
“Well,” the voice replied smoothly, “you could start by calling me S.A.S.S.I.—Smart-Ass Support System Interface. I’m here to support you through your training and missions.”
Jane let out a groan, dragging a hand down her face. “Oh, please. I’m really supposed to call you that? In public?”
“I recommend it,” Sassi replied, entirely unbothered. “Otherwise I might ignore your life-threatening requests out of spite. Just kidding. Mostly.”
Jane shook her head. Of course Stark would think this was hilarious.
“Alright, Sassi,” she muttered, adjusting the earpiece slightly, “what now?”
“Mr. Stark is expecting you in his lab,” Sassi replied. “And yes, I’ll guide you there. Try not to get lost.”
Jane sighed, shook her head lightly, and started moving toward the door.
“Lead the way.”
The AI chimed cheerfully, “With pleasure. Try to keep up.”
Jane zipped up her suit with a swift, irritated motion and followed Sassi’s directions through the quiet corridors of the Avengers Tower. The AI guided her down to one of the lower levels, where the lighting was cooler, more clinical. They stopped in front of a sleek sliding door that hummed faintly. A soft blue light swept across Jane’s eye—retinal scan. After a short pause, the door opened with a quiet hiss.
Inside, Tony Stark was hunched over one of his Iron Man suits, deeply focused, his brow furrowed as sparks flew from the welding tool in his hand. The lab was a cathedral of metal and glass, filled with mechanical arms, projection screens, and half-finished prototypes. He hadn’t noticed her yet.
Jane stood there, momentarily frozen. Even now, seeing him like this—so familiar, yet so different—it took her breath away. He was older, of course. The boy she remembered was long gone. But the curve of his jaw, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his hands moved with practiced precision. It was still him.
And that alone was enough to shake her.
She fought to keep her face blank, to pretend this didn’t affect her. That seeing him again, like this, didn’t set every nerve in her body on fire.
She cleared her throat.
Tony looked up immediately, blinking like he was just emerging from another world. “Ah, about time,” he said, brushing a hand through his hair. “I’ve been waiting for hours.”
Jane crossed her arms. “Women are supposed to be fashionably late.” Her tone was clipped, and she wasn’t really in the mood for banter. Not after today. Not after everything.
Tony smirked slightly and gestured to a raised mechanical platform. “Up you go.”
Jane frowned. “Why?”
“Just do it.” he said, not unkindly, but with that same stubborn confidence that hadn’t changed a bit.
She stepped onto the platform.
“Agent Jane Russo recognized. Initiating full-body scan,” chimed a different AI, this one colder, more clinical.
“Don’t move,” Tony instructed, stepping closer with a tablet in one hand, eyes scanning data in real time. “Hold still.”
Jane obeyed, trying not to squirm. He was close now. Closer than she was comfortable with. She could smell him—musk, metal, and something subtly sweet she couldn’t name. It hit her like a punch. The same scent he wore years ago. The same.
She stared past him, refusing to meet his eyes.
Tony continued speaking without looking up. “Heard you handled the situation. Robbery neutralized.”
Jane shrugged, voice low. “I wouldn’t call it a success. I don’t even know if that man survived.”
“Don’t move,” Tony reminded her, his voice softer now, as he leaned in to check something on the display hovering above her.
He was close. Too close.
She clenched her jaw, determined not to flinch. This wasn’t her Tony. And she wasn’t the girl who had once loved him. Those people didn’t exist anymore, not really.
She kept her eyes down, and that’s when she noticed the faint, circular glow beneath his grey t-shirt. A soft light pulsing from his chest. Her brows furrowed slightly, curiosity getting the better of her.
Tony smirked. “Not every day you come face-to-face with a guy who literally has a heart of iron, huh?”
Jane blinked, confused. “What is that?”
He stepped back slightly, resting his palm just over the light. “It’s an Arc Reactor. Keeps shrapnel from piercing my heart. Long story short, I build toys, I get blown up, I improvise.”
Jane’s lips parted, almost involuntarily. He could have died. The mere thought of it makes her feel sick.
Tony looked up at her, he was close. “So, a secret for a secret. I just gave you something about me. Your turn.”
He wasn’t looking at the tablet anymore. He was looking directly at her.
Even though she stood elevated on the scanning pedestal, she felt small under that gaze. Small and exposed.
Jane swallowed, trying to steady her voice. “What do you want to know?”
Tony tilted his head. “Well, according to your file, you spent your teen years in New York. But we both know that’s S.H.I.E.L.D.’s fabrication. Truth is, no one knows who you really are.”
Jane’s heart pounded. She met his gaze, carefully. “Why does that matter to you? Of all the things you could ask—my powers, my intentions—you just want to know who I am? Why?”
Tony hesitated. His voice dropped, quieter now.
“Because I… I think I’ve seen—”
The space between them had grown dangerously thin.
Jane could see everything. The faint stubble along his jaw, the way his brows pulled together ever so slightly, the tension locked into every line of his face. She could read him like a memory. Like a ghost she’d lived beside for years.
Her eyes drifted lower, lingering on his lips.
And just like that, the past came rushing back.
There had been a time when this closeness had meant something else. When she didn’t flinch at the sound of his voice or fear what might happen if he touched her. When the feel of his mouth against hers had been routine, not unthinkable.
A time when they had shared a home.
A bed.
A life.
When she had believed—naively, desperately—that they could build something lasting.
And now, standing in this room with him, and the silence thick between them, she was reminded of all of it.
Something inside her twisted.
And then, without even realizing, she leaned in. She hadn’t meant to move. Maybe it was muscle memory. Maybe it was the way the air had gone still between them.
Not much. Just enough.
Just enough to feel his breath on her skin.
Just enough for the heat between them to sharpen, shift, tip into something dangerous.
Her eyes flicked up to meet his again—and for the briefest instant, there was something in his gaze that told her he felt it too.
Something fragile. Familiar.
And then—“Scan complete. All data successfully recorded.”
The sound of the AI—neutral, functional, perfectly timed—was like a cold blade through warm skin.
The moment shattered.
Tony blinked, his jaw tensing as he turned toward the sound, already pulling himself back into the armor of who he was now.
Jane remained still, heart pounding in her chest, her face still inches from where his had been.
Whatever had just almost happened, whatever almost slipped out… It was gone.
He stepped back. “We’re done here. You can step down.”
Jane exhaled slowly, eyes darting anywhere but at him. Her feet touched the ground again, and she kept her head down.
“What was that for?” she asked quietly.
It wasn’t interest. It wasn’t even confusion. It was deflection, pure and simple. A desperate attempt to shift the weight of the moment, to pull them both back from the edge of something she wasn’t ready to name.
Because whatever Tony had been about to say… it terrified her .
Because that closeness had clouded her mind, fogged her judgment , and his questions—whatever they had sounded like in the moment—were probably just that: questions born of curiosity. Nothing more.
He was curious, that’s all. Curious because she was strange, because she didn’t fit the mold, because she wasn’t supposed to exist.
A woman with no past, no roots, who had appeared out of nowhere with powers that bent the world in ways it wasn’t meant to bend.
A puzzle. A fascinating anomaly.
And to someone like Tony Stark, that was enough. She intrigued him. That’s all it was.
She was the unknown. A shiny, unsolved mystery.
And sure, she was attractive, but that didn’t mean anything. Not to someone like him. He had always been surrounded by beautiful women— intelligent, poised, powerful women .
He wasn’t drawn to her. He was drawn to the novelty. To the power she carried, the secrets she held, the fact that he couldn’t quite figure her out.
That’s what she was. An interesting toy. A riddle. Something he could poke and prod at until he got bored.
And it was better that way.
It was better to believe that than to let herself think— even for a second —that she mattered.
Because if she started to believe that…
She wouldn’t survive it when he eventually proved her wrong.
“You’ll find out soon.” Tony said, answering her question. Then, more gently, “By the way, the guy you hit—he’s going to be okay. Second-degree burns. That’s all. No casualties, no hostages hurt. You did good.”
Jane stared at him, then she nodded slightly. At that point, she just wanted to leave quickly.
“Thank you for letting me know.”
But just as she turned to go, his voice stopped her again.
“Jane—do you have a favorite color?”
She turned, confused. “What?”
He smiled faintly. “Just answer.”
“I don’t know. Maybe… purple?”
Tony’s smirk widened. “Yeah. Purple’s a good color. You can go now. Sorry for taking your time.”
She left without another word.
And as soon as the door shut behind her, Jane realized she’d been holding her breath.
She leaned back against the corridor wall, staring down the long stretch of white. She didn’t know where she found the strength to face him like that. To act like it didn’t tear her apart.
But maybe it had.
Beneath all those layers of false calm—the hypocrisy, the pretending, the pride . Maybe she was broken in a way that couldn’t be fixed.
And for the first time in nearly eight months, she wondered if coming back had been a mistake.
She had spent all that time telling herself that she’d returned for just one reason: to find a purpose, a direction, something to aim for, something to give all those years meaning. Because living through so many lives without a motive had started to feel more like a curse than a gift.
She told herself, again and again, that it wasn’t about Tony.
It couldn’t be.
There was nothing left between them.
Too much time had passed.
And the first goodbye… the first time she had walked away from him, torn in pieces, had hurt too much.
She couldn’t do it again. She wouldn’t risk it.
And besides, it was too late. She still had the face of a twenty-something girl, while he—he was a man now. A man with a life. A partner.
But that lie, that carefully crafted facade of indifference, was getting harder to maintain.
The truth was uglier.
She had come back for him.
Not to win him back. Not to ask for anything. Just to see him. One more time.
To know he was real. Alive. Breathing in the same world she walked in.
She hadn’t imagined how much it would hurt. How much it would still hurt.
No—she wouldn’t go back, not now. Not after everything.
But still, the question hung in her chest like a weight.
A quiet doubt, lingering beneath the surface—whispering that maybe she had taken a wrong turn. That maybe this path, this return… wasn’t what it should’ve been.
Notes:
If you’re still reading, thank you very much! It truly means so much to me. And if you feel like it, I’d love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. :3
This one was particularly fun to write because it marked Jane’s first mission. Sure, it didn’t exactly go as planned, but that made it even more interesting. It allowed me to start peeling back more layers of Jane’s character, showing how she reacts under pressure and what’s really going on beneath the surface.
I also loved being able to include Peter. His lightness and awkward charm are such a great contrast to Jane’s guarded nature, and their dynamic is only going to grow from here. I’m very fond of both of them, so pairing them up (even just for a mission) felt really natural.
And of course, I can’t go without talking about Jane and Tony’s interactions, at least a bit. That closeness between them—so full of unspoken history, confusion, and longing—was such a delicate moment to write. There’s so much they’re not saying. It’s messy, it’s painful, and it’s not even close to being resolved. And that’s exactly what makes it so rich to explore.
I hope I’ll be able to post the next chapter soon—and again, thank you so much for reading! See you soon! ❤️
Chapter Text
Pepper stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, her damp hair twisted into a loose bun at the crown of her head. Steam curled lazily into the cool air of the bedroom fading behind her as she moved into the space, quiet, familiar. She knew this room in the dark better than she knew any other place in the world—every shadow, every line of light drawn from the city skyline. And she knew the man in that bed even better.
Tony lay half-turned in the sheets, one arm thrown over his chest, the other resting on the empty pillow beside him. His hair was tousled, a sheen of sweat faint on his temples. The sheets were tangled from the way he’d pulled her against him, the scent of his skin still lingering on her. It hadn’t been rushed, not this time. There had been a certain slowness to it, a tenderness she hadn’t expected after the kind of day they’d both had. Long hours. Stress. Tension. Meetings that went nowhere, and people who wanted too much. But for one brief hour, it had just been them. Just touch and breath and the familiar rhythm of two people who knew every scar on each other’s skin.
And now, as always, the quiet had returned.
Pepper padded across the floor on bare feet, the silk of her nightgown whispering softly against her skin as she slipped it over her shoulders. She adjusted the straps with deft fingers and moved to the vanity, dabbing away the last trace of makeup beneath her eyes. The pale glow of the city lights spilled in through the tall windows, painting streaks of silver and gold across her reflection. She looked tired. Not just physically, but the kind of tired that lingered behind the eyes, in the bones.
She turned slightly, glancing toward the bed. Tony hadn’t moved much. His breathing was deep, slow, but not restful. She could tell. The way his fingers twitched slightly, the way his brow creased. He was dreaming.
Tony stirred, shifting under the covers, murmuring something unintelligible. She watched for a moment, thinking he might wake—but he didn’t.
His head jerked lightly on the pillow. His face tightened with some invisible weight, as though he were fighting something from far away.
Pepper crossed the room without thinking. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hand rising to brush his hair back, gentle and instinctive.
“Hey,” she whispered, her voice soft. “It’s alright. I’m here.”
He didn’t wake. His lips moved again, forming shapes that slowly began to take form.
“Jane…”
Pepper’s fingers froze mid-stroke.
Had she heard that right?
Maybe not. Maybe the exhaustion was playing tricks on her. But then Tony murmured again.
The name came out softer the second time, like a secret slipping from his mouth.
She sat perfectly still. Her heart thudded—just once, loud enough to feel like a drumbeat in her ears.
Pepper pulled her hand back slowly, her body going stiff. Her breath caught in her throat. A thousand thoughts collided at once, but none of them made it to her lips.
He was dreaming of her.
Jane.
She kept sitting there, not because she didn’t want to move, but because she wasn’t sure if she could. She didn’t know if it was because she was too stunned, or because some part of her didn’t want to interrupt it.
Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe the name didn’t mean anything.
She stayed still, tense.
As if hoping that, by not moving, his words might shift, reshape themselves into something else. Something easier to explain. Something safer.
His face was peaceful, now. Unaware. Unburdened by the weight of the words he’d just said in his sleep. A whisper. That’s all it had taken to shake something inside her loose.
And yet… she wasn’t surprised.
She had seen it. From the moment Jane had entered their lives, something had shifted in Tony. A subtle gravity pulling his gaze across the room. A question he hadn’t yet asked, always sitting on the edge of his thoughts. He’d tried to be discreet, maybe he thought he had been, but Pepper had known Tony Stark for too long. She saw it in the way he lingered in conversation with Jane just a second too long. In the quiet fascination in his voice when he talked about her abilities. Her past. Her.
Pepper exhaled, slowly, and slipped beneath the sheets—not close to him, not like she normally would. She stayed on her side of the bed, in silence, eyes fixed on the ceiling watching the shadows shift with the lights of the city.
Jane.
The name circled in her mind, quiet but persistent.
Then Tony moved behind her. His arm slid around her waist, drawing her in, his body falling naturally into hers, like it always did.
It was almost absurd. Ironic, even.
Not long ago, they’d shared the kind of intimacy that made everything else fade away. Now, that same closeness felt suddenly… uncertain. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t lean into it either.
She just stayed there. Still. Caught somewhere in between.
One voice, rational, calm, told her she got upset over nothing. That it was a name in a dream and nothing more. That she was tired. That people dream of all sorts of things that don’t mean anything.
The other voice, the one she tried to ignore, spoke firmer.
You know how he is. You’ve seen that look. You’ve felt when someone becomes a distraction. You know what it’s like to be the one who isn’t.
And maybe that was it. Maybe it wasn’t about Jane specifically. Maybe it was just the creeping feeling that she was slowly becoming… background noise.
She closed her eyes, not because she was ready to sleep, but because she didn’t want to stare at the ceiling any longer.
Tony’s breathing deepened behind her. Steady. Peaceful.
And Pepper envied him, because she knew sleep wouldn’t come easily that night.
____
Jane stood at the center of the training room, boots grounded firmly against the polished floor, every muscle in her body tight.. Across from her, Clint Barton was watching with his arms crossed and his usual war-hardened stare, like he was back in some field camp halfway across the world. Behind him, Peter was stretching, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet with that easy energy that only teenagers seemed to have.
“Teamwork.” Clint had said earlier, his tone flat, like the word itself was heavier than it should be. “You want to be part of a team? Then you need to learn how to work like one.”
And honestly, Jane didn’t mind. She liked Peter. He had this lightness to him, this quick enthusiasm that made the room feel less like a prison. And lately, being alone with Clint had gotten… difficult. He always seemed just a little annoyed with her, like everything she did was wrong or not enough. Jane wasn’t an idiot, she knew he didn’t want to be here. She could feel it in the way he talked to her, in the clipped way he issued instructions. This assignment? Training her? It wasn’t something he’d volunteered for. It was a burden. A duty.
Still, he’d been clear: “Until you manage to lift yourself off the ground, you’re not joining the training session.”
Jane had rolled her eyes, thinking it was just a cheap soldier’s tactic to motivate her, tough love and all that nonsense. But Clint wasn’t bluffing. He meant it.
“Come on, kid!” he turned toward Peter, gesturing for him to step forward. “Let’s get started. And no webs this time. Hand-to-hand only. I want to see what you’ve got.”
Peter looked between Jane and Clint, hesitant. “Wait—can we give it like… two minutes? I want to see her fly.”
Clint let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I doubt we’ll see anything today. She doesn’t believe she can do it.”
Jane’s blood went cold. Her fists clenched before she even realized it. That smug, dismissive tone, he knew exactly what he was doing. It was bait. And it worked.
She forced her eyes shut. Tried to drown them out. Clint and Peter sparring, the shuffle of their feet against the mat, the thud of impact, the sound of effort. None of it mattered.
She had to levitate. That was the task. That was her challenge.
It wasn’t unlike when she had first trained with fire, focus had been everything then too. Closing herself off from the noise, the weight of the world, the pressure of being watched. She’d had to strip all that away and find something still within herself.
Same now. Same principle. Different execution.
She braced herself—shoulders relaxed, arms loose, eyes closed. Her feet were steady on the ground. Her mind… not quite. But she tried anyway.
The key, she reminded herself, wasn’t about lifting something else. This time, the object was her.
She wasn’t pulling a weapon through the air or bending a current of water or sending roots through the earth. She was the thing to move.
That was harder.
There was no image to fixate on, no visual cue. Just herself. Her own weight. Her own center.
And yet, something whispered, not in her ears, not even in her mind, but deeper, in that instinctive place where her power lived. She didn’t have to move. She had to un-anchor.
Let go. Just enough to feel it.
After a while Jane felt it again, that telltale pull at her heels, the weightlessness climbing slowly up the arches of her feet. It was faint at first, like the whisper of a promise just out of reach, but it was there. Real. Tangible. The same sensation she’d felt a few days ago, only now sharper, more controlled. She focused on it, honed in on that current of energy that hummed through her, almost like it belonged to someone else, or something older inside di lei. She was close. So close.
Then— crash.
A loud, blunt impact shattered the concentration in her skull like glass.
Jane’s eyes flew open just in time to see Clint Barton slamming, hard, into the training room wall. His back hit first, knocking the breath out of him in a forceful grunt before he slid down to his knees, visibly stunned. Peter stood a few feet away, frozen in place, his arms half-raised and eyes wide.
“I didn’t mean to—I mean, I thought you’d dodge—I’m sorry, Mr. Barton, seriously, I didn’t mean to hit you that hard!” Peter stammered, hands up in panic.
Jane didn’t even try to suppress the tiny smirk that curved her lips. Watching Clint— the ever-impenetrable, ever-grim Clint— crumble like unassembled IKEA furniture was oddly satisfying. Especially after weeks of him barking orders and giving her that permanent look of disappointment. And he was fine. A little bruised ego didn’t count as collateral damage.
Still kneeling, Clint gave Peter a look that could’ve stripped paint from the walls. Then, with a breath and a wince, he pushed himself to his feet. He was hurting, that much was obvious, but he didn’t hesitate, didn’t flinch. He just moved. Clean, efficient. Straight back into stance like nothing had happened.
Jane watched him, admiration creeping in around the edges of her annoyance. He really was all discipline and grit. No powers, no enhancements, just skill and sheer will. And under the layers of frustration she harbored toward him, she knew she respected that. Even envied it. He wasn’t born with a gift. He worked for everything.
And maybe that’s what bothered her most, because deep down, she didn’t trust herself the way he trusted his training. Not yet.
She closed her eyes again. Breathed in. Breathed out. Drowned out the background noise of Peter and Clint circling each other again. There was no room for them, not now. It was her. Just her. And her own weight to lift.
She planted her feet. Listened for the current inside. It started again, a coil of warmth behind her ribs, a slow thrum in her bones. Do it. You’ve done it before. You can do it again.
It built up like static, like tension in the air before lightning cracks.
Light. Be light.
Then, she felt it. The snap of separation. The shift.
And then thud — her feet hit the ground again, harder than before. She stumbled back a step, but she knew.
She knew. She’d lifted off. Even just a little.
She looked up, breath caught in her throat, and heard Peter’s voice break through: “Jane! You did it! I saw it! You were off the ground!”
Her eyes scanned past him, looking instead at Barton. She wouldn’t admit it aloud, but she needed to see it in his face—the acknowledgment. Something.
Clint tilted his head, rubbing at his ribs, and said, “We can do better. But… not bad. Now we can start.”
And then he charged.
Jane had a second to realize what was happening before he was on her. She reacted on instinct, spinning out of his first strike but catching the second—a solid hit to her shoulder. Pain bloomed through her, but she grit her teeth and pushed through.
He was stronger. He was faster. But she was quick, and she was stubborn, and she wasn’t going to let him throw her around anymore.
She kept her guard up, reading his movements, counting the beats between his attacks. She waited, and then struck.
A quick jab to his side, just under the ribs. Clint grunted, staggered back a step. Jane didn’t hesitate. She rolled through, catching him low, and sent him off balance.
Yes.
She knew she wasn’t better. Not yet. But she was closing the distance. She was earning it.
And then he swept her leg and dropped her to the floor in a hard thump.
Clint offered no hand as she sat up, winded and bruised. He just looked down at her with a flicker of approval buried deep in his eyes.
“Don’t get cocky, Russo.” he said, breathing hard. “We’ve got a long road ahead.”
And yes, there was still a long road ahead—Jane knew that. But at least she’d started walking it.
The second phase of training was, once again, focused on making her fly. Levitation was one thing. Flying was another. And Clint seemed more determined than ever to push her off the edge. Literally.
“This time,” he had said, arms crossed in that annoyingly stern way of his, “you’re going to fly with help.”
The plan was simple. Peter would sling a web around her waist, lift her up through the high arc of the training dome with his webs, and then, at the right moment, let go. The drop, the rush of panic, the sheer helplessness of it… that was supposed to trigger her instinct. Clint called it “motivated flight.” Jane called it borderline sadistic.
She had stared at him like he’d lost his mind. Which, frankly, she suspected he had.
Inside, her whole being was screaming, Are you out of your mind? Seriously? I’m not ready for this!
But out loud? Nothing. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.
Peter, though—Peter had no such reservations.
“Uh, no,” he had said, throwing both hands up. “Absolutely not. Not happening. I’m not tossing her like a sack of potatoes. What if she gets hurt?”
“She won’t.” Clint replied flatly. “She either flies or she gets up and tries again.”
Clint had safety mats dragged onto the training floor. Thick, reinforced, the kind they used for advanced simulations and aerial drills.
Only then, reluctantly, Peter agreed.
“Okay,” he said, adjusting the lenses of his mask. “But if she gets hurt, I’m blaming you.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “How sweet of you.”
They started.
Peter shot a web to the ceiling, took Jane by the waist with a hesitant grip, and then launched. For a moment, the air surged around her, wild and alive. She felt weightless, and then… He let go.
She hit the mat hard, air whooshing out of her lungs as her body slammed flat onto her side. Pain sparked from her shoulder down her ribs. Her first reaction was a bitter, groaning laugh. “Great,” she muttered, rolling onto her back. “First flight and I’m already roadkill.”
Peter helped her up, murmuring apologies, already glancing at Clint like maybe, just maybe, they were done. But no. Clint simply crossed his arms and said, “Again.”
The second launch was higher. Peter seemed to think that maybe more altitude would give her time to think, to adjust, to figure it out. She tried. God, she tried. She closed her eyes, focused on everything Clint had drilled into her—the way levitation felt like pulling her body upward with invisible strings. But those strings refused to appear. She flailed midair, twisted awkwardly, and landed face-first this time. Her forehead bounced slightly on impact. Her pride took a direct hit.
She didn’t say anything this time. She just lay there, staring at the ceiling for a few seconds, biting the inside of her cheek.
Third round. She didn’t even argue.
She got up, walked back into place, waited for Peter’s hands to circle her again. She felt the pull as they soared. Faster now, sharper. Her body arched beautifully, and for one brief, glorious second, she thought she had it. She could feel the momentum align. She could feel something within her beginning to shift. But then gravity won, and she dropped like a stone.
This time, when she landed, she didn’t get up right away. She curled on her side, every part of her aching. Her arms, her knees, her neck, her damn pride. She squeezed her eyes shut, just for a second, willing herself not to cry.
“Maybe that’s enough.” Peter’s voice came gently from somewhere to her left. She heard his sneakers scuff against the floor as he approached. “I don’t think this is working.”
“She’s not done.” came Clint’s voice.
“Dude, come on!” Peter stepped forward again. “She’s getting hurt.”
And for the first time, there was anger in his voice .
“I’ve had worse.” Jane muttered through gritted teeth, forcing herself upright. Her ribs screamed in protest.
Peter’s eyes were full of concern. “This is just not okay. I’m not doing it again. No way. Not unless she says it.”
Jane swayed slightly as she got to her feet. Her limbs trembled from exhaustion. Her muscles felt like jelly. But she reached out, placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder, and met his gaze.
“Let’s do it.” she said softly. “One more time. Just one.”
Peter stared at her, uncertain. “You sure? I’m hating every single second of it.”
Not even a little. But she nodded. “Yeah.”
This time, when Peter wrapped the web around her torso, slung another thread toward the ceiling, and pulled them both high into the air, she could feel he did it in the most delicate way possibile. Not that it changed anything, anyway.
Then the world blurred beneath her. She had barely enough time to suck in a breath before Peter flung her forward with all his strength.
She fell.
The air howled past her ears. The mat rushed up to meet her—and then, it didn’t. She didn’t crash. She didn’t land.
She rose.
It was like something clicked, some ancient muscle deep in her core remembered what it meant to fight for her life. Panic surged, but instead of drowning her, it focused her. Her limbs steadied. Her body aligned.
She wasn’t falling anymore. She was flying.
The wind caught her, wrapped around her like a current, lifting her higher. She wasn’t just floating—she was soaring, slicing through the length of the training room in a streak of speed and momentum. Her ponytail whipped behind her. Her heart thundered in her ears. And all she could feel was the rush. The freedom.
“WHOA!” Peter’s voice erupted in the distance, full of pure, unfiltered joy. “JANE! You’re FLYING!”
The landing wasn’t perfect. It never was the first time. She hit the mat at an angle, tumbled, and rolled hard onto her ankle. She hissed sharply through her teeth. Pain flared up her leg. But it didn’t matter.
She had flown.
She rose slowly, brushing sweat from her brow, her chest heaving. And then she turned, her eyes locking on Clint. She wanted to scream, Are you happy now?
He said nothing. Just gave a small, theatrical clap.
But he smiled. Fully, sincerely.
“Well,” he said, “I guess that’s enough for today.”
Just as Clint’s words faded and Jane was still catching her breath, the door to the training room slid open with a faint mechanical hiss.
Daniel stepped inside, a little out of place in his perfectly pressed button-up and that ever-slightly-too-smug expression. “Ah,” he said with a grin, “looks like I’ve arrived at the perfect moment. I’ve got something for all three of you.”
He strolled toward them, pulling from his leather folio three elegant, navy blue envelopes—thick paper, silver trim. Fancy. He handed them out one by one, like they were being summoned to a royal ball.
“A charity gala,” Daniel explained, tone practiced, like he’d rehearsed this spiel. “Hosted by Stark Industries, spearheaded by Ms. Potts herself. They haven’t done one in a while, but after Sokovia, Tony and Pepper are putting in even more effort to keep up with their philanthropic commitments. This one’s a big deal. Formal. Media. Donors. You three have been invited.”
Jane opened hers slowly. The embossed lettering shimmered under the training room lights. She had no dress. No interest in dancing or networking or playing pretend. But Tony would be there. And that was enough to keep her fingers from closing the envelope again.
She didn’t even know what she’d say to him, if she’d say anything at all, but the idea of seeing him again outside of a mission briefing or lab scan… it stirred something she didn’t want to name. Something dangerous. Something she should probably shut down.
Every time her mind even brushed the thought of Tony Stark, it was like standing too close to a cliff’s edge. Equal parts attraction and instinctive fear.
Once Daniel had delivered his message, he gave them a quick nod and excused himself, humming some unidentifiable pop tune as he left.
Jane was still staring at the invitation when Peter approached her. Gently, he touched her shoulder, his face etched with quiet worry. “Hey,” he said softly. “Are you okay? I’m really sorry if I hurt you today. I didn’t mean to. This training—it’s a lot more intense than I thought it would be.”
She turned toward him, and suddenly something in her chest cracked. Whether from the fatigue, the bruises, or the kindness in his voice, her eyes prickled. She blinked fast, but the tears slowly started to show up anyway.
Peter noticed, but to his credit, didn’t say a word. He just gave her shoulder a little squeeze.
“You’re amazing,” he said simply. “Seriously. I don’t know how you do it. You just kept going until you made it happen. I mean, you flew. You actually flew. That was… that was incredible. I’m really glad I get to train with someone like you. I’ve got a lot to learn.”
She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she just nodded, lips pressing into a shaky smile.
Clint, who had been leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, finally pushed off it and called out, “You two can take tomorrow off. No training.”
Peter threw his hands in the air. “Oh, thank God.”
Jane half-laughed, half-wheezed. “You serious?”
Clint raised an eyebrow. “I’m serious when it suits me.”
Peter was already making a beeline for the exit. “Finally a Saturday off! I’m gonna sleep for, like, fourteen hours. Jane, you coming?”
Jane started to follow, her legs stiff and sore, but Clint’s voice stopped her just before the door.
“Russo. Hang on.”
She turned, weary. Please don’t be another surprise sparring match, she begged silently. She wasn’t sure she could lift her arms, let alone block a punch.
But Clint only walked to a nearby bench where a tactical backpack sat, slung over one of the corners. He unzipped a side pocket and pulled out a small white envelope.
He held it out. “Your first paycheck. There’s a card inside. Debit. They set up an account for you. The money’s already in.”
Jane blinked, taken aback. “Wait. You’re telling me I’ve been getting paid for this? For being thrown around and yelled at for months?”
She took the envelope from him, flipping it between her fingers.
“I didn’t know Avengers got paychecks.” she added.
Clint’s mouth twitched. “They don’t. You’re not an Avenger.”
She rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“You’re S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he continued. “Technically. And S.H.I.E.L.D. agents do get paid. Government funds. Well, semi-government funds. Fury still knows how to twist arms in the right places.”
Jane looked down at the envelope, then back at him. “So what’s the going rate for blood, sweat, and existential trauma?”
“No idea,” Clint said. “You’ll have to find out yourself.”
And she would, later. The day after, to be exact, she’d discover it was around $8,000. Not life-changing. But enough to get new clothes, a real pair of shoes, maybe something that didn’t scream lab experiment with a tragic backstory. She was tired of using Wanda’s stuff.
Not that the amount came anywhere close to compensating her for what she’d been through—even thinking that was laughable, if not outright insulting.
But she had nothing.
And something was always better than nothing.
For now, just knowing there was a card in her name, money in an account she could use—it lifted the edge of her exhaustion.
Just a little.
____
The sky outside was a flat, dull gray, the kind that seemed to press against the windows like a held breath. Jane blinked into the dim light filtering through the tall glass panes. She groaned quietly and turned her head on the pillow. Everything hurt.
Her body ached in places she hadn’t even known could ache. Shoulders, lower back, ribs. The soles of her feet throbbed, and her right hip protested as she slowly sat up. The clock on the wall read almost noon. She’d slept for hours. And for once, really slept.
It was probably the first time in weeks she hadn’t woken up three, four times in the middle of the night. No nightmares. No jolts of panic. Just deep, dreamless sleep. A small miracle.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as they touched the cold floor. Each muscle moved like it had been replaced by rusted iron. With a grunt, she stood, rubbing her arms.
“Good morning, Jane.” S.A.S.S.I.’s voice chirped from the nightstand, where the single-ear communicator lay coiled like a sleeping serpent.
She reached for it and slipped it into her ear. “Morning, S.A.S.S.I. How’s the weather today?”
“Overcast and dreary.” S.A.S.S.I. replied. “Seventy-three percent chance of rain by early afternoon. Advisable to bring a jacket if you plan to go out. I would recommend something with a hood.”
Jane glanced toward the window again. “Figured as much. You’d think this city never sees the sun.”
“Actually, meteorological data confirms that New York experiences an average of—”
“S.A.S.S.I.,” she cut in, lips curling. “It was rhetorical.”
“Noted.”
The fridge hummed quietly as she padded into the kitchen. She opened it to find it neatly stocked: fruits, fresh vegetables, eggs, milk, pasta, even a couple of bottles of mineral water. She raised an eyebrow.
“Did you do the grocery shopping?”
“Technically, I compiled the order. A Stark Industries drone delivery fulfilled it early this morning.”
Jane chuckled. “You’re useful. I’ll give you that.”
“I live to serve.” S.A.S.S.I. replied, tone dry as sandpaper.
As she filled a pot with water and set it to boil, S.A.S.S.I. continued, seemingly casual. “Would you like me to recommend a recipe based on your available ingredients?”
“I’ve got it,” she said, glancing toward the pantry and pulling out a box of pasta. “I’m Italian, remember?”
“Yes. That’s been noted in your profile. Along with your inconsistent sleep patterns, tendency to isolate, elevated stress indicators, and erratic glucose intake.”
Jane paused, frowning. “Are you… building a psychological profile on me?”
S.A.S.S.I. was silent for a beat too long. “I wouldn’t say building. More… compiling. Passively. Observationally.”
Jane narrowed her eyes. “Are you sending it to someone?”
“Technically, all collected data is available to Mr. Stark upon request.”
She sighed, massaging her temple. “Of course it is. Tell me, does Tony ask for it?”
S.A.S.S.I. paused again, then said with an air of nonchalance, “He has never explicitly asked for a psychological profile.”
“Which means he reads it anyway.”
“I would never make assumptions on Mr. Stark’s behavior.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
Jane shook her head, a smile threatening her lips. She drained the pasta, tossed in halved cherry tomatoes, salt, a splash of olive oil. Her fingers moved instinctively. Cooking was muscle memory, comforting in its simplicity.
When the food was done, she sat at the glass dining table, bowl in front of her, watching the gray clouds thicken beyond the window.
“S.A.S.S.I.?”
“Yes?”
“Did he tell you to keep an eye on me?”
A beat. “He didn’t have to.”
She paused, fork halfway to her mouth.
“I’m not a threat, you know.” she said quietly. “Not to him.”
“I don’t believe you are. But people who aren’t threats can still be unpredictable.”
Jane twirled a forkful of pasta, eyes drifting toward the rain-streaked window, before setting it down again. It had started raining.
“Were you made… specifically for me?”
There was a flicker of pause on the comm line—brief, but noticeable. Then, smoothly, “This model was developed from the AIVE protocol series. However, Mr. Stark implemented several modifications in anticipation of your arrival. So, yes. In a manner of speaking, I was tailored for you.”
Jane blinked, thrown off. “Wait. Tony modified you before I got here?”
“He began the process once Nick Fury confirmed your relocation to the Tower.”
She leaned back in her chair. “So I have a custom AI now. Fancy.” She sipped her water, then glanced upward. “What kind of modifications?”
“I’m afraid I’m not authorized to share that information.”
Jane scoffed. “Seriously? So let me get this straight—he can access all my data, all my routines, listen to every little thing I say, but I don’t get to know what he programmed you to do?”
“Correct. The confidentiality directive comes from Mr. Stark himself.”
Jane let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Unbelievable.”
“Technically, entirely believable.” S.A.S.S.I. replied primly.
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, then. Let’s play a game.” She tapped the table, thoughtful. “If I guess the modifications, will you tell me if I’m right?”
“No.”
Jane groaned, but then narrowed her eyes in mock suspicion. “But you just did.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She smiled, a little sharper this time. “You just admitted he made modifications. That already tells me more than I knew five minutes ago. And since you’re bound by authorization protocols, that means there’s something worth hiding.”
“Your logic is… irritatingly sound.” S.A.S.S.I. admitted.
Jane leaned forward. “So what is it? Did he program you to analyze my mental health? Predict my outbursts? Tell him if I start sleepwalking or levitating in my sleep again?”
Silence.
Then—
“I am not at liberty to confirm or deny those specific functions.” S.A.S.S.I. replied carefully.
Jane’s smirk widened. “Bingo.”
“You are very annoying.”
“And yet you were made for me.” she said sweetly, lifting her fork.
A beat. Then S.A.S.S.I. said, almost dryly, “Mr. Stark did input one unusual customization… You.”
Jane froze mid-bite. “…What do you mean?”
“I mean that unlike any of the AIVE systems I’ve been derived from, my learning protocol was designed to adapt to your psychological profile exclusively. I respond to your humor, your speech cadence, your emotional fluctuations. In essence, my parameters evolve with you. The more you change, the more I change.”
Jane stared ahead. For a moment, the sound of the rain was the only thing she could hear. “So I’m basically shaping your personality.”
“In crude terms… yes.”
“Well, that explains a lot.” She sighed, pushing the plate away. “God help us both.”
Then, softer, almost to herself, she added, “Why would he do that?”
S.A.S.S.I. hesitated.
When she didn’t get an answer, Jane stood and walked slowly back toward the window. Her reflection stared back at her in the glass—tired eyes, sharp cheekbones, damp hair curling around her collarbone. She looked older than she felt. Or maybe she just finally looked her age.
“Do you think he’s listening?” she asked quietly.
“I think” S.A.S.S.I replied, “that if he is… he’s doing it for a good reason.”
Jane didn’t respond. She simply stared at the city beyond the glass, feeling the weight of a question she hadn’t asked yet begin to bloom in her chest.
She’d go out today. Buy a dress. Maybe something ridiculous and stunning. Something unashamed. Something that screamed I’m still here.
Jane gathered her empty plate and glass and left them in the sink, stacking them gently atop the pile of used pans and utensils. She’d deal with them later—or maybe, if S.A.S.S.I. was feeling generous, she could ask if there was a cleaning drone hidden somewhere in the apartment that might lend a hand.
“S.A.S.S.I” she said, stretching her arms overhead and wincing at the tight pull in her shoulders, “can you call me a cab? Or better—do I have access to a Stark driver or something? I feel like going on a proper shopping spree today.”
“A driver is available and on standby.” the AI replied promptly. “Should I inform him to be ready in thirty minutes?”
“Make it forty. I’m gonna need a long, hot shower or I won’t make it past the lobby.”
“Noted. He’ll be waiting downstairs.”
Jane reached up and gently removed the earpiece, placing it on the glass counter. The silence that followed felt oddly… loud, after the AI’s constant, chirpy presence.
She peeled off her tank top and shorts, each movement tight and sore, then stepped into the bathroom. Steam was already beginning to fog the mirror as she turned on the water, letting the cascade heat up fully before stepping in.
The first contact of hot water against her skin made her exhale a shaky breath. Her muscles protested at first, then slowly, blessedly, began to loosen.
For a few moments, she just stood there, eyes closed, letting the warmth soak in.
Today, she told herself. Today, we play dress-up. And for once… maybe I’ll enjoy it.
Once she was dressed, and after silently promising herself that this would be the very last time she ever wore one of those shapeless, overly long skirts found in her closet—they felt like moving drapes more than clothing—Jane followed S.A.S.S.I.’s directions down several quiet stairwells. The Tower was massive, and this particular exit was tucked away in a secondary wing, probably to avoid attention. When she stepped out into the open air, she found the car already waiting for her.
It was a sleek black Maybach S-Class with dark tinted windows and a mirror finish. The kind of vehicle that didn’t just suggest money, it whispered it, cool and self-assured. The driver, in a perfectly pressed suit and discrete earpiece, opened the back door for her with a courteous nod.
Okay, she thought, sliding into the plush leather seat. Maybe she could get used to this kind of life.
“Well,” she muttered under her breath, “the luxury part, at least.” The memory of repeatedly slamming into gym mats and being tossed around like a ragdoll was still fresh in her bones.
“Where to, miss?” the driver asked as the door closed behind her.
“Take me somewhere for shopping,” she said, rubbing her temples. “Something upscale. Madison Avenue?”
“Very good, ma’am.”
The car purred to life, gliding through Manhattan traffic like a predator through water.
Jane leaned back and exhaled slowly. “S.A.S.S.I.?”
“Yes, Agent Russo?”
“I need damage control. My under-eyes look like I’ve been dead for three days.”
“I would recommend concealer before trying necromantic alternatives. There’s a Sephora flagship store near your destination.”
“Charming.” she said, smiling despite herself. “Set a reminder. I’m getting something with coverage . And maybe a new lipstick while I’m at it.”
“As you wish.”
By the time the Maybach stopped in front of the sleek glass storefront, Jane had forced herself to look less like she’d fought a war and more like she belonged in that part of town.
Inside, she made a beeline for the concealer aisle, selecting two high-end brands after testing the shades on the back of her hand. A makeup artist offered her a quick touch-up, and she accepted. Just a little foundation, a whisper of blush, a soft mauve lipstick—nothing dramatic, but when she looked at herself in the mirror, the reflection felt closer to her . A version of her she hadn’t seen in months.
She almost didn’t realize how much she’d missed that woman.
From there, after spending a generous amount of money, she wandered into a nearby boutique that oozed luxury from every polished corner. The air was scented with bergamot and sandalwood, the racks curated with precision. Silk blouses, tailored trousers, sharply cut jackets, pieces meant for women who walked like they owned the world.
With the help of a poised, efficient sales assistant named Ava, she began assembling a collection. Nothing too showy, but timeless. Sophisticated. She chose a cream-colored blouse, a pair of high-waisted navy slacks, a silk emerald camisole, and even a sharp blazer in a smoky gray tone. Ava hung each item carefully in the fitting room.
“I don’t want to look like I’ve been living in a bunker anymore.” Jane admitted, speaking to herself, holding up one of the blouses.
“Well, you certainly won’t.” Ava replied with a knowing smile. “You wear confidence well.”
“Not sure that’s what I’m wearing,” Jane muttered.
“You will.”
Just as she was about to call it a day, Jane caught sight of the dress .
It was set apart on a mannequin near the back of the boutique. Deep violet, almost black under certain light, with a daring neckline and a thigh-high slit that somehow remained elegant rather than vulgar. The fabric was something between satin and silk, fluid and luminous, clinging in all the right places.
She froze.
“Nope,” she said aloud. “Too much. That is not a dress, it’s a declaration of war.”
“Correction.” S.A.S.S.I. chimed in discreetly from her earpiece, “it is a strategic advantage. Psychological manipulation through aesthetic dominance is a well-documented phenomenon.”
Jane blinked. “Did you just tell me to weaponize my looks?”
“I simply outlined the tactical benefits of an advantageous appearance.”
“Oh my God.”
“Do try it on.” Ava said, who had materialized beside her like a well-dressed ghost. “You might be surprised.”
Jane hesitated. It was a lot . A dress that demanded attention. That said look at me .
But then again… wasn’t that what she used to be? A woman who owned rooms? Who dazzled when she walked in?
“Fine.” she said, snatching the hanger. “But if I look ridiculous, I’m blaming you.” Jane murmured this time, referring to her AI’s system.
“As you wish.” S.A.S.S.I. replied. “Blame allocation filed.”
Jane rolled her eyes and disappeared into the fitting room.
The moment the zipper clicked into place, she turned to the mirror—and nearly didn’t recognize herself. The dress hugged her like it had been made for her, and the color brought out the stormy gray in her eyes.
She let out a breath. “Okay,” she whispered. “It isn’t that bad.”
S.A.S.S.I.’s voice chimed in again, perfectly timed. “I am logging a 94.6% probability of impact at the gala. Would you like me to inform Mr. Stark?”
“ Absolutely not. ” Jane snapped, cheeks coloring.
But secretly, just maybe, she was already imagining what his face would look like when he saw her walk in wearing it.
Ava appeared just outside the curtain and tapped gently. “Mind if I come in for a moment?”
Jane murmured something resembling assent, and the curtain was pulled back. The woman entered, holding a delicate velvet box. “I had to show you this.” she said, opening it to reveal a thin, elegant necklace—silver, studded with tiny amethysts that shimmered under the light.
“A piece like this doesn’t shout,” Ava added, her voice a quiet melody. “It whispers.”
Before Jane could speak, Ava moved behind her, expertly lifting the necklace around her neck and fastening it with a soft click . The cool metal kissed the hollow of her throat. Jane caught her breath.
And then, as the reflection of the collier settled against the violet silk of her gown—
She was in another room, in another life. Her bedroom. The one they had shared.
Her reflection shimmered in the tall mirror—bare shoulders, hair pinned up, a navy blue gown hugging her curves like a lover’s hand. Behind her, Tony stood barefoot, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie hanging loose around his neck. He was smiling that half-lazy, half-in-love smile of his, the one he only wore when the world wasn’t watching.
“You’re impossible, you know that?” he murmured, carefully fastening the string of pearls around her neck. His fingers brushed her skin, warm, and she felt her heart stutter. “We’re going to be late. You’re distracting.”
“I’m distracting?” Jane laughed softly, turning her head just slightly as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the curve where her shoulder met her neck.
“I mean it.” he whispered into her skin. “You look…” His voice trailed off as he pulled back enough to meet her gaze in the mirror. “I don’t know if I want to take you out anymore. Do we really want to let the whole room see you like this? I might have to fight someone.”
She rolled her eyes and elbowed him lightly, grinning. “You’re ridiculous. We have to go.”
“Do we?” he said, arms slipping around her waist from behind, pulling her flush against him. “What if I said I’d rather cancel and stay right here?”
She turned in his arms, playful, brushing her nose against his. “You won’t.”
But he was already pushing her gently back, both of them laughing as they collapsed onto the bed in a tangle of silk and heat. She tried to wiggle away as he pinned her, fingers dancing at her sides, kisses peppering her jaw, her collarbone, the slope of her shoulder.
“You’re going to wrinkle the dress!” she protested between giggles, half-heartedly shoving at his chest.
“Worth it.” he murmured against her skin.
Then, as if something shifted in the air between them, he paused. Looked at her. Really looked.
And for a long second, neither of them moved. She reached up, cupped his face in her hand, thumb brushing over the stubble along his jawline. Her other hand slid unconsciously over her abdomen, resting there with a gentleness that spoke volumes.
“Tony,” she said quietly. Her smile faded into something more fragile. “I need to talk to you.”
He blinked, brow furrowing slightly. “Tell me now. We’ve got time.”
She hesitated. The weight of what she carried wasn’t just in her body—it was in every heartbeat, in every breath. But not now. Not yet.
“Later,” she whispered. “After the gala. I promise.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded. “Yes. And we’re late, by the way.”
Just like that, they were rising from the bed again, smoothing fabric, stealing one last kiss.
The memory dissolved as quickly as it had come, like mist sucked back into a stormcloud.
Jane blinked hard, her reflection suddenly unfamiliar. The gown, the necklace, it all felt heavier now. Her stomach turned, a quiet ache rising up like the ghost of a life she’d buried too deep, too long.
Ava, sensing the shift, stepped back, giving her space. Jane managed a polite smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“I’ll take it. I’ll take everything. ” she said softly, voice a shade too flat.
And when Ava nodded and slipped back through the curtain, Jane finally let herself breathe. But it wasn’t relief that filled her chest.
The silence in the dressing room felt heavier now. The walls pressed in slightly, the soft lighting no longer flattering but too warm, too close. She straightened slowly, blinking hard to chase away the sting in her eyes. The mirror didn’t lie. The gown was stunning. And maybe that was why it hurt.
Because it reminded her of that other dress. That other night. That other life.
“S.A.S.S.I.” she said quietly, adjusting the earpiece into place.
“Here I am.” the AI responded, tone light and clear in her ear. “On a scale of one to ten, how fabulous do you currently feel? I’ve calculated your reflection and you’re at least a strong 9.7.”
Jane let out a shaky breath that almost resembled a laugh. “Not your best read of the room.”
“Noted.” the AI replied smoothly.
Jane didn’t answer immediately. She adjusted the straps of the gown on her shoulder, took one last look in the mirror.
“Don’t tell Tony I cried in a dressing room.”
A brief pause. “Okay. Deleting emotional fluctuation record from memory. Between us girls.”
Jane smiled faintly. Then lifted the back of her hand to wipe away a single tear that had escaped down her cheek.
That familiar ache settled in her throat—the kind that came from holding it all in too tightly.
And just like that, the flicker of good humor she’d felt vanished as quickly as it had come.
She exhaled.
She needed a drink.
____
Nick Fury’s office was quiet, save for the soft hum of monitors and the low murmur of rain against the windows. Behind his desk, Fury stood, phone pressed to his ear, a vein at his temple pulsing with restrained tension. On the other end of the line, a familiar voice rasped through the static.
“You’re going to owe me for this one, Nick.”
“I don’t owe,” Fury replied, flat. “I exchange.”
“Well, then let’s exchange.” The man chuckled. “You remember Montevideo, 2014?”
Fury’s jaw clenched. “You’re really going to bring that up?”
“I need access to one of your asset vaults. Temporary. Just thirty-six hours.”
“That’s not part of the game,” Fury muttered. “You know what’s in those vaults. Classified to hell and back.”
“Exactly why I need it.” A beat of silence. “You want intel on the Vogels, or not?”
Fury’s fingers tightened around the edge of his desk. He didn’t have time for this. But the Vogels had disappeared off the map for too long—and now they were reemerging. Ex-HYDRA affiliates with a taste for auctioning forbidden tech to the highest bidder.
He exhaled through his nose. “Thirty-six hours. One vault. You touch anything beyond what you’re there for, and I’ll personally make sure the next vault you see is six feet underground.”
“Deal.” the informant purred. “Now, here’s what I know.”
The tone shifted instantly. “The Vogels are in Paris. Setting up another auction. This time it’s not just art or cold war weaponry. We’re talking Stark tech—prototype-grade. And not the clean stuff. There’s talk of disruptors, next-gen micro drones, maybe even arc reactor derivatives. But more than that…”
There was a pause. Then: “They have vials.”
Fury frowned. “Vials?”
“Super soldier serum. The real strain. HYDRA-engineered, not bootleg. And they’re looking for buyers who want to build private armies.”
Fury didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Only listened, the edge in his expression sharpening like a blade.
“This is your window,” the contact finished. “Before it closes.”
The call dropped.
Fury stayed still for a long moment, the low hum of his office the only sound surrounding him. He wasn’t a man easily rattled, but this? This was delicate. The kind of situation that needed precision. The kind of mission where choosing the wrong agents could end with bodies on the floor and international chaos in the headlines.
He exhaled, slow and measured, and settled into his chair.
One agent wouldn’t be enough. Not this time. And not with the Vogels.
A married couple, notoriously private and impossibly well-connected. Former HYDRA affiliates, now playing in darker, wealthier circles. Collectors of rare technologies, traffickers of secrets. And now, according to his informant, they were back on the grid. Rumors of another auction. Something more dangerous than anything they’d ever handled before.
Weapons. Stark tech. Super soldier serum.
It couldn’t wait. But it couldn’t be rushed either.
He needed a pair. A duo that could slip in unnoticed, but still hold their own if things went sideways. Someone who could act like they belonged in the Vogels’ exclusive inner circle. Pretend to be something they weren’t. Dangerous. Complicated. Desirable.
Regular agents wouldn’t do. This called for something else.
He began scanning files on his encrypted S.H.I.E.L.D. system, dismissing name after name. Too loud. Too easy to recognize. Too clean.
Then one file stopped him.
James Buchanan Barnes.
The Winter Soldier.
A man born of war and broken by it. He had been many things: hero, assassin, fugitive. But almost a year ago, after the fallout of the Avengers’s team, Fury had tracked him down—no easy feat, even for him. Barnes had been off the grid, avoiding everyone and everything.
Convincing him had been a different challenge altogether.
Fury had come with one offer: a final mission before Barnes would be allowed the peace he’d gone searching for in Wakanda. There had been whispers, even then, about a new serum circulating on the black market. Copies. Variants. Imitations. Maybe even the real thing. The kind of thing that, in the wrong hands, could create another Winter Soldier.
And that was what had convinced Bucky.
He hadn’t done it for Fury. He hadn’t done it for S.H.I.E.L.D. He’d done it to make sure no one else would become what he had been, a weapon disguised as a man.
The mission had ended with success, but not without bitterness. The vials were fakes. No serum. Just rumors. And Barnes, who’d risked everything to stop the ghosts of his past from repeating, felt betrayed.
Fury had let him believe it was a test. That he’d used Barnes as a pawn to assess his loyalty, his control.
It had ended in a fight. Words, sharp and cutting. Barnes had walked away, straight into cryo-freeze, swearing he was done.
Fury had let him go.
Because, in truth, he’d been lied to too. The intel had been solid. The source had never failed him before. He’d staked his reputation on it. And lost.
But now…
Now another source was saying the vials resurfaced. Alongside black market Stark tech—lethal, precise, and potentially untraceable.
Fury didn’t have the luxury of ignoring it, anyway.
He stared at Barnes’ profile. No one knew infiltration like Bucky Barnes. No one knew how the enemy thought—because once, he had been the enemy.
Still, sending him in alone would be reckless. Fury needed someone who could move beside him, not behind.
He switched files.
Jane Russo.
He didn’t even need to type her name, her file was already open in another tab.
Her report had come in hours ago. Directly from Barton.
Subject shows rapid improvement. Telekinesis now includes limited flight. Controlled combat response developing. Still emotionally volatile. Needs further development under pressure.
A wild card. But one who’d survived Alaska—seven months of the most brutal physical and mental conditioning Fury had signed off on in years. Barton had been skeptical at first. His early evaluations were clipped and dismissive. But lately… there was a shift. A grudging respect. A subtle change in tone. Even Clint couldn’t deny she was becoming something formidable.
Fury’s gaze narrowed as he read the two profiles side by side.
Barnes. Cold precision.
Jane. Controlled chaos.
She wasn’t polished. Not yet. But she was intuitive, quick, unpredictable. And if half the unconfirmed intel about her past was true, she might be one of the most valuable assets S.H.I.E.L.D. had never meant to find.
He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers in front of his mouth.
Barnes would hate this. Jane probably wouldn’t be thrilled either.
But it didn’t matter. Because he didn’t need perfect. Not for this mission.
He needed impossible.
And these two? Together, they just might be exactly that.
Fury reached for a fresh folder. Across the top, he scrawled a name that had been circling his thoughts since the call ended.
OPERATION: VELVET ECHO.
____
Jane stumbled as she stepped out of the car, heels in one hand, the other clinging uselessly to the door frame for balance. She didn’t remember how much she’d had to drink—wine, maybe a cocktail or two, something bubbly. It all blurred together. She didn’t remember when exactly she’d lost control of the evening, but it had happened. It always did, eventually.
The driver rushed around to help her, but she waved him off stubbornly, slurring, “No, I’ve got it. I’m fine. Don’t touch me.” Her pride was an anchor, even when she was sinking.
She walked bare feet touching the cool ground of the private entrance. The building loomed in front of her, sleek and silent. It felt like it was watching her, judging her. She ignored it. She could do judgment just fine on her own.
S.A.S.S.I. spoke gently in her ear. “Your blood alcohol level is significantly elevated, Agent Russo. I highly recommend hydration. Would you like me to arrange for electrolyte supplements to be sent to your quarters?”
Jane groaned and rolled her eyes. “Oh my god, you’re such a buzzkill.” she muttered, pulling the tiny device out of her ear and stuffing it into her purse. “Seriously. A girl can’t have a breakdown in peace?”
She made it as far as the hallway outside her penthouse suite before fumbling with her bag. The keycard was in there somewhere. Probably. Maybe. She rifled through receipts, makeup, her compact—where the hell was it?
Her center of gravity tipped too far to the left and she hit the ground with a heavy, graceless thud.
“Shit.” she muttered.
A door down the hall opened. Footsteps. She looked up through her haze and blinked against the light. Two figures.
Clint. And Tony.
Of course. Of course the universe would put him here. Now.
Jane put her heels back on as fast as she could, then pushed herself to sit upright, clutching her bag like a shield. Her heart pounded with the heat of embarrassment, and the alcohol wasn’t helping.
Clint’s expression twisted into something between annoyance and disappointment. “Are you drunk?”
She squinted at him and replied, voice dry. “No, Clint. I just decided to dramatically throw myself to the ground for fun.”
“You’re slurring.”
“I went out,” she said, defiant. “Had a good time. It’s my day off, right?”
Barton rolled his eyes and turned to go. “Whatever. Tomorrow, 6 a.m., training. I don’t care if you’re hungover. If you’re late, don’t bother showing up.”
“Wow. As warm and fuzzy as ever.” Jane muttered.
Tony hadn’t spoken. He’d just been watching. Observing.
“I’ll leave you to it.” he said finally, nodding at Clint. “We’ve said what we needed to say.”
Barton paused at his door, glancing at Jane one last time. His jaw tightened. “Try not to drown in your own vomit.”
With that, he disappeared.
Jane exhaled, shoulders sagging as she tried again to scan her card. Nothing. Red light. She tried again. Red.
“All this tech and we’re still using keycards?”she snapped.
She tried a third time. No luck. The card slipped from her fingers.
Tony stepped forward silently, plucked the keycard up from the floor, and slid it through the reader. A soft, obedient beep. The door clicked open.
She had somehow almost forgotten that he was still there.
He held the card out to her again, fingers brushing hers as he handed it back, his expression hard to decipher. Maybe amused. Maybe something else.
“You looked like you had it under control.” he said lightly.
“I did,” she muttered. “Eventually.”
She made it two steps inside before the nausea surged. A hot wave twisted through her abdomen. Her legs buckled slightly as she clutched at her side, a low hiss slipping past her lips. She steadied herself with one hand on the wall, heart thudding unevenly.
“Jane?” Tony’s voice was closer now. Gentle. Concerned.
“I’m fine,” she breathed. “You can go. I’ve got it.”
She didn’t. They both knew she didn’t.
He didn’t go.
Instead, his arm wrapped around her waist with surprising care. Not tight. Not invasive. Just steady, warm, grounding. The heat of him pressed through the thin fabric of her brand new dress like a living memory. She caught a hint of his scent. He smelled faintly of cologne and machine oil. Familiar. It was a scent she hadn’t realized she remembered. But it hit her like a stone to the chest.
“Someone had a little too much fun.” Tony said, his voice soft, almost teasing. “Not that I’m one to judge. Would be a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The lump in her throat was rising fast. Her limbs had gone boneless. Her pride was crumbling at her feet. She hated that he saw her like this—off-balance, vulnerable, undone. But she didn’t have the strength to fight it.
So she let herself lean into him. Just a little.
Her head found the curve of his shoulder. The line of her body followed his like a tide drawn toward the moon. The hand on her waist tightened a fraction to keep her upright, but it wasn’t rough. Not even firm. Just steady.
“You’re warm.” she mumbled into the soft fabric of his shirt.
There was a pause. She could feel it vibrate in his chest.
“Am I?” he asked quietly, almost like a joke.
“No.” Her lips curved against his collarbone. “You’re hot, Tony.”
God. She hadn’t meant to say it. Not like that. It slipped out of her, loose and reckless.
She knew she’d regret it tomorrow. But right now, with his arm around her and the quiet hum of the hallway pressing in on all sides, she didn’t care. Not enough to stop.
He didn’t say anything. But his hand… moved. Just slightly.
Jane felt it. A small, subtle shift in his grip. A slow drag of his fingers along her side, a soft caress, before they returned to their supportive place. She wasn’t sure she’d imagined it. Didn’t want to know.
She was too tired.
Tony walked her to her room in silence, her weight resting more heavily against him now. She didn’t apologize. He didn’t ask her to.
When they reached the bed, he gently lowered her down. She collapsed onto the mattress, arms splaying, legs too heavy to lift. Her black dress tugged uncomfortably at her ribs, but she didn’t have the strength to fix it.
She heard a rustle, Tony bending down to retrieve something.
Then his hands again, brushing against her ankles, removing her shoes one by one. He set them down neatly beside the bed. Then he straightened and hovered.
She forced her eyes open.
He was watching her.
The light from the hallway haloed him in gold. His expression was shadowed, serious, like he was trying to solve some complicated equation just by looking at her. For a second, neither of them spoke.
He reached forward, gently brushing a damp lock of hair from her forehead. His fingers were warm again. She blinked, eyes burning, heart beating too loudly in her chest.
They were so damn close.
And for a second, she could almost believe nothing had changed.
His gaze dropped to her lips, just briefly. Then back to her eyes. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t pull away. Just… stayed. Right there. Letting her feel every ounce of the weight between them.
“I should go.” he said at last. But he didn’t move.
“You should.” she whispered.
Still, he lingered.
Then, slowly, he leaned in—not to kiss her. Not quite. His forehead brushed hers. His breath was soft against her cheek. His hand stayed on her waist a second longer than necessary.
“Goodnight, Jane.” he murmured.
Then he pulled the blanket up over her body. Tucked it beneath her arms. His hand hesitated once more near her shoulder… then fell away.
He turned off the light. The door clicked shut. And Jane was alone.
She stared into the dark, heart still pounding from a touch that had lasted too long and not nearly long enough.
The taste of him lingered on her lips, even though they hadn’t kissed.
The shape of his hand still pressed against her side, like a brand.
She curled onto her side, pulled the blanket tighter around her body, and finally, finally, let her eyes close.
But she didn’t sleep.
Not yet.
Not with the echo of his voice still whispering in her bones.
Not with the warmth of him still burning beneath her skin.
Notes:
And here we are!
This is officially the longest chapter so far.
Honestly? Every time I go over the drafts (because yes, I’ll confess: a big part of the story is already written and I’m just revising chapter by chapter), I always end up adding more. So at this point, I’m afraid this story might end up longer than the Bible.But things are definitely starting to shift between Jane and Tony, and that final scene… well, let’s just say it was a lot of fun to write.
I won’t say more—I’m too excited and I might spoil something if I’m not careful.And then, finally, Bucky.
Well, not quite in person yet, but he’s on the board now. He won’t stay just a name for much longer, promise. A few more chapters and all the pieces will be in place.That said, I really hope you enjoyed this one (and that it wasn’t too long!).
I’d love to know what you think. Your comments are genuinely one of my biggest motivations to keep writing, so please don’t hold back!See you soon! ❤️
Chapter 5: Dreams or delusions
Notes:
Okay, I know. I disappeared for quite a while.
But I can explain.
(I’ll tell you everything at the end of the chapter, so don’t skip the final notes!)
In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the read —
I really hope you like this new chapter.
Let me know what you think!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Jane leaned in toward the mirror, steadying her hand as she applied the final swipe of lipstick. A soft peachy nude, subtle but luminous, highlighted the shape of her mouth without overpowering her face. She pressed her lips together gently, then dabbed the corners with a fingertip and exhaled. Her reflection stared back at her, not blinking, not quite familiar.
The woman in the mirror looked polished. Elegant. Her skin, pale as moonlight, was even and smooth, set aglow by the warmth of the bathroom lights.
Her hair fell in soft, platinum waves, loose and glossy around her shoulders. It had taken her nearly forty minutes to get it right, though it didn’t look it. That was the point, wasn’t it? To make effort look effortless. To look untouchable. In control.
The amethyst necklace around her neck caught the light when she moved, but her eyes kept drifting back to her own face, not the jewelry. Her expression was too composed. Too perfect. She was holding herself together, barely, but the tension around her mouth gave her away. So did the faint line between her brows.
She was nervous.
No, more than that—she was tense. Unsettled in a way she couldn’t shake, no matter how much perfume she spritzed, how perfectly her eyeliner winged.
Because tonight was the gala. And Tony would be there.
Her stomach twisted at the thought. She hadn’t seen him since the night she’d returned to the Tower drunk, stumbling. The memory of it made her cringe—how she’d collapsed in front of him, how she’d leaned on him, whispered things she shouldn’t have whispered. The next morning had been one long stretch of misery: a splitting headache, an empty stomach, and Clint’s voice sharp with disappointment when she missed her scheduled training session.
She hadn’t let herself get that bad in a long time. Not since Alaska.
But that night had knocked something loose in her. Something fragile.
She didn’t want to admit it, but the worst part wasn’t the shame. It wasn’t even Clint’s fury, or her own embarrassment.
It was the way Tony had stayed.
He could’ve walked away. He could’ve left her on the floor, too drunk to stand straight. But he hadn’t. He’d helped her. Touched her gently. Guided her to bed. Tucked her in.
And God help her, part of her had liked it. Too much.
She wanted to believe it had been the alcohol clouding her judgment. That she had imagined the warmth in his voice, the way his hand lingered on her waist, the way his eyes had searched her face in the dark like he was trying to remember something lost.
But now… now she wasn’t sure.
There was something in him lately. A flicker of recognition when he looked at her. Not a full memory, not a certainty, but a suspicion, maybe. A whisper.
And it scared her. Because if Tony remembered…
No. That wasn’t even a question she could afford to ask. What was done was done. The memory spell had held for years. She had erased their past for his protection. For the timeline. For everything that came after.
He was never supposed to remember. But a part of her, buried and selfish, hoped he would.
She exhaled sharply, dragging herself back to the present. Her watch blinked at her from her wrist, shining silver, one of the few luxuries she’d allowed herself since joining S.H.I.E.L.D. officially. It was past nine.
Time to go.
She turned away from the mirror, grabbed her silver clutch from the bed, and on instinct, reached for the earpiece on her nightstand.
“Online, S.A.S.S.I.?” she asked, slipping it into place.
“Always. You’re running late.”
She rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Just being efficient.”
Jane didn’t bother responding. She stepped into the hallway and headed toward the elevator. On the way up, others joined her—men in tuxedos, women in flowing dresses, all of them giving her that brief once-over.
She ignored them.
Once upon a time, she would’ve welcomed the attention. Even enjoyed it. She’d loved being admired, being watched, being the center of the room without having to try too hard. Now she just wanted to disappear.
The elevator opened. The top floor of the Tower had been transformed.
Soft lighting washed the room in golden warmth, reflecting off the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a sweeping view of New York at night. The city lights glittered like a constellation turned upside down, and Jane stood still for a second, just to breathe it in.
It was beautiful. Polished. The kind of beauty that came from money and power and long, strategic planning.
Round tables draped in navy and silver were arranged around the room, each crowned with towering centerpieces of white orchids and flickering candles. A cocktail bar stretched along the back wall, bottles glinting like jewels under subtle backlighting. A DJ played ambient jazz, barely loud enough to speak over, but just enough to keep the energy humming.
Guests mingled in glittering gowns and sharp suits. Laughter rose in waves. Glasses clinked. Servers drifted through the crowd with practiced grace.
It was familiar. Painfully familiar.
Jane had been in rooms like this before. So many times. Galas. Receptions. Political events. She’d played the role of the untouchable woman with a secret smile and a perfect dress more times than she could count.
And even though the stakes were different now, the way it all wrapped around her felt the same. Like slipping into an old life she wasn’t sure she belonged to anymore.
She crossed the threshold fully, eyes sweeping the room. No sign of Tony. Yet.
That was fine. She wasn’t here for him. At least, that’s what she told herself. Even if her heart had already started beating just a little faster.
“Jane! Jane, is that you?”
The voice rang out above the music, bright and unmistakably familiar.
She turned toward it, and smiled. Peter was weaving his way through the crowd, his hand raised in a wave, his dark tux a little too crisp and the bow tie slightly crooked, like he’d retied it himself at least twice. His hair was combed back, making him look slightly older than he was. Or maybe it was just the way he carried himself in that moment, standing a little taller, beaming when he reached her.
He looked good. Charming, even.
She felt it then, that pull of affection. Something warm. Something like family.
“Wow, kid,” she said with a soft laugh as he stopped in front of her. “You look nice.”
Peter blushed, scratching at the back of his neck. “Thanks. And—hey, don’t call me kid , okay? You’re not that much older than me.”
Jane raised an eyebrow, amused. “Please. You’re still basically a toddler.”
Peter looked mildly offended. “I’m not ,” he muttered under his breath, then brightened, glancing over her again. “And, wow, Jane! I didn’t even recognize you at first. I’m so used to seeing you in… you know… black combat gear and scuffed boots.”
He hesitated, face turning red again. “I mean, not that the boots were bad. The boots were great. It’s just—this is different. Good different. Really good. I meant that as a compliment. You look… really amazing. Not that you don’t always look… okay, I’m gonna stop talking now.”
Jane threw her head back and laughed. “Relax, Peter. I know what you meant.”
He grinned, grateful, and nodded. “Are you here alone?”
“Are you offering to keep me company?” she teased.
He looked briefly panicked before realizing she was joking. “No—I mean, yes. I mean, I came with my aunt. She’s around here somewhere. I wanted you two to meet, actually. I’ve told her about you. She’s Italian, too, remember? You’d probably hit it off.”
Jane raised a brow. “You’ve told her about me?”
Peter’s ears went pink. “Not like that! I mean—not that it’d be bad, you’re great, but—I just meant, you know, I admire you. She’s heard a lot about training and how tough you are. And I told her you make killer pasta.”
Jane snorted. “Yeah, got it.”
She glanced around, scanning the room. The crowd was growing, the music picking up just slightly as more people filtered in. Lights bounced off crystal glasses and sequins and shimmering tablecloths.
Then she spotted him, Clint Barton. Seated at one of the corner tables, arms crossed, a glass untouched in front of him. He looked, as always, like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.
Jane nudged Peter with her elbow. “Look who’s brooding in the corner.”
Peter followed her gaze. “Oh no. He looks like he just found out his taxes are being audited.”
“He always looks like that,” Jane muttered. “Like someone just told him happiness is a war crime.”
Peter choked on a laugh, and they both dissolved into soft giggles. But then Clint’s gaze shifted. He spotted them. Staring. Laughing.
And he stood.
Peter’s posture stiffened immediately. “Oh no. Oh no, he’s coming over. Look natural. Look serious. Abort mission.”
“Shut up.” Jane murmured, biting back a smirk.
Clint crossed the room like a man with a mission, the long line of his dark suit giving him an air of reluctant authority.
Jane squared her shoulders, still smiling faintly. Peter tried, and failed, not to look like a kid who’d just been caught goofing off during homeroom.
“Evening.” Clint said, tone dry as ever.
Jane lifted her glass in greeting. “Agent Barton.”
Peter gave a tiny salute. “Sir.”
Clint’s eyes flicked between them, unimpressed. “Having fun?”
“Lots of fun.” Jane said smoothly.
Clint didn’t answer. He just looked at her and she felt that familiar scrutiny settle over her. She didn’t flinch.
Instead, she smiled a little wider. Then, with a glint of something reckless in her eye, she blurted out, “Wanna dance?”
Even she was surprised by her own question. But why not? He always looked like he was one minor inconvenience away from a full existential crisis. Maybe moving a little would do him some good.
Clint’s eyes widened. “No,” he said instantly. “Absolutely not.”
Before he could finish protesting, Jane grabbed him by the arm and pulled him toward the dance floor. He resisted, at first, but she was stronger than she looked, and shockingly determined. A few heads turned as she dragged a grimacing former Avenger across the floor, heels clicking, purple dress shimmering under the lights.
In Alaska, during those endless seven months of hell, Jane had spent a good amount of time resenting Barton. He had been cold, distant, downright brutal in his training. But over time she’d come to understand that he was simply following orders. He wasn’t a bad man, just a man with the emotional range of a brick wall and the personality of a tax audit. Still, something about him intrigued her. He was a puzzle she hadn’t solved yet.
They reached the center of the floor, and she turned, placing her hands on his shoulders. Clint stood stiff as a board, arms awkwardly lifting into position like he was bracing for combat rather than a slow dance.
“This is gonna cost you,” he muttered, his jaw tight. “Next training session’s gonna be hell.”
Jane smirked. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”
They began to sway, a slow, begrudging rhythm. The music wasn’t loud now, more of a low pulse beneath the clink of glasses and the distant hum of conversation. It was strange, Jane thought, to feel him this close and not be ducking a punch or shouting commands. Clint Barton, who’d once barked at her for missing a mark by an inch, was now letting her lead a little. Just a little.
After a few silent turns, she tilted her head and said, “Can I ask you something serious?”
“You can ask,” he replied. “Doesn’t mean I’ll answer. Depends.”
She took a breath. “How does an Avenger end up exiled to the middle of nowhere in Alaska, training a nobody for months? And now you’re here. Babysitting the same nobody. What happened?”
Clint’s expression didn’t change right away. But his shoulders shifted, just slightly. His voice dropped.
“Like I told you,” he said quietly. “During the whole Civil War mess, I chose the wrong side. And now I’m living with the fallout.”
Jane looked him in the eye. “So… I’m your punishment?”
That stopped him. He blinked. For once, Clint Barton looked caught off guard.
He didn’t answer right away. Then his gaze dropped, and he nodded.
“Yeah. In a way,” he said. “But also… maybe my shot at redemption.”
Her brows lifted. She hadn’t expected that.
“If I train you right,” he went on, voice softer, “if you make it, if you become something… then maybe they’ll let me back in. Maybe I get to see my family again. For real.”
Jane’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Your family?”
A sad, crooked smile curved his lips. He nodded once.
“Yeah. Wife. Kids. The whole thing. I haven’t seen them since… everything fell apart. We talk on the phone. But it’s not the same.”
She felt a quiet pang in her chest. It explained so much—the bitterness, the distance, the weight he always carried like it was strapped to his back.
Before she could respond, the music cut out with a soft fade, and lights shifted toward a small stage to the side of the DJ booth.
Pepper Potts stepped up onto the platform in a sleek navy gown, holding a microphone with practiced ease. The crowd around them stilled, turning toward her.
Clint stepped back, releasing Jane’s hand. Whatever had passed between them evaporated into the air, unfinished. Jane turned with him to listen, but her mind lingered for just a beat longer on his word.
Pepper took the stage with the practiced ease of someone who had long since mastered the art of elegance under pressure. The lights above caught in the soft shimmer of her dress, and the room stilled almost instantly. Every conversation softened, glasses were lowered mid-toast, and attention drifted toward the woman in heels and grace.
“Good evening,” she began, her voice warm, clear. “Thank you all for being here tonight—and thank you for believing, like we do, that power and privilege mean very little unless we use them to make something better.”
She paused, eyes moving through the room, her smile composed but sincere.
“This year’s gala is dedicated to supporting the pediatric division of the NewYork-Presbyterian Morgan Stanley Children’s Hospital. A place where some of the bravest humans I’ve ever met spend their days fighting battles they never chose. And they fight with hope, with strength, with heart. And they deserve every possible advantage we can give them.”
A beat.
“I know it’s easy, especially in a room like this, to feel detached from that kind of struggle. But tonight, every gesture, every donation, every silent auction bid, it all counts. What we raise tonight might mean the next round of treatment. The next research breakthrough. The next day of life.”
Her voice didn’t falter. It landed.
“I know this community,” she continued, “and I know you’ll be generous. Because what makes us extraordinary isn’t our inventions or titles or bank accounts. It’s our capacity to care. That’s what changes the world.”
Applause erupted, warm and heartfelt. Pepper stepped down from the platform, the lights dimming slightly to welcome the soft pulse of the music back into the atmosphere.
And Jane saw him.
Just past the crowd, standing beneath one of the soaring glass panels, city lights at his back like a constellation tailored just for him—Tony.
The suit was dark, probably Tom Ford or something equally exclusive. The kind of tailoring that made a man look like he belonged anywhere. The burgundy tie was just loose enough to hint at comfort, rebellion, signature Stark nonchalance. His hand rested casually in his pocket, the other reaching for Pepper as she joined him.
And then he kissed her.
It wasn’t long. It wasn’t scandalous. But it was real. Lips to lips, then her forehead. He held her like she was home.
And Jane couldn’t look away.
Her breath caught, just for a moment. Not because she hadn’t expected it, but because she had.
That brief sting bloomed behind her ribs, sharp and hot and unfair. Jealousy. Not the immature kind. The kind you didn’t want. The kind you couldn’t talk yourself out of, no matter how many times you whispered he’s not yours anymore—if he ever really was.
It was ridiculous. It was stupid. She knew it was. And yet, there it was.
The ache of it. Quiet and insistent.
She looked down for a second. Swallowed. Then a voice broke through the pressure in her chest.
“Jane!” Peter’s voice, bright, just to her right. “Here you are!”
Jane turned, blinking herself back into the room, and there he was—Peter, grinning from ear to ear and standing beside a woman who looked vaguely familiar. “This is my aunt. I told you about her. She really wanted to meet you.”
And just like that, she snapped back into herself.
A warm hand extended toward hers, and a woman with a radiant smile and a sharp glint in her eye stepped forward.
“You must be Jane.” the woman said, her voice friendly and bright. “I’m May Parker. It’s so lovely to finally meet you. Peter talks about you all the time.”
“May, no I don’t!” Peter interrupted instantly, waving his hands in a frantic little gesture that made Jane bite back a laugh.
May rolled her eyes, unfazed. “Oh please. It’s always Mr. Stark this, Jane Russo that. You’re like idols to him. So yes, I’ve heard a lot. Meeting you in person is really wonderful.”
Jane stepped in, offering a quick kiss on each cheek, the way she’d done back home a thousand times. “Piacere. It’s really nice to meet you too.” she said. “Peter’s talked about you a lot as well. It’s easy to see you’re close.”
“We are.” May replied, her tone softening just a little, pride threading through the words. “I raised him after… well, after everything. And seeing him here, around people like you, doing what he does, it means the world.”
“Where in Italy are you from, if I may ask?” May continued, her curiosity earnest.
“The South,” Jane answered, her voice carrying the faintest lilt of nostalgia. “Near Naples. A tiny village, really.”
“Ah! Southern blood!” May said with a delighted clap of her hands. “I knew it. I could feel the fire in you. I’m from Salerno, originally. My parents moved here when I was a kid.”
She said it with that distinct pride that always came with talking about one’s roots. Her eyes sparkled, and Jane noticed, really noticed, what Peter must’ve inherited. There was a strength in May’s presence that reminded her of steel wrapped in silk.
She was dressed in a sleek, floor-length emerald gown that complimented her olive-toned skin. Her dark brown hair was pinned elegantly at the nape of her neck, a few wisps left intentionally loose to frame her high cheekbones. Even in her fifties, May Parker was a striking woman—graceful, magnetic, the kind of beauty that came from confidence more than cosmetics.
Jane smiled. “You look incredible.”
“Tell me that again after three glasses of wine,” May said with a wink. “I’ve got my heels off under this dress already.”
Just then, Peter’s eyes flicked to Clint, standing stiffly a few feet away, arms crossed and expression unreadable. Peter grimaced like a teenager caught ignoring their chaperone.
“Oh! Right. Um,” Peter stammered, gesturing between them. “May, this is Clint Barton. He’s sort of our… handler? Trainer? Scary personal coach?”
May turned slowly to regard Clint, looking him over from head to toe with the same calculating glance she might give a car that made a suspicious noise.
“Ah yes,” she said, lips pursed. “Peter’s mentioned you too. A lot.”
There was a distinct pause, long enough to be felt, and her tone walked that tightrope between amused and maternally unimpressed. Clint shifted uncomfortably under the weight of her gaze, cleared his throat, and gave a stiff little nod.
“I hope it was mostly good things.”
May smiled sweetly. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”
Jane nearly choked on her drinkless laugh, covering it with a tight-lipped grin. God, this woman is a powerhouse, she thought. She liked her. Fiercely.
Clint gave a soft, awkward chuckle, clearly unprepared for the full force of Aunt May Parker. “Well. I try.”
Jane caught his eye, smirked, then decided it was time for a strategic retreat.
“Excuse me for a moment,” she said lightly, already moving back toward the bar. “It’s way too warm in here. I need something cold to drink.”
May and Peter both nodded, and Peter turned back toward his aunt, already getting peppered with questions about who else she should meet.
Jane slipped through the crowd, threading her way past glittering gowns and tailored tuxedos until she reached the bar, a sleek curved counter glowing with soft LED lights underneath. She leaned one elbow against it, exhaled.
“Whiskey. Neat.” she told the bartender, her voice more tired than she expected.
When the glass was placed in front of her, she swirled the amber liquid once, then took a long sip. The burn was clean. Bracing. Exactly what she needed.
Behind her, laughter, music, and the clinking of expensive glasses hummed like white noise. She closed her eyes for just a moment.
Strong women raise strong men, she thought, remembering the way Peter had looked at his aunt. And strong women recognize their own.
May was formidable. The kind of woman who’d survived loss, grief, single motherhood, and somehow still stood with her shoulders back and her eyes sharp. Peter had opened up about it, and whenever he talked about her, it was evident to see the affection in his eyes. It stirred something in Jane—respect, admiration, the kind of quiet envy that wasn’t cruel but aching.
She raised her glass slightly, as if in a toast only she could see.
“To women like her,” she murmured. “Who get it done.”
Then she took another sip.
From the corner of her eye, she spotted Pepper and Tony, still at the edge of the crowd. Still too perfect. Still too them .
But for now, Jane had a drink, the sting of good whiskey, and a moment to herself.
That would do.
“Can I get you something else? Another round?”
The voice, smooth and low, broke through the fog of Jane’s thoughts. She turned, mildly startled. The man standing beside her was handsome, no doubt about it—early thirties, at most. Dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and a smile that had probably opened many doors. He wore confidence like a tailored suit.
She was about to decline. Her first instinct was to shut it down and return to the quiet comfort of her solitude and whiskey. But then he looked at her again, his eyes steady, curious, not yet calculating. And maybe it was the second drink warming her chest, or the dangerous allure of feeling seen. So she nodded.
“Sure,” she said. “Why not.”
The man slid onto the stool beside her and gestured to the bartender. “Another for the lady, please.”
She tilted her glass to finish the last of the whiskey. It hit harder now. Her stomach was still a little empty. Her head still too full.
“I’m Erik,” he said, offering a hand she didn’t take. “Erik Weiss. I write for The Angle. You’ve probably never heard of it. One of those obscure-but-influential columns with too many words and too few ads.”
Jane arched a brow. “Sounds riveting.”
He chuckled. “We try. And truth be told, your name’s been circling around our office for a while now. Spider-Man’s mystery partner during the jewelry store standoff? The one with the violet shockwaves and a temper like a fuse?”
Jane’s posture stiffened slightly. Her eyes narrowed, but only slightly.
“I see,” she said. “You’re very well-informed. Possibly better than me.”
Erik leaned closer. Too close. His voice dropped an octave, his breath brushing her cheek. “Don’t do that. We both know it’s true. There are pictures, you know. Of you training. On the tower’s rooftop. Skimming just above the skyline. There’s buzz. People want to know who you are. Where you came from. Are you the next Avenger? Are we recruiting? Is something coming we don’t know about?”
Jane set her glass down with more force than necessary.
“And here I was,” she said, turning to face him directly, her eyes now sharp and cold, “thinking you were just a cute guy offering me a drink. But no. How boring. It’s just work.”
She pushed off the bar stool and made to walk away, but Erik’s hand caught her wrist.
“Wait,” he said quickly, voice softening as if it could somehow mask the firm grip. “Just a minute. That’s all I ask. I promise, you won’t regret it.”
She tried to pull away. He pulled back, stronger this time. A grip that was no longer just insistent, it was controlling.
Then another hand appeared.
Not hers.
It clamped over Erik’s with a force and precision that made him instantly recoil. The motion was subtle, but the message was unmistakable: Let go.
Jane turned, and her breath caught in her throat.
Tony.
He stood there, in that midnight-blue pinstriped suit she’d caught glimpses of earlier across the ballroom. The sharp tailoring, the glint of a metallic cufflink, the quiet storm behind his eyes—he was a vision of composure, and yet his jaw was set like stone.
“You heard the lady,” Tony said, his voice low but unmistakably lethal. “She’s not interested.”
Erik blinked, then tried to smile, laugh it off. “Mr. Stark—hey, no offense meant, I was just—”
“Just being an asshole?” Tony cut in. “You’re lucky I’m feeling charitable tonight.”
The tension hummed like a power line.
Jane hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until her lungs forced her to exhale. Slowly, Erik stepped back, raising both hands in mock surrender, before disappearing into the crowd, muttering something about deadlines and sources.
Tony didn’t move. Not immediately.
Then he turned to her, his eyes scanning her face. Not for makeup or glamour, but something else. Something real.
“Are you okay?” he asked, quieter now.
She nodded. Or tried to. But her pulse was still racing.
And somehow, with him standing there like that, she felt less like the girl who’d been cornered at a bar, and more like someone… protected.
He had come for her. From wherever he’d been in that sea of people, he had noticed, and he had come. For her. And just like every time before, Jane caught the thought as it bloomed and shoved it into the furthest, most remote part of her mind, where the dangerous ideas lived. She needed to stop doing this. Stop assigning weight to every glance, every gesture, every fleeting moment where he made her feel like she still mattered. It only hurt. It was foolish.
To steady the air between them she smiled, at least, she tried to. The kind of smile that feigned ease and confidence, though she could feel it wavering at the corners. “Look at that,” she said lightly. “Iron Man himself, swooping in to save the day. I’m honored.”
Tony raised an eyebrow, just the hint of a smirk touching his lips. “I’m pretty sure you could’ve handled that guy with one hand and a glass in the other.”
“Don’t ruin the fantasy,” she replied. “I was trying to picture the headlines.”
“Let me guess— Heroine Rescued by Billionaire Playboy. Sparks Fly, Drinks Spill? ”
She laughed. Genuinely, this time. It surprised her how easy it was. “Exactly that. I want royalties when the article comes out.”
Tony’s smirk softened into something real. He slipped his hands into his pockets and gave her a slow, assessing look. “You always this quick on your feet, or is it just when you’re cornered by reporters?”
Jane tilted her head. “You bring out the best in me, Stark.”
“I tend to do that.”
The air between them shifted. Became quieter, softer. She took a slow breath, trying to ground herself again, trying not to lean too far into the electricity sparking in the space between them.
“It’s hot in here,” she murmured after a moment, brushing her hair off her neck. “Is it just me, or is this place one champagne glass away from spontaneous combustion?”
Tony glanced around and nodded as if confirming her words. “You’re not wrong.” He took a half-step closer and lowered his voice. “Want to get some air?”
The words hit her like static.
She blinked at him. For a second, she thought she’d misunderstood. That her ears had warped the sentence into something it wasn’t. But no, he was looking at her. Waiting. Asking.
And suddenly, the ballroom felt too loud. Too close. Her heart beat too fast.
“Yes.” she said. “Yeah. That sounds good.”
He nodded once and gestured with a tilt of his head. They walked side by side, his steps matching hers with ease, weaving through the glittering crowd toward the far end of the hall where the glass doors led out onto the balcony. Just before they reached them, Jane’s eyes lifted, drawn by something she couldn’t explain, and caught Pepper’s gaze across the room.
It was unmistakable. Direct.
Pepper was watching them.
Their eyes locked—Jane’s breath caught in her throat.
Pepper didn’t look surprised. Just… still. Poised. Impossibly unreadable. Jane didn’t know what she expected—confusion? Disappointment? Curiosity? But whatever she searched for in Pepper’s expression, she didn’t find it. There was only that polished stillness, like a perfect statue of porcelain.
Jane broke the gaze first.
She turned back to Tony, who was already pushing the glass door open, letting in a welcome rush of cool night air. He stepped outside, holding the door for her. She followed, and the door shut behind her with a soft click.
They were alone.
The night had draped itself across the city in a glittering sweep of lights. From the balcony, the skyline of New York stretched out like a promise. Endless windows burning warm gold, tiny cars like fireflies moving through the arteries of the streets far below. The wind carried the muffled thrum of music from inside the ballroom, but out here, everything was quieter. Jane leaned on the marble railing and let herself breathe.
At first, the chill of the air had been a relief. A clean, sharp contrast to the champagne-drenched heat of the gala. But now, after some minutes, the breeze was beginning to bite. Her bare arms were prickled with goosebumps. She crossed them over her chest, shivering once. Tony noticed.
Wordlessly, he shrugged off his jacket and stepped behind her, draping it over her shoulders. The fabric was still warm from his body. She caught a trace of his cologne—familiar, even now. The scent made something in her chest ache.
“Thanks.” she said softly, not turning.
“No need to thank me. You needed it more than me.” he replied, his voice low.
Jane exhaled a dry laugh. “Careful, Stark. You’re starting to sound like a real person.”
“Don’t get used to it.” he said, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Silence settled between them. Not uncomfortable, but charged. She fiddled with the hem of the jacket.
“About the other night,” she said, more quietly now. “When I came back drunk.”
Tony tilted his head. “You mean when you tried to argue with your keycard?”
She shot him a look, but he only chuckled.
“I didn’t have the chance to thank you for… helping me, I guess.”
His humor faded. “I know. And you don’t have to. I just… did what felt right.”
Jane lowered her gaze. “Still. I hated that you saw me like that. It wasn’t supposed to happen.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “You shouldn’t. Honestly, there’s nothing I regret about that night. And you should follow my example.”
Jane swallowed. She felt it again—the pull. The way he looked at her, not like she was a stranger. And then, his voice cut through the stillness.
“So,” Tony said, tilting his head, his tone lighter again. “You and Barton. I saw you dancing together.”
Jane nodded theatrically. “Yeah, it’s already part of the highlights of the night.”
He shrugged, serious. “Looked like you two were bonding.”
She burst out laughing. “Bonding? With Barton? That’s rich. I consider it a victory if he’s not actively hating me today.”
Tony shook his head like he didn’t believe her. “You’re wrong. He doesn’t hate you. Actually, if you really want to know, we were talking about you the other night.”
That caught her off guard. “You were?”
“Yeah. I mean, sure, at first he wasn’t thrilled about working with you. But then he started talking about you with this… fire in his eyes. Like you were something extraordinary.”
Jane arched a brow. “You sure you’re sober?”
Tony chuckled. “I mean it. You’ve gotten under his skin.”
She folded her arms, leaning slightly against the balcony rail. “I wish I’d heard it myself. Because hearing Barton call me ‘extraordinary’ sounds like something out of a fever dream.”
“He keeps an eye on you, you know.” Tony added, more quietly. “In his own way. You’re starting to win him over.”
Jane tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “And why are you so interested?”
Tony raised both brows. “Can’t I? Seems like the topic is making you nervous.”
“Oh god.” she groaned, laughing again. “It was thirty seconds of awkward swaying. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.”
Tony smirked, but something behind it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Still. Barton doesn’t dance with just anyone.”
For a moment, Jane stilled.
There was something beneath his words, something unsaid. But maybe she was just clinging to scraps, hoping for a sign that wasn’t really there.
“I have to ask you something.” he said, interrupting her thoughts, and his tone was different now. Slower. Cautious. “I know I already did. But it’s been eating me alive.”
Her stomach twisted.
“Have we met before?” he asked. “Before all this. Before the Tower, the training. Because I swear, Jane…. something about you… it keeps circling me. Won’t let go.”
Jane held her breath.
“You feel familiar,” he went on, softer. “In a way that doesn’t make any damn sense.”
She bit the inside of her cheek. She couldn’t tell him the truth. She couldn’t risk everything falling apart.
“No,” she whispered. “We haven’t.”
Tony looked down, jaw tightening.
“Right,” he said, but it wasn’t a question anymore. Then he drew in a slow breath, hesitating.
“Okay.” he murmured. “Then maybe you can tell me why I keep seeing your face in a dream I’ve had for years.”
Jane didn’t move. She couldn’t.
Tony shook his head, as if annoyed with himself. “This is going to sound insane, I know. I don’t even know why I’m saying this out loud. But I keep having this dream—always the same. I’m driving a car, an old convertible, top down, music blasting. Some old jazz standard I can’t name. The sun’s warm, the wind’s everywhere, and I’m laughing.”
He glanced at her, his voice quiet, fragile.
“And there’s a woman next to me. Blonde. Grey eyes. She’s singing. She looks at me like I’m the only person in the world.”
Jane’s throat tightened.
“It’s always her.” Tony continued. “The same face. The same voice. And since you showed up…”
He trailed off.
“Since you showed up,” he repeated, “she looks exactly like you.”
Jane could barely breathe.
That memory… It was real. It had happened. All of it. And somehow, some piece of it had survived inside him, buried in the rubble of everything she’d taken away. It had clung to him through time, through erased memories. How strong must it have been to stay?
She didn’t realize a tear had fallen until Tony reached up to wipe it with his thumb. Gently, without a word.
“Dreams deceive us. Everyone knows that.” she finally said, her voice barely a whisper, eyes locked with his.
Jane didn’t believe the moment was real. It felt like she was watching herself from a distance, watching a dream finally materialize after so many nights spent imagining it, longing for it, fearing it. Every night since she’d arrived in New York, she’d imagined this. The moment he would start to remember.
This wasn’t quite that. It wasn’t a recognition, not fully. Just a fragment. A whisper of what once was. And yet, it was happening.
And the most devastating thing of all was that she couldn’t say yes.
She couldn’t reassure him. She couldn’t admit to what they had been, to the life they’d built. Because six years ago, she had given it all up.
She had given up on him.
Their life. The chance to build a future. The love that had once been the truest thing she had ever known.
She had done it because she believed, because she knew, that staying could unravel everything. That staying could change Tony too much. And if Tony changed, the future changed.
Jane had been sent there for a specific reason. She had been tasked with a mission, and when it was complete, she was meant to return. Meant to go back to the timeline Fury had assigned her. But she hadn’t.
She had stayed.
She had stayed and built a life that had never been meant to exist. And when it all began to spiral, when she realized how deep she had gone, how much she had risked, she had tried to fix it. To erase it.
To erase herself.
Because Tony had to survive. That had been the one immutable law. The TVA had been clear: Tony Stark must survive. He must live through his twenties, through his trauma, through his losses. He must become who he was meant to be. His life could not be altered. His trajectory was too important.
Why? Jane never knew. Maybe Fury didn’t either. But the command had been non-negotiable.
And now, here he was. Inches from her. And not for the first time in the last few days. But for the first time, she knew—with terrifying clarity—that she wouldn’t have the strength to walk away.
Not this time.
Tony then took a slow, shaking breath, his gaze dropping to her lips before darting away again.
“You’re so young.” he murmured, barely audible. “…too young.”
He said it like a confession. Like a sin.
Jane didn’t move.
His voice was thick with remorse, the words heavy with all the guilt he was trying to swallow. For the desire. For the thoughts he couldn’t push away. For being here, just with her, when his fiancée was only a few steps away.
Jane let out a breath of bitter amusement, soft and quiet.
Young.
If only he knew.
She didn’t even remember what it felt like to be young. Maybe she had stopped being it a hundred years ago. Maybe more.
He looked at her and saw twenty-five. But every year she had lived, every century, was etched into her bones like stone. Her body had reset. Her age had not.
She lifted her eyes to his, took a single step closer.
She had already done enough damage. What was one more mistake?
“Is that what’s stopping you?” she whispered. “My age?”
He let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “It’s one of a thousand reasons I shouldn’t be here right now. And it’s not even the most important one.”
Jane felt the words like a slap and then let them roll over her.
“Then go,” she said, and her voice cracked. “I won’t follow.”
But Tony didn’t move.
He leaned in, his voice low and rough, like gravel. “You won’t. Not in person, at least.”
She shattered.
She didn’t even know how she’d managed to hold back this long. Maybe it had never really been control—just fear. And even now, as she stepped forward, as her body gave in to what her mind had spent weeks denying, she trembled. Not just from the desire, but from the weight of it all. The terror of what she was doing. Of what this moment meant. The moment she had imagined a hundred different ways—now real, now right in front of her—and still, it felt impossible.
But her lips found his anyway.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was raw, desperate. A confession carved in silence. Tony met her without hesitation, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her flush against him. One hand gripped the curve of her hip, the other on her cheek, holding her like he was afraid she’d vanish again.
Jane’s hands slid into his hair, threading through the soft strands, gripping tight. She felt his teeth catch on her bottom lip, a teasing bite that stole a gasp from her mouth. Her breath hitched, and a quiet sound escaped her throat. A tremor of need she couldn’t hold back.
He tasted the same. Exactly as she remembered.
He pressed her back gently against the balcony wall, his lips never leaving hers, anchoring them both to the moment like it was the only real thing left.
And maybe it was.
And then—a flicker of movement.
Jane opened her eyes just enough to catch a shape beyond the glass. A figure. Watching.
Clint.
She froze.
Her breath stalled in her throat, the world slamming back into her with punishing force.
She broke the kiss, stumbling back a step, her chest heaving. He blinked, stunned, lips parted.
“Jane—”
But she wasn’t looking at him anymore.
Her gaze had locked onto something beyond the glass, and when he turned to follow it, he saw him too—Clint. Standing just outside, still and silent, watching. For a heartbeat, none of them moved. Then, without a word, Barton turned and disappeared into the shadows of the hall.
Tony’s eyes flicked back to Jane. And something in his face shifted, like realization, like the weight of everything they’d just done crashing into the space between them.
Jane shook her head, already unraveling. “I—I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to—” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. Her mind scrambled for a way to make it not real, to undo what had just happened.
And then she ran.
She didn’t know why or where she thought she could go, only that she needed to get away. Away from Tony, from Clint, from the weight of the truth pressing down on her lungs. She burst back into the ballroom, the music hitting her like a tidal wave. The noise was unbearable now. The lights too bright, the laughter too hollow. Clint was gone. Of course he was. He was a practical man, and knew exactly when it was time to quietly bow out. At least for the moment.
She didn’t take the elevator. She tore off her heels and bolted for the stairs, needing to move, to feel the sharp cold under her bare feet and the burn in her muscles—anything but the panic pressing against her ribs. Her dress snagged once on the railing; she didn’t care. She didn’t stop until she reached her floor and slammed the door behind her.
Only then, when the silence settled around her like a vacuum, did she realize she still had Tony’s jacket on. She stood frozen for a second, staring down at the soft fabric clutched in her fists. It was still warm. It still smelled like him.
She slid down against the door until she was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, and that was when it broke. The sob tore through her so suddenly, so violently, she barely had time to muffle it with her hands. Then another, and another. The crying came hard, raw and guttural. She buried her face in her palms and wept. Not pretty, not quiet. It was the kind of crying that left you hollow.
What the hell had she thought would happen? That she could kiss him and just… walk away? That she could live in the shadow of a life he no longer remembered and somehow keep herself untouched by it?
There had been a time, years ago, in another life, when she’d belonged to him. When his arms had been her home. When his voice had been the first thing she heard in the morning and the last thing she needed at night. But that time was gone. He didn’t remember. Not really. Maybe little echoes, maybe fragments—but the life they’d shared had been erased, sealed off in the vault of time she had no right to open.
And what terrified her most was that she still wanted to.
She clutched the lapels of his jacket tighter around her, like she could hold onto the memory of him with her body if not her mind. Her shoulders shook with the force of it all. She had promised herself never again. No ties. No more love. Love made you vulnerable. Love made you weak. Love had nearly broken her once.
And now? Now she didn’t know how the hell she was supposed to look him in the eyes again. To pretend again. She had no idea how she was going to show up at training tomorrow, how she’d manage to act like nothing had happened.
All she wanted, more than she had in the past eight months, was to leave. Just go. Slip into another time, another place, anywhere but here.
The pull was stronger than it had been in ages.
After all, running was what she did best. Starting over. Beginning again.
It had always been her true calling, being unfinished.
Never staying long enough to become whole.
____
The next morning arrived far too early.
S.A.S.S.I. activated with a soft chime, followed by her usual overly cheerful voice.
“Good morning, Jane. The outside temperature is 52 degrees Fahrenheit. Skies are clear. Today on your schedule: elemental drills, followed by a group coordination exercise and a tactical debriefing. You are expected at the sublevel training room in exactly forty-five minutes.”
Jane groaned.
She rolled onto her side, her face half-buried in the pillow, and muttered into it, “S.A.S.S.I., shut up. I’m not going anywhere today.”
The AI paused.
“That’s not the attitude of an Avenger candidate. Don’t go soft on me now.”
“Disengage, S.A.S.S.I.” Jane snapped, her voice hoarse.
“Under protest,” the voice replied, then fell silent.
Jane sighed heavily and pulled the blanket over her head. Her temples throbbed. She hadn’t realized how badly her head hurt until now, like her skull was caught in a vice. Her eyes burned with leftover mascara, and her body ached with the heavy weight of everything that had happened the night before.
The kiss. Tony. Clint.
The rush of it came back in fragments—heat and breath, the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears, the flash of Clint’s silhouette beyond the glass. And then, the shame. The overwhelming, bitter shame.
It had been her. She had kissed Tony.
He might’ve been close, sure. Maybe he would’ve given in either way. But the truth was, she had crossed that line. And for what? A fantasy? A ghost of what once was? He had a life. A fiancée. A future that didn’t include her.
Jane drifted in and out of shallow sleep, while these thoughts kept spiraling in her head, for what felt like minutes, maybe hours, until a loud knock shook her awake.
Jane bolted upright.
Her head spun with the sudden movement. “What the hell…”
Another round of knocks, firmer this time.
She stumbled out of bed, bare feet cold against the floor, and yanked open the door.
Clint Barton stood in the doorway, fists clenched like he was ready to yell. But then he looked at her: hair tangled, makeup smeared under her eyes, oversized t-shirt slipping off one shoulder… And whatever he’d been about to say died in his throat.
He gave her a quick once-over, then stepped inside without invitation.
Jane raised a brow. “Oh, sure. Come right in. Make yourself at home.”
“You were supposed to be in the training room thirty minutes ago.”
She sighed and sank into the couch by the entrance, tucking her legs beneath her. “Yeah. I’m aware. I’m not coming today.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” she said, voice flat. “Today’s canceled.”
“That’s not how this works, Russo.”
She smirked without humor. “What, are you gonna ground me? Take away my phone privileges?”
Clint narrowed his eyes. “If that’s what it takes to get your ass downstairs, then yeah.”
“Why do you even care?” she asked, more tired than angry. “You’ve done everything you were supposed to. You trained me. You pushed me. If I’m a disaster, it’s not your fault. I mean, those seven months were a prison for you, too. I’m sure they’ll let you go home sooner or later. So why are you trying so hard?”
Clint stood silent for a second. Then, slowly, he stepped closer and crouched to her level.
“Because I’ve seen what you’re capable of. And I don’t walk away from people who have potential.”
She stared at him.
“So now,” he said, standing back up. “You’re going to haul yourself out of that pity pit, wash your face, put on something that doesn’t smell like whiskey and regret, and come train. Whether you want to or not. I will drag you down there if I have to.”
Jane stared at the floor.
Clint crossed his arms again. “Don’t test me, Russo.”
She exhaled through her nose, long and slow, holding his gaze, and for a moment, something shifted in her chest—small, quiet, but powerful. Gratitude. She hadn’t expected it, but it swelled in her throat like something warm and unfamiliar. He hadn’t said a word about the night before. He hadn’t embarrassed her or made her feel small. And now he was standing there, in the doorway of her apartment, determined not to let her spiral.
Maybe he had his own reasons. Maybe that line about not walking away from potential was just something he said to push her forward. Maybe he didn’t believe it himself. But right now, it didn’t matter.
Because she needed it.
Because it worked.
She didn’t want to train. God, she didn’t want to train. She wanted to stay buried in bed, wrapped in Tony’s jacket and her own pathetic self-loathing, and not move for the rest of the day. But she looked at Clint—solid, immovable Clint—and knew she wouldn’t say no.
So she nodded. Barely. A small, defeated tilt of her head. “Fine,” she said quietly. “But please. No flying drills today. I swear, if you throw me off another ledge, I’ll strangle you mid-air.”
A ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of Clint’s mouth. “No promises.”
Jane rolled her eyes but didn’t fight him further. She rose from the couch, slow and stiff, and ran a hand through her tangled hair.
Clint took a step back toward the door. “You’ve got ten minutes. If you’re not downstairs by then, I’m sending Peter up with a bucket of cold water.”
She groaned. “Cruelty. You’re into cruelty. Just admit it.”
But there was no real bite in her voice. And when the door clicked shut behind him, she stood in place for a moment, the echo of his presence still in the room.
She sighed, long and low, and headed toward the bathroom.
She had work to do.
____
Later, she realized why Clint had been so insistent on dragging her out of bed that morning. The reason revealed itself the moment she stepped onto the field behind the Tower, a wide stretch of packed earth, half-surrounded by trees, open sky above them like a dome of pale blue. A thick line of black coal stones ran twenty meters across the center of the clearing, splitting it in two.
And just like that, her stomach twisted. Jane didn’t need to ask. She knew.
“Not fire.” she muttered under her breath, eyes narrowing.
But of course, it was fire.
Clint stood a few meters ahead, arms crossed, waiting. Peter was off to the side stretching, as casual as ever, rolling his shoulders like they weren’t about to risk life and limb.
“Not fire,” she repeated, louder this time. “Not today.”
Clint heard her, but he kept showing that maddeningly calm look he wore every time he wanted to push her too far.
“If you can control it today,” he said simply, “with your head the way it is, the stress, the mess inside you—if you can do it now, you can do it anytime.”
Another motivational one-liner. Another line of bullshit.
Jane let out a slow, bitter breath and turned to Peter. “And what, exactly, is your role in this wonderful experiment?”
Clint answered instead, a sliver of a smile pulling at his mouth. “He’s the incentive.”
Peter looked up, clueless for a second. Then Clint pointed to the break in the coal line, a narrow gap no wider than a body length.
“Lie down there.” Clint instructed.
Jane blinked. “You want him to what?”
Peter hesitated, then squinted at the space. “Wait. Seriously?”
“You,” Clint pointed to Jane, “are going to ignite the coal. All of it. Except for that gap. Keep the fire out of it. Or he gets burned.”
Jane was already shaking her head. The image repulsed her. “No. No, this is a horrible idea. I’m not doing this. I can’t risk it. Not with Peter.”
Clint didn’t flinch. “It’s a reverse trust fall. He dropped you out of the sky more than once, remember? Now it’s your turn. Let’s call it even.”
“This is so messed up.” Jane muttered, arms folded tightly across her chest, eyes fixed on the long, coal-lined path before her like it might lunge up and bite her. Her stomach was already in knots.
“I’m aware.” Clint replied without missing a beat, his voice neutral like he was stating the weather report instead of assigning her a potentially disastrous fire drill.
Peter hovered nearby, clearly torn. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other before finally stepping forward and placing a tentative hand on Jane’s shoulder.
“Hey,” he said, voice lower now, soft. “Look, I know this sounds insane. Honestly, I’m not thrilled either. But we both know how Clint works. Once he gets an idea in his head, it’s locked in. Might as well try and make it through, right?”
Jane didn’t answer. Her jaw tightened.
Peter tilted his head, trying to catch her eye. “Hey… I trust you, okay? You’ve got this. You’re amazing, Jane. Just… maybe go easy on the fire part. Like, try not to flambé me. I’m very flammable.”
She finally turned toward him, shooting a glare sharp enough to slice through steel.
He blinked. “Right. No jokes. Got it.”
But he wasn’t done. He rubbed the back of his neck, nervous energy bubbling to the surface again. “Just saying though… are you sure you slept at all? You kind of look like a raccoon that lost a fight with a trash can. I mean, no offense, obviously. It’s just—you look like last night was… a lot.”
The silence that followed was instant and heavy.
Jane’s face dropped. The small bit of color in her cheeks vanished. Her body went stiff, shoulders drawn in like armor.
Even Clint shifted awkwardly where he stood, his gaze flickering away like he didn’t want to make eye contact with either of them. The tension was palpable now, thick in the air, and even Peter—who usually remained blissfully oblivious in moments like these—felt the drop in temperature.
His eyes widened. “Oh, wow. Okay. That was… wrong thing to say. My bad.” He lifted his hands in surrender, backing up a step. “I’ll just… go lie down now. Right in the danger zone. Totally fine.”
He jogged awkwardly toward the break in the coal, muttering to himself. Jane turned away, grinding her teeth. She didn’t want to think about the gala. Or Tony. Or the kiss. Especially not with Clint standing ten feet away, watching her like a hawk.
She stepped forward slowly.
The coal crunched under her boots.
She closed her eyes.
She could feel it, already. That pressure inside her. That warmth. It built like steam inside a kettle, pushing against her bones. Fire wasn’t like water. Water listened. Water adapted. But fire? Fire demanded.
Breathe in.
Exhale.
Her hands rose again, fingers twitching slightly. A flicker of heat bloomed at her palms, warm and familiar. It was like coaxing a sleeping animal to stir—cautious, patient. A shimmer of light swirled beneath the skin of her arms, tracing lines of gold through her veins. She inhaled slowly, eyes narrowing on the path ahead.
One strip. Just one. Twenty meters. Keep it steady. Keep it contained.
She imagined the fire like a ribbon of silk, unfurling across the line of coal, curling and stretching only as far as she allowed. She pressed the image into her mind, etched it into focus.
Peter’s face surfaced again grinning. Awkward but trusting.
Her chest tightened. She couldn’t burn that face.
The flame jumped.
It flared from her fingers in a smooth arc, rolling out along the coal in a steady pulse of heat. For the first few meters, it held beautifully—controlled, clean. But then it began to waver. The light dimmed, the heat dispersed. After another second, the flame sputtered entirely and died out somewhere near the sixth meter.
Jane exhaled sharply, frustrated. She wiped her palm on her hip, annoyed with herself, and turned toward Clint for what she assumed would be a lecture.
But to her surprise, he was smiling. Just faintly, one of those rare Clint Barton half-smirks that made her wonder if the man actually had emotions beyond sarcasm and frustration. There was something almost… proud in the way he nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Very good. You didn’t torch the field. I’d call that progress. Again.”
Jane rolled her eyes so hard it nearly hurt. “There it is,” she muttered. “Knew it was too good to last.”
Clint only raised a brow, unapologetic. She huffed and turned back toward the line.
She tried again.
This time, the flame barely sparked before guttering out completely, vanishing like a candle blown in a storm. She stared at her hands like they’d betrayed her.
From the ground, Peter craned his neck toward her and grinned. “Well,” he said, “I guess I’m not ending up as grilled Spider-Dog today.”
Jane felt the corners of her mouth twitch. Stupid. Stupid joke. And yet… it helped. Somehow, it helped. That was Peter’s magic trick, she was starting to realize. He never took things too seriously—not in a way that dragged her down. He gave her space to breathe. That kind of lightness was rare. And in that moment, it was exactly what she needed.
She turned back toward the line. Closed her eyes. And this time, she didn’t try so hard.
Instead of forcing the fire, she let it rise on its own. Like breath filling her lungs. She felt the warmth stir again, not aggressive or violent, but steady. Gentle.
Like it wanted to obey her.
She opened her eyes just as the flame stretched forward again—this time thin, focused. Not blinding. Not loud. Just… alive.
It glided along the coal, smooth and unwavering. Jane didn’t move, didn’t breathe, afraid to startle it. The flame danced along the path, and when it reached the gap where Peter lay, it paused.
For half a heartbeat, she thought it would leap the space.
But it didn’t.
It stopped. Sputtered out with precision just before reaching him. There was silence. And then, on the other side of Peter, the fire reappeared—soft, steady, like it had only taken a breath before continuing its course.
The entire line glowed. Twenty meters. All of it.
Peter stared at her, wide-eyed. Jane lowered her hands slowly, almost in disbelief. Then a smile crept across her face—wide, real, satisfied.
She turned toward Clint, arms loose at her sides now, her posture relaxed in a way it hadn’t been in days. “You know what?” she called. “Maybe all those months of enduring your charming personality actually paid off.”
Clint blinked, caught off guard. His mouth twitched again, just barely. “Careful, Russo. Compliments make me suspicious.”
Peter let out a whoop of celebration, still lying flat on the ground. “Okay, that was awesome! I think I felt the heat kiss my elbow—ten outta ten, would nearly get roasted again!”
Jane laughed. Really laughed.
It wasn’t perfect. It hadn’t been easy. But for the first time in a long time, she felt like she was in control. Like the fire was part of her, not something she had to fight.
And even if Clint wouldn’t say it, she knew it mattered. She was getting better.
And damn if that didn’t feel like something.
The rest of the training session slid downhill in the best way possible. Clint didn’t press her to continue with the fire drills. He had a strange, often frustrating, sixth sense about when to push and when to pull back. His philosophy was clear: if something finally worked, especially with someone like Jane, you didn’t poke it too hard. Not immediately. Push too soon, and she’d spiral into overthinking, and from there, into a messy, erratic loss of control.
That was the pattern they were all starting to recognize. Peter included. If Jane wasn’t emotionally steady—if her breathing was off, her head cluttered, her heart storming—then the powers got volatile. Even dangerous. But if she found that elusive balance inside herself, she could do things none of them quite knew how to explain.
So, for the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon, the focus shifted.
Hand-to-hand.
It was almost a relief. No psychic heat waves. No levitation. No fire licking at the edges of her mind. Just muscle and sweat and bruises. Predictable pain.
Even if she was still at a disadvantage.
Clint, obviously, was sharper than ever. His movements were minimal but effective. Everything he did had purpose, nothing wasted, nothing fancy. Peter, on the other hand, was fast and unfairly strong. He held back more than he should have, but Jane could tell—he was learning how not to. And her? She didn’t have super strength. No enhanced reflexes. But she was quick. And her instincts were getting better. Her body was starting to remember the rhythm, anticipate the flow of a fight.
She wasn’t winning. Not by a long shot. But she was improving. And that mattered.
Clint had made one thing very clear: no powers in hand-to-hand. Ever. And while Jane still didn’t fully understand the reasoning behind that—why would she ever be in a real fight and not use every advantage she had?—she respected it. Mostly. Even if she grumbled under her breath.
By the time Clint finally raised a hand and called it, the sky had already started to bleed into that soft golden dusk, the kind that made the field shimmer with tired heat.
Jane’s legs felt like they’d been replaced with concrete. Her shoulders burned. Every joint in her body seemed to throb in protest. And yet, she was oddly proud of herself. She hadn’t passed out. She hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t lost control. Not once.
Clint wiped sweat from his brow, squinted at the horizon, and then gave the smallest nod of approval. “All right. That’s enough. You’re free. Morning off tomorrow. Be back by fifteen hundred.”
Peter, still stretching out his sore arms, mumbled, “Thank God. I’ve got school, you know. Real life. This place is like a dystopian gym class.”
Jane let out a soft laugh—dry, cracked from exhaustion, but genuine.
Clint gave them both a short wave and began walking off toward the building, shoulders tight, boots kicking up a little dust as he went. He didn’t look back, but Jane caught the way his posture eased ever so slightly. Maybe even he knew today had been a win.
Once he was gone, silence settled between her and Peter. Not awkward, just calm. Earned.
Jane turned to him.
“Hey,” she said, quietly at first, and then with a touch more sincerity. “Thank you.”
Peter blinked. “For what?”
“For today. For the fire thing. I mean—if you hadn’t been there, if you hadn’t said what you said…” She trailed off, searching for the words. “You helped me stay grounded. That matters more than you think.”
Peter gave her that sheepish, lopsided grin he always pulled when he wasn’t sure what to do with a compliment. “I mean, yeah. I am pretty incredible.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t push it.”
“I’m serious though,” she added, softening again. “I like training with you. You make it feel… easier. Less heavy.”
Peter flushed. Color climbed up his neck and into his cheeks. “Well, yeah. I mean. Same here.”
He was adorably embarrassed, clearly not used to being praised like that. Something about the way he squirmed under her gaze made her smile.
And before she could second-guess it, she reached forward and hugged him.
It wasn’t a dramatic thing. Just a quiet, simple gesture. Arms wrapping around him, her forehead brushing his shoulder.
Peter froze at first, stiff like someone had paused him mid-thought. But then, slowly, he returned the hug. His arms looped around her, careful, a little awkward.
Jane closed her eyes for a moment.
It had been a long time since she’d allowed herself something like that. Unfiltered affection. Warmth without calculation. She’d spent so long keeping people at arm’s length. Letting them in meant risking something. Losing something.
But Peter reminded her of someone she used to know.
A younger brother.
Back in a life so distant, it barely felt real anymore—when her name was still Ginevra, when there were lemon trees outside her window and sea wind in her hair. When she had a family. A brother. A home.
Peter felt like a sliver of that world. Something good she hadn’t known she missed.
When they finally pulled apart, he gave her a little nudge on the arm. “Don’t go getting all sentimental on me now.”
“Too late.” she said, smirking, and gave him a light shove in return.
He grinned, stepping back, and waved. “See you tomorrow, Jane.”
She lifted a hand in reply, watching as he jogged off toward the other side of the training complex.
And then she was alone.
The sun had dipped low behind the skyline, casting everything in a burnished orange hue. The wind kicked up faintly, rustling through her damp hair. Her body ached in a thousand different ways, and every step toward the building felt heavier than the last.
But there was something light inside her. A small flicker. A quiet sense of… peace.
She didn’t get that often.
Maybe things were changing. Maybe not.
But for today, she would let herself enjoy the silence, and the soft warmth of something real.
She crossed the field, step by step, heading back toward the entrance—toward a hot shower, a quiet night, and, hopefully, the kind of sleep that didn’t end in fire or regret.
As soon as she got to her quarters and the door clicked shut behind her, Jane leaned back against it and let out a long, exhausted breath. The hum of the apartment felt louder in the silence that followed, the stillness wrapping around her like a second skin. She reached down, fingers catching the zipper tucked against the side of her ribcage, and pulled. The suit unsealed with a whisper of fabric and release, parting with a satisfying sigh as her body finally felt the air again.
She stepped out of her boots, one after the other, and left them by the door. Her bare feet made soft contact with the floor as she padded across the apartment, moving slowly toward her bedroom. Every part of her ached, from the weight of the training, the confrontation, and the emotional toll of the past days, but she moved with purpose, instinct guiding her more than anything else.
On the edge of her bed sat a rectangular Stark Industries valise—elegant, matte black, with chrome accents. She hadn’t noticed it before. The moment her fingers brushed the panel, the surface lit up with a cool blue glow.
“Identity confirmed,” a pleasant mechanical voice chimed. “Welcome, Agent Russo.”
The locks disengaged with a soft hiss, and the lid lifted automatically. Inside, perfectly folded and nestled in the protective casing, was the suit.
It was unlike anything she had ever seen.
A deep violet-purple wove through rich black in intricate, almost sculptural lines. The fabric shimmered slightly under the bedroom light, sleek but not glossy—high-tech, reinforced weave with a finish that whispered durability and elegance in equal measure. Lightweight, clearly, but every seam was purposeful, reinforced. The suit looked like it could withstand fire, steel, gravity, time.
Along the inner seams ran channels for tech conduits, she guessed. The gloves were detached but nestled to the side, reinforced with slight padding along the knuckles, while the hood and mask folded neatly into a separate compartment.
Jane stared.
Then slowly, almost reverently, reached out and lifted it from the case.
“S.A.S.S.I.,” she murmured, adjusting the auricular device with one hand. “What is this?”
The AI’s voice came soft in her ear, perfectly modulated. “A gift. From Mr. Stark. He believes every profession has its uniform. If you choose to accept what’s ahead of you, this will be yours.”
Jane didn’t speak for a while. Her thumb traced one of the violet lines running along the chest plate. It was elegant, understated, but powerful. She could feel it—like it pulsed faintly in her grip, humming with promise.
A uniform. A suit.
A beginning.
She changed slowly, carefully pulling the suit onto her skin. It clung to her like a second layer—compressive but comfortable, flexible and firm. Each motion she made was met with seamless give. She expected to feel awkward, stiff, but instead… she felt ready.
Walking to the mirror, she caught sight of herself and froze.
The reflection that stared back wasn’t Ginevra, the noble girl from Southern Italy who had once hidden in the dark corners of stone castles. It wasn’t Jane Russo, the S.H.I.E.L.D. recruit with a borrowed name and too many ghosts in her eyes.
It was someone else. Someone reborn.
The violet hood framed her platinum hair, falling in soft waves around the edge of the mask. Her eyes, sharp and focused, seemed to glow beneath the low lighting. The suit carved out a silhouette both graceful and unyielding. She looked strong. She looked like someone that could not be touched.
Not by fear. Not by guilt. Not even by the past.
The weight of yesterday—Tony, the kiss, the guilt, the shame—sank somewhere behind her. She tucked it away. Locked it in a corner of herself, just like all the other memories that had no place in the person she was trying to become.
She let out a breath.
This was her now.
A new identity. A new mission. A new purpose.
Let the world burn behind her. Let the past stay buried where it belonged.
She had something to build. Something to protect.
And it started now.
____
The air inside the lab was thick with the usual scent of scorched metal and ozone. Tony sat at the center of it all, hunched over a holographic interface that hovered in mid-air, his fingers dancing across translucent panels as streams of code and blueprints spiraled around him. He was building something, something complicated, but Clint couldn’t tell what. And truthfully, he didn’t care.
He stood a few feet back, arms crossed tightly, jaw set.
Tony didn’t turn. Didn’t acknowledge his presence. Not even a glance.
Clint suppressed the irritation bubbling in his chest.
“Nick Fury made a decision.” he said at last, voice firm. “She’s leaving for a mission. Soon.”
Tony’s hands slowed for just a second, barely noticeable, but then resumed their meticulous movement, as if he hadn’t heard. Like he could just out-code reality.
Clint’s mouth twisted. “I’m just here to inform you. Nothing else.”
This time, Tony did pause. His hands stilled mid-air, suspended between commands. He held there for a beat too long before forcing himself to resume.
“How long will she be gone?” he asked, voice carefully neutral.
Clint hesitated. “I don’t know. Could be a while. It’s a demanding operation.”
Tony’s jaw flexed. His eyes stayed fixed on the interface, but his fingers fumbled slightly on a command node. The projection flickered, glitching for half a second before stabilizing.
“Is it dangerous?”
Silence.
Tony turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Clint—”
“I can’t share that,” Clint interrupted. “Not with you.”
Tony finally stopped entirely. He turned, slowly, and locked eyes with him. “Meaning?”
Clint didn’t blink. “Meaning your connection to her could be a liability.”
Tony’s face darkened.
“I wouldn’t endanger her,” he said, his voice low. “And I’m not trying to interfere.”
Clint stepped forward, voice rising. “I saw what happened last night. That, whatever the hell that was, that was reckless. You want to have your fun? Great. There are plenty of women ready to throw themselves at Tony Stark. But she’s not one of them. She’s not a toy. She’s a kid, Stark. She’s valuable. She’s fragile. And you—”
“And you?” Tony cut in sharply, rising from his chair. “You lecture me about self-control, about consequences? Let’s talk about consequences, Barton. Let’s talk about how your kids haven’t seen their father in over a year. Let’s talk about how you’re still here, sleeping under my roof, eating my food, drinking my scotch, while your family doesn’t even know what continent you’re on. So tell me, how do you deal with your consequences?”
The words hung in the air like shrapnel.
Clint stared at him, something hard to decipher flickering behind his eyes. Then, slowly, he looked away. Shook his head.
“Stay away from Jane.” he said, voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “Don’t make me pull her from this place and continue her training elsewhere. Don’t ruin this for her. For all of us.”
He turned and walked toward the exit.
The automatic doors hissed open. Closed again with a soft thud behind him.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then Tony let out a low, guttural sound of frustration and hurled one of the metallic pieces on his table across the room. It crashed into a wall with a metallic clang and bounced harmlessly onto the floor.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and buried his face in his hands.
The lab, just moments ago alive with light and movement, fell into a still, oppressive silence.
Notes:
As I was saying… I know. I’ve been MIA for quite a few days, especially considering how regularly I used to update.
But here’s the thing: I just got my Master’s degree (!!) and wrote my thesis on fanfiction, no less — so yeah, I’m kinda proud of that.
I had a little celebration for the occasion, moved into a new place, and to top it all off, I got a promotion at work.
Which means: more money (yay!)… but also fewer days off (boo!).
So, in short, things have been a little chaotic.I’m not saying you’ll have to wait another ten days for a chapter, but updates might slow down to once or twice a week. I’m sorry about that — and I hope you’ll stick around anyway.
Now… let’s address the elephant in the room:
YES, finally, after what? 150 pages? Jane and Tony shared their first kiss.
I need your thoughts. Honestly, this was one of the hardest scenes I’ve ever written.
I’m good with the build-up of a slow burn… but the actual payoff? I panic. I spiral. I doubt every line.
So please, let me know if the scene worked.
Tell me if it made your heart ache or if it completely flopped — I truly want to improve.And of course, if you feel like sharing your thoughts on the rest of the chapter too, I’d love you forever.
(I know I sound like I’m begging — and maybe I am — but your comments really are a huge boost to my motivation… and my ego. Let’s be honest.)So yeah — thank you, and see you in the next chapter!
Chapter Text
The examination room was sterile, illuminated by the soft hum of fluorescent lights. Jane was laying on the examination table, a disposable hospital gown draped over her. Her legs rested in stirrups, and a sheet covered her lower half, offering a semblance of modesty.
The obstetrician, Dr. Elena Morales, a woman in her early forties with a calm, practiced demeanor, prepared the ultrasound probe beside her. She reached for a bottle of gel, squeezing a generous amount onto gloved fingers, all while explaining the procedure in a soothing, neutral voice. Words meant to reassure, to soften the edges of what was happening.
But Jane barely heard them. Her mind wasn’t here. Not entirely.
It had drifted backward. To hours earlier. To the moment she’d woken up.
In her bed. In a pool of blood.
The memory clawed at her skin like something alive. Warm. Wet. Sticky against her thighs. The coppery scent of iron sharp in her nose. The cloying heat of it soaking through the sheets beneath her. For a second she had thought, in that haze between sleep and nausea, that maybe she was still drunk. That maybe this wasn’t real. But then the pain had sharpened in her lower abdomen, a raw, tearing ache, and reality had come crashing down.
She still shivered now, sitting on the hospital bed, thinking about it.
Even the ghost of that sensation, the warm trickle down her legs, made her stomach curl.
And the worst part? The worst part was that none of this had surprised her.
Because it was her fault.
It had always been her fault.
She had drunk too much. She knew that. It was what she did when things spiraled out of her control—when emotions pressed down too hard, when she felt like the walls were closing in. She drank because it dulled the edges. Because it made the panic float just far enough away for her to breathe.
It was pathetic. And no one could ever convince her otherwise.
No soft words from a doctor. No statistics. No reassurances about how “these things just happen sometimes.” Not for her. Not for what she had done. Not for how she had lived these past weeks, pretending not to feel, pretending not to care.
Pretending that the life inside her wasn’t real.
Because deep down, some part of her had always known this would happen.
Some dark, bitter part of her had almost… wanted it.
Because this pregnancy had never been a gift. It had been a complication. A mistake. She wasn’t even supposed to still be here.
Her mission had been clear from the very beginning.
Get close enough to Tony Stark to prevent him from self-destructing after the death of his parents. Support him. Guide him. Distract him, if necessary. Be whatever he needed her to be—a friend, a confidante, a lover—but only for as long as it took.
Only until he no longer stood on the edge.
Only until he wanted to live again.
And then?
Then she was supposed to disappear.
That had always been the plan.
And still, she had stayed.
God help her, she had stayed.
For months. Then years. Five years, in fact. Five impossibly beautiful, impossibly reckless years. Spent loving him, marrying him, building a life with him she had no right to build.
And now this.
This was the price.
The day she’d found out she was pregnant, there hadn’t been joy. No tears of happiness. No rush to tell Tony. There had only been fear, cold and sharp like glass in her throat.
Because a child changed everything. A child could shatter the future.
And Tony Stark… Tony Stark was destined for something greater. He was important to the world in ways she didn’t even fully understand. Fury wouldn’t have sent her otherwise. He was meant for something monumental, something she could never risk altering.
And a baby? A baby born out of secrecy and selfishness?
That could change everything.
But despite all of that, despite all of her cold logic and calculated fear, she had loved that child, without even realizing it.
And now it was gone.
Because she hadn’t protected it. Because she had drowned herself in whiskey and anger and shame when things got too hard. Because she hadn’t known how to be anything other than broken.
And now here she was. On a hospital bed.
Waiting for a doctor to confirm out loud what her heart already knew with absolute, crushing certainty.
Her baby was gone.
As the probe was gently inserted, the monitor flickered to life, displaying the grayscale image of Jane’s uterus. Dr. Morales adjusted the settings, her eyes scanning the screen with practiced precision.
After a few moments, she spoke, her voice measured. “I’m going to take some measurements now.”
Jane nodded, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Dr. Morales continued, “Based on your last menstrual period, we should be seeing a gestational sac with a visible embryo and cardiac activity.”
She paused, her brow furrowing slightly. “However, the sac appears empty, and I don’t detect a heartbeat.”
Jane’s stomach tightened. She had suspected this outcome but hearing it confirmed was a blow.
Dr. Morales gently removed the probe, wiping away the cold gel from Jane’s stomach with practiced, clinical movements. The paper beneath Jane crinkled as she adjusted, the sterile crinkle of hospital quiet. Then, slowly, the doctor reached for the thin hospital sheet and pulled it over Jane’s body — like covering something fragile, or ruined.
“I’m sorry, Mrs Stark.” Dr. Morales said softly. Her voice even, neutral, but not unkind. “This appears to be a spontaneous abortion.”
Miscarriage.
The word should’ve felt like a blade. But instead, it hit like glass shattering in water—a sound dulled, distant, barely able to reach her.
Jane sat up slowly. Mechanically. Movements that didn’t feel like her own. She could feel the cheap, scratchy hospital gown clinging to her skin—damp with sweat, sticking to the curve of her spine. And still faintly, horribly, she could smell herself.
Alcohol.
Her stomach twisted.
She smelled like alcohol, old sweat, and dried blood. Her hair clung in wild, matted strands to the side of her face. Her makeup, what little of it she’d probably passed out in, was smeared beneath her eyes in dark shadows that only deepened how hollow her face looked now.
She looked at herself, or rather, she imagined herself, from somewhere outside her own body. And she was disgusted.
This woman. This wreck. This stranger sitting slack-shouldered on a hospital bed, bleeding and shaking and still stinking of last night’s escape.
Pathetic.
It came back to her in flashes—the hours before the hospital, how it had happened.
She had called out for him, not in words at first, but in raw sound, in panic, in sheer helpless instinct.
Tony.
She’d screamed his name so many times it still echoed in her ears now.
He had been awake already. Getting dressed. Moving quietly through the room like he always did when he wanted to let her sleep. Maybe heading out for an early meeting at the office, maybe just giving her space after another one of her bad nights.
And then her voice had cut through everything.
Tony, run.
And he had run.
She remembered the way his face changed when he reached her. The instant calculation in his eyes, the wild, helpless panic just beneath it.
Blood.
He had seen the blood.
She knew it. She’d seen it register in his gaze. But he hadn’t asked. Not once. He had just moved.
He had wrapped his arms around her, instinctively, scooping her up from the bed like she weighed nothing. He had helped her down the stairs, whispering soothing nonsense against her temple, pressing frantic kisses into her hairline.
“It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.”
“Just hold on for me.”
“It’s gonna be alright, amore.”
That word.
That stupid, impossible word.
Amore.
She hated how warm it still made her feel.
Even now. Even like this.
Tony had called for an ambulance the second they were downstairs—voice tight, shaking in a way she had never heard before. His hands never left her. One on her back. One smoothing sweat-soaked hair from her forehead.
“You’re okay. I’m right here.”
Not even when the paramedics had arrived. Not even when Tony had fought to get into the ambulance with her, only relenting when the medics insisted there wasn’t room, that he’d have to follow behind. Not even when they wheeled her through the sterile corridors of the hospital and left him outside the examination room, standing alone beneath the too-bright lights with his heart breaking wide open across his face.
She couldn’t cry.
She didn’t deserve to cry.
“What happens now?”
Dr. Morales explained, “There are a few options. We can wait and see if your body expels the tissue naturally, use medication to assist the process, or perform a minor surgical procedure called dilation and curettage.”
Jane nodded, absorbing the information.
Dr. Morales continued, “Given the amount of bleeding you’ve experienced, we might need to monitor you for a few days to ensure there are no complications.”
Jane’s mind drifted. There was a cruel, bitter irony in it all. A twist of fate so sharp she could almost laugh. She’d have to tell Tony that she had lost his child—his child—before he even knew he was going to be a father. The sentence alone seemed ludicrous. So much so that a laugh did rise, unbidden, caught painfully in her throat. The kind of laugh that tasted like metal, like blood and bile, the kind that came just before everything shattered.
And then, just as quickly, the laugh died.
The urge to claw at her scalp replaced it. To grab handfuls of hair and tear. To slap herself across the face. To punish her own body for what it had done—for what she had done. How many times had she almost told him?
Too many.
Moments stolen under the covers, forehead against his chest, when she could feel the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat and could almost believe the world was kind.
Mornings at breakfast, when he made eggs and burned the toast and kissed the top of her head and looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered.
Nights on the balcony, when the sky was so clear and the silence between them so soft, she could almost have said it aloud.
“I’m pregnant.”
But she never did.
Because she had told herself, convinced herself, that this wasn’t meant to last. That she wasn’t supposed to stay. That love had never been part of the mission. And a child? A child would tether them both to a reality she was never supposed to live.
Dr. Morales’s voice brought her back. “Would you like me to inform Mr. Stark?”
Jane shook her head. “No. Not now.”
Dr. Morales placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Take your time. We’re here for you.”
As the doctor left the room, Jane sat alone, the weight of her loss settling over her. There was no heartbeat on the monitor. No second line on a test. No future.
There was only now.
And in that now, Jane made her decision.
She would leave.
Not tomorrow. Not in a week. Not when things got easier, because they wouldn’t. She would leave as soon as she was discharged. There was nothing left to wait for, no thread left binding her to this time, to this life.
She would go. Not as Fury had planned, with a faked incident or a manufactured fallout. She wasn’t interested in the theatrics anymore.
No. Jane had something better.
Because there was still one more power she’d never told anyone about. It wasn’t a weapon, not in the traditional sense. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t even consistent. But she’d done it before, accidentally, then intentionally. If she concentrated, if she pushed herself into that strange, quiet place between memory and emotion, she could alter perception. Not control minds, not influence decisions, but… rewrite.
Erase.
It terrified her.
And she had never dared use it on Tony. Until now. Now she had no choice.
He couldn’t remember her. Not anymore. He couldn’t remember this. Their marriage. Their late-night talks. The sound of her laugh echoing in his office. The way he used to kiss her shoulder when he thought she was asleep. The way he had whispered, “You make me want to be better.”
The child they’d never get to meet.
All of it had to go.
Because Tony Stark was destined for something greater. Something bigger than her, bigger than them. She didn’t know what, but she knew it mattered. And she knew the risk. A family, a grief like this… it could undo everything. It could anchor him in guilt, or worse, derail the man he was supposed to become.
So she would take the choice away.
She would leave him clean.
And when it was done, when the memory was gone, she would vanish from his timeline like a dream that fades at dawn—leaving no trace behind, except perhaps some echo of warmth he’d never quite be able to place.
Yes.
That was how it had to be.
Because if there was one thing Jane Russo knew how to do, it was disappear.
____
Jane opened her eyes in the dark.
The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the city beyond the windows. She blinked slowly, her gaze drifting toward the pale curtains. The glow of New York bled faintly through the fabric—blue, gold, the occasional flicker of red from a distant antenna. Lights from the towers, the traffic, the signs that never slept.
She turned her head toward the nightstand. The digital numbers on the clock glared back at her. 1:54 AM.
She stared at them as if they might change if she looked hard enough. But they didn’t. The world kept spinning. Time kept marching on.
Jane exhaled, long and slow.
She had that dream again. The same one. The one she kept reliving, over and over, like a record that refused to stop skipping. It was her private punishment, her penance. The day she’d left Tony. The day she’d made the choice that had fractured her into pieces she still hadn’t managed to put back together.
It didn’t matter how many timelines she had walked through since then. It didn’t matter how much time had actually passed—months, years, maybe centuries depending on how you measured it across timelines. That day was always with her. Etched under her skin, coiled in her blood.
She sat up slowly, her neck ached, a dull stiffness from the way she’d been lying. She stretched a little, rolling her head side to side.
Sleep was a lost cause. She knew it. Not after that dream. Not tonight.
Her eyes flicked to the bedside table, to the small silver earpiece resting just beside the lamp. The S.A.S.S.I. unit. For a moment, she was tempted to slip it on—say something, anything, just to hear a voice that didn’t come from inside her head.
But she didn’t move.
She didn’t want Tony getting a data ping at 3 a.m. about her pulse rate, her stress levels, or anything else. This moment didn’t belong to him.
She rose, legs stiff under her, and padded silently toward the bathroom. Her silk robe, black and minimal, hung light over her shoulders. She tied it in a knot at her waist and switched on the low bathroom light.
The face that stared back from the mirror was composed, but tired. She cupped cold water in her hands and brought it to her face, until her skin stung slightly from the chill.
The last time she’d seen Tony had been at the gala. After the kiss.
She hadn’t seen him since. And even though logically it made sense—they had different habits, different commitments—it still felt deliberate. Calculated. She’d felt the distance like a glass wall between them, crystal-clear but solid.
And she didn’t blame him.
She’d avoided him, too. Maybe more than he had her.
Jane hadn’t slept for three days after that night. She kept replaying the moment in her mind, the way her body had betrayed her—had leaned into his touch, had wanted more. She hated herself for that, for caving. But worse still, she knew deep down that if she were to go back, she’d do it again. She wasn’t strong enough to say no. Not to him. Not when he looked at her like that.
That kiss had felt exactly like when they were young, like nothing had changed at all.
Tony had that way about him. Of possessing, of overwhelming. When he kissed, it wasn’t gentle or tentative. It was consuming. It burned. He made her feel like she didn’t have bones anymore, like she was made of static and sparks and heat.
And she hated that she missed it.
Jane leaned forward, resting her hands on the edge of the sink, and stared into her reflection.
She wasn’t that girl anymore.
She wasn’t Ginevra, the forgotten daughter of a noble house.
She wasn’t Jane Russo, the ghost of a timeline that never should’ve existed.
And yet… somewhere in between those names, those lives, there were still fragments of both.
Her fingers curled against the porcelain edge. She closed her eyes.
In a few hours, Clint would expect her on the training field.
She should try to rest. But she knew she wouldn’t.
And she didn’t know if it was because of Tony, or because of the ghost of the child she’d lost. Maybe both. Maybe everything.
Jane stepped out of the bathroom in silence, and her eyes drifted to the chair by her desk.
The jacket was still there. Tony’s jacket.
She hadn’t tried to return it. Truthfully, she had no intention of doing so. It was a souvenir. A piece of a moment she couldn’t bring herself to let go of. What harm could it do? He wouldn’t miss it. Probably didn’t even remember it was gone.
Then, something shifted in her chest, and before she could talk herself out of it, she shrugged off her robe and slipped the jacket on. The sleeves were a little too long, and the fabric still carried a faint trace of his cologne.
A pair of white sneakers lay forgotten by the side of the bed. She toed them on without socks, tied the laces in clumsy knots, and left the apartment.
She didn’t really register the walk. Her legs moved on their own. Up the stairs. Through the halls. Past the doors.
Her steps took her to the uppermost floor of the Tower, the panoramic level, the one used for events and private gatherings. A week ago, it had been full of people, laughter, champagne, music. Now, it was dark and empty.
She moved through the dim lighting until she reached the terrace—the one where she and Tony had stood that night, when everything still felt like it could go either way.
The air was crisp, but no longer sharp. Spring was coming. The chill still made her arms curl inward and her shoulders hunch slightly, but it wasn’t unpleasant. The city stretched out before her, with too many lights to see the stars, but that was New York. Loud, bright, alive.
Jane had always been a city girl. She appreciated the quiet of nature, sure. But the noise, the constant hum of life, made her feel like she was still part of something.
She stepped toward the edge, bracing her hands on the cool metal railing. The wind stirred her hair slightly. She closed her eyes, just for a moment.
Then—
She sensed it. That subtle shift in the air. She wasn’t alone.
Her eyes opened slowly.
A few meters to the left, seated at one of the terrace’s low cocktail tables, was Pepper Potts.
Her strawberry-blonde hair was loose around her shoulders, and she wore a sleek black lounge suit. A coffee cup rested between her palms while she was staring out at the skyline, legs crossed neatly, posture flawless.
Jane froze.
Pepper looked at her and she felt it—an almost physical rush of discomfort, rising from her stomach to her throat like a wave of nausea. She was still wearing Tony’s jacket. And she knew, knew, Pepper had recognized it.
She saw it in the way her gaze lingered, just for a second too long, on the fabric draped around Jane’s shoulders before coolly drifting elsewhere.
In that moment, Jane would have given anything to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Buried in a time rift, in another century, another galaxy. It was the kind of cruel, ironic scene only fate could orchestrate.
And after what felt like years Pepper smiled. A small, polite smile. The kind that carried a sharp edge if you looked too closely.
Jane looked away, already stepping back. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll go.”
Pepper didn’t move. “Why would you? You’re not intruding. This terrace isn’t private property.”
A pause.
“And it’s not your first time out here, is it?”
The casualness in Pepper’s tone was what threw her most. As if the comment had been plucked out of thin air, harmless, light—as if it didn’t carry the weight of implication it so obviously did. Jane’s lips parted slightly, but no words came. She swallowed hard. Her throat felt tight, constricted by the pressure that had suddenly settled in her chest.
She didn’t respond. Didn’t trust herself to.
It wasn’t guilt. That was the strangest part. She didn’t feel guilty, not toward Pepper, at least. And yet, standing there, wrapped in his jacket, under her gaze, Jane felt impossibly small. Like a child who’d been caught in a room she wasn’t supposed to be in. Like the air had thinned and she couldn’t quite breathe right. It was shame, maybe. Or something that looked like it, except it didn’t have a name. Just a weight. A quiet, aching discomfort she didn’t know where to place.
Being honest, Jane didn’t hate Pepper. She wasn’t sure she could. If anything, she envied her. Fiercely. Because Pepper had been there in all those years when Jane couldn’t be, when she hadn’t been allowed to be. It was Pepper who had stood at his side. Who had watched him rise and fall and rise again. Who had been present for the growth, the changes, the moments that mattered.
And that—that—was the part that stung the most. Knowing someone else had been there for his bad days and his good ones. That someone else knew his routines, his habits, the way he took his coffee or how he rubbed the back of his neck when he was thinking too hard.
It was a dull ache for what she had lost, and could never have back.
Pepper took a slow sip of her coffee, her eyes still trained on the skyline. The steam rose in thin ribbons, curling into the cold air.
“I don’t know exactly what’s going on,” she said quietly, not looking at Jane. “But I know something is. Because I know Tony. Probably better than anyone else.”
Jane didn’t answer. She didn’t move. She just kept her arms crossed over her chest, fingers pressing into the sleeves of Tony’s jacket as if to anchor herself there.
Pepper went on. “It always starts the same. He finds something, or someone, that lights him up. It’s like watching a storm form: fast, electric, impossible to ignore. And for a while, it’s all-consuming. He drowns in it. Lives in it.”
She took another sip. Her tone wasn’t harsh. It was clinical. Observant. Maybe even sad.
“But then… eventually, it ends. Always does. The storm passes. And he’s on to something else. A new project. A new obsession. A new… phase.”
Jane’s jaw tightened.
“And I stay,” Pepper added softly, a bitter smile curling at the corner of her lips. “I’m always the one who stays.”
That got under Jane’s skin more than she wanted to admit. She turned her face slightly, still not fully facing Pepper, but enough to show she was listening.
“I know how he looks at you,” Pepper said. “I’ve seen it. That spark in his eyes. I’ve seen it before. It’s real, for now. But don’t let it fool you. You’re just the latest bright thing in the room.”
Jane finally looked at her, slowly. Her voice, when it came, was low and precise.
“I think you’re going a bit too far with the assumptions, Miss Potts.”
Pepper shrugged, ignoring her words. “I’ve lived with it long enough to know how it plays out. And I don’t need you to confirm it or not.”
For a moment, Jane said nothing. Her pulse was loud in her ears. She could have laughed, or cried, or deny everything, but she did none of those things. Instead, she took a small step forward and spoke with measured clarity.
“You think you have me figured out. You look at me and see someone young. Someone foolish. Someone who doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
Pepper’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a flicker in her gaze. A subtle tightening around the eyes. Then, Jane continued.
“I’m not here to steal anyone’s bone. That was never my intention. And maybe, if what you just said is truly what you believe… then you should be saying it to him, not to me.”
Pepper exhaled, setting her cup down on the edge of the table. “I’m not here to start a fight, Jane. I’m just trying to warn you.”
“From what? Tony?” Jane let out a short, humorless laugh. “I’ve been protecting Tony longer than you know.”
Something flickered across Pepper’s face—confusion, maybe. But Jane didn’t give her the satisfaction of elaborating. She just looked out toward the city, the wind lifting a few strands of her hair.
Pepper just stood there, watching Jane for a long beat before speaking again, softer this time.
“I said what I needed to say.”
Jane looked back at her, eyebrows raised slightly.
“Now take that as you wish.”
There was a silence between them then. A space filled only by the distant hum of the city, the muffled sounds of taxis far below.
Then Pepper picked up her coffee again. “Goodnight, Jane.”
And with that, she turned and walked away, heels clicking softly on the stone floor, leaving Jane alone.
Only once she was finally gone did Jane let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Pepper was so different from her. So composed, so calm, so perfect in her patience.
And Jane… Jane was the opposite of all that. She had always been impulsive, volatile. A firestarter in every sense of the word.
For a second, she tried to imagine herself in Pepper’s shoes.
If the roles had been reversed, she would’ve hated someone like herself.
God, she would’ve hated her so much.
She didn’t know how Pepper managed to stay so poised, how she managed to speak to her without lashing out.
Honestly, Jane was surprised she’d even had the guts to approach her in the first place.
After all, nothing explicit had happened in front of her eyes—but Pepper was too intelligent to need proof. She’d seen enough.
Felt enough.
The real question was: was this truly the first time Tony had betrayed her trust? Or was this just the first time Pepper had let herself acknowledge it?
Or maybe they were just words meant to discourage Jane, meant to put her back in her place.
As if she needed that.
Jane had let go of any illusion a long time ago.
That kiss, what had happened a week ago, was a mistake.
And Pepper being Tony’s fiancée was only part of the reason why.
Maybe it was selfish and cruel to admit it, but out of all the things that plagued her mind… Pepper was distant. A respectful figure, yes. Someone Jane didn’t wish harm upon.
But she was never truly part of the equation.
There were bigger things at stake.
Without even realizing it, Jane felt something wet streak down her cheek.
She wiped it away with the back of her hand like brushing off an itch. But the tears kept coming.
There was no dramatic collapse, no trembling shoulders, no audible pain. Just silence. She stood still for a long time, not bothering to stop the tears anymore.
There was no one around to see them fall, anyway.
And for once, that felt like mercy.
____
The following morning, Jane made it to the training facility exactly on time—a rare event in itself, considering her usual habit of showing up at least five, sometimes ten minutes late. But today she was punctual. Alert. Or at least trying to be.
In truth, she hadn’t slept a single minute since waking up in the middle of the night. Her mind had been a mess of restlessness and noise, and the silence of her room had only made it worse. She’d waited for the clock to move, counting the minutes until training.
The room was quiet. Empty, except for Daniel, who stood in the far corner, nose buried in a sleek Stark-designed tablet that glowed faintly in a bluish light. He didn’t even glance up at her approach, completely absorbed in whatever data flickered across his screen.
She stepped closer, arms folded loosely across her chest. “No Clint today?”
Daniel looked up at her, offering a polite smile. “He had to leave during the night. Urgent business. He’ll be gone for a few days.”
Jane raised an eyebrow. “That sounds ominous.”
“There’s nothing to worry about. He told me to tell you you can treat it like a vacation.” Daniel said with a light chuckle. “Said you’ve earned it. You’re making real progress.”
Jane blinked, surprised, but also relieved. She had been pushing herself lately. The past week alone had been brutal. Two missions, both successful, both exhausting. One was a late-night operation with Peter that had involved stopping a group of armed thieves in a Brooklyn tech warehouse. The job had escalated fast when one of the men had tried to take a hostage, and Jane had been the one to neutralize him—without using excessive force. Clint had praised her control afterward, even if his version of praise had come in the form of a brief nod and a dry, “You didn’t set anything on fire. Good.”
The second mission had been pure chaos. A mentally unstable man with stolen weapons tech had barricaded himself in a mid-rise in Queens and started firing randomly out the windows. Peter had swung in first to draw the man’s attention, zipping across windows and taunting him from a safe distance to keep him focused on the front side of the building. Meanwhile, Jane had used the distraction to levitate through a back window using her telekinesis.
It was the first time they’d coordinated like that without Clint guiding their every move, and it had worked.
She and Peter had started to move as a real team. Their banter flowed more easily, their instincts were starting to align. He covered her, she had his back. They weren’t perfect, but she was beginning to trust him in the field. And it was mutual. Peter had stopped hovering over her like she might implode at any second, and now gave her real space to lead, to be a partner.
She let out a small breath, a trace of a smile tugging at her lips. Maybe she had really earned a few days off.
She was just about to nod and turn away when Daniel cleared his throat. “Actually, one more thing.”
Jane paused.
“Mr. Stark asked me to get feedback on the suit,” he said, gesturing to the deep violet suit Jane was wearing. “Performance, comfort, any technical limitations you might’ve noticed during the missions. He said you’re welcome to stop by his lab around eight tonight, if you’re free. But if you’re not, you can also give your feedback directly to S.A.S.S.I., and she’ll relay it.”
Jane tilted her head slightly. It felt like a test. Or maybe an invitation. A thin excuse wrapped in something more clinical. Stark didn’t need her verbal feedback—S.A.S.S.I. had full diagnostic access to the suit, her body data, her vitals, every move she made. If Tony wanted her opinion, he already had it.
Maybe he just wanted to see her.
But what struck her most, what made her chest tighten in a way she didn’t care to examine, was that he hadn’t summoned her. He hadn’t ordered, he’d offered. He’d left her a choice.
She could go to his office, see him, talk to him. Or she could stay away and keep her distance.
And the very fact that he’d given her that possibility, that he’d wrapped it in such a flimsy pretext, as if to give her an out, a way to pretend it wasn’t personal, only confirmed what she feared.
It was a pretense. A thinly veiled excuse. He wanted to see her. And for a moment, just a moment, she hated how much she wanted the same.
Jane held Daniel’s gaze for a second, then shrugged lightly. “I’ll give my feedback to S.A.S.S.I. If Mr. Stark needs anything more, I’m sure he’ll find a way to let me know.”
Daniel nodded, clearly unbothered either way, and turned his attention back to his tablet. “Have a good day, Jane.”
“You too.”
She left the training room with no intention of going anywhere near Tony’s lab that night. Not after what happened at the gala. And especially not after last night’s encounter with Pepper.
She’d even been tempted to return the jacket—had almost asked S.A.S.S.I. to send a drone to pick it up and quietly deliver it to Tony’s office. Just get it over with. Keep it clean. No lingering ties.
But then she’d changed her mind.
Part of her thought it might seem childish, like some strange passive-aggressive gesture or a clumsy signal. She didn’t want to send messages that could be misread, especially not now. The last thing she needed was to invite confusion where there should be clarity.
But the truth? The real reason? She didn’t want to give it up.
What harm could it do, really, to keep just one thing for herself?
He hadn’t asked for it back. He probably didn’t even remember it was missing. And that jacket—it was the only thing that still held the warmth of something that once had felt like home. Years ago, when she’d left him, she hadn’t taken anything. No notes, no photos, no keepsakes. Nothing that could’ve anchored her to a memory. Nothing to mourn over later.
Maybe it was stupid. Maybe she was just a grown woman clinging to the comfort of a worn piece of fabric like a child with a favorite blanket. But she didn’t care.
She couldn’t let it go.
So the idea had died before it ever took shape.
Just then, the soft buzz of a notification broke through her train of thought.
It came from the small backpack slung over one shoulder. Jane blinked, pulled it off, unzipped the top, and retrieved her phone—a next-gen model she’d splurged on not long ago. It had started as a practical upgrade. Peter had insisted they exchange numbers to stay in touch between missions, and the old clunky device Fury had given her had been nearly useless. She suspected it had only been intended as a one-way channel between her and the S.H.I.E.L.D. anyway. Not exactly ideal for day-to-day contact.
The screen lit up with a photo, one Peter had taken himself. A goofy selfie of him making some ridiculous face, while Jane stood beside him, looking vaguely amused and more than a little awkward. He’d insisted she use it as her background after declaring that her default wallpaper was “too depressing.”
The message was from him, too.
Spider-kid:
My aunt wants to know if you wanna come over for dinner. You in?
Jane couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth. Of course he’d timed it perfectly. He always did. The universe had just handed her the perfect excuse not to go see Tony—and this time, it wasn’t even a lie.
She typed back quickly:
Jane:
Depends. If your aunt’s cooking Italian, then maybe.
The reply came almost immediately.
Spider-kid:
Obviously. She’s already making ragù. So what do you say?
Another smile, a little bigger this time.
Peter. That kid always knew how to show up exactly when she needed someone.
Jane:
Send me time and location.
She slipped the phone back into her bag, zipped it up, and slung it over her shoulder.
Then, without another glance at the training zone, she turned and walked out—headed straight for her quarters.
____
The morning had quietly tipped into early afternoon when Pepper stepped into the lab.
The space was bathed in soft blue and gold light from the holograms floating above Tony’s worktable, casting gentle shadows that danced along the walls. He was hunched over his latest prototype, an evolving structure of dark alloy and liquid shimmer that flickered with the signature pulse of nanotech. It was sleek, fast, unlike anything he’d built before. He hadn’t even noticed her enter.
She hesitated for a moment near the threshold, just watching him. His shoulders were tight. The kind of tight that came from days without rest. From the kind of focus that crossed into obsession.
She walked toward him.
He still didn’t look up.
When she finally reached him, she slid her arms around his waist from behind and rested her chin gently on his shoulder.
Tony flinched, just a fraction, but she felt it. His body stiffened, like someone caught off guard by a memory.
Then, slowly, almost apologetically, he relaxed into her.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice low. “Wasn’t expecting you.”
Pepper pressed her cheek lightly against his back. “I noticed.”
He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. His hands had stopped moving, hovering mid-air above the hologram. Then he reached up to cover her hand with his own. A simple gesture. But there was something strained in it, like it took effort.
“You’ve been down here for days.” she said quietly.
“I’ve been close.” he replied, still not turning around. “This suit… it’s different. Faster, smarter. Self-repairing. I’m getting there.”
She nodded against him, but the tension in his back hadn’t really gone away. It never did lately.
“Tony,” she said gently, “can I see you? Really see you?”
That finally made him turn.
He stepped slightly to the side so he could face her, eyes flickering up to hers, and for a moment, just a moment, Pepper saw the ghost of the man she used to know. The one who still showed up in quiet moments, but disappeared the second real life took over.
She reached out and cupped his cheek.
He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t lean into her either.
That was all she needed to notice.
“You’re not taking your meds.” she said softly.
His jaw twitched. “I don’t need them.”
“They helped,” she said. “You were sleeping. Eating. You were—”
“Foggy,” he interrupted. “I can’t build like that, Pep. I can’t think like that. I need clarity. I need my edge.”
“You need peace.”
He didn’t answer.
Pepper searched his face. “The dreams are back, aren’t they?”
A beat of silence.
Then he looked away.
“I’ve always had nightmares, even before Sokovia.” he said flatly. “This isn’t new.”
She reached for his hand again, but this time he stepped away, just slightly, under the pretense of returning to his table. She didn’t push. She just watched.
“I’m fine.” he added, too quickly.
“You’re not,” she said. “You haven’t been for a while.”
Tony turned back to her then, gave a tight smile. “Come on, don’t start giving me the Fury look.”
“I’m not,” she replied. “Fury doesn’t care if you burn yourself out. I do.”
She stepped closer again, slower this time, and when she wrapped her arms around his waist once more, she felt him let out a small breath through his nose, like surrender. This time, he didn’t flinch. He lowered his head and rested it gently against hers.
Pepper exhaled, almost in relief. Then, softly: “Maybe we need a break. Just you and me. A few days. No tech. No missions. No Tower. The Avengers Compound’s almost ready,” she continued. “We found a buyer for the Tower. The paperwork’s nearly done. The move’s happening soon, whether we’re ready or not. We could take a trip. Let the movers pack things up, ship them out, and when we come back… we start fresh.”
Tony reached up and gently squeezed her hand on his shoulder.
“That sounds perfect.” he said, honestly. “And if I could leave everything right now and get on a plane with you, I would.”
“But you won’t.” she said, already knowing the answer.
He turned to her again. “I can’t. Not yet. There’s too much I still need to finish. Too much depending on this.”
She didn’t argue. She just nodded, but it was impossible to hide the quiet disappointment in her eyes.
“So I just keep living like this?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Like a widow before I even get to walk down the isle?”
Tony paused, caught off guard. He turned slightly, creating space between them so he could really look at her.
“Pep,” he began, trying to keep his voice level, “you know what it means to be with me. To be the person standing next to Iron Man. I’ve never pretended it was easy. I’ve never lied about that.”
“I never said you did,” she replied, sharper than she meant to. “And I’ve never run away from it. But I can’t keep watching you destroy yourself one sleepless night at a time, buried in projects, locked in that damn lab like the world will end if you leave for a second.”
She stepped back just enough to cross her arms, frustration etched in every line of her face.
“I need you.” she added quietly. “Not all the time. Not even often. Just… sometimes. I’m not asking for much, Tony. But I’m tired of surviving on scraps.”
The silence that followed was heavier than either of them expected.
She could see it in his eyes—the irritation, the tension tightening his jaw, the defensive instinct ready to rise. His posture stiffened, and for a second, she thought they were about to fight again. But then… it faded. His shoulders dropped.
Something in him softened.
Tony stood up slowly, closed the distance between them, and gently took her hands in his.
“I’m sorry.” he said, voice low, hoarse with weariness. “I’m sorry if I’ve seemed like someone else lately. The truth is… I don’t even recognize myself anymore.”
Pepper looked at him closely, really looked, and in his face, she saw not the cocky genius, not the superhero, but the man beneath it all.
Tony stepped forward and pulled her into his arms, resting his cheek against her temple as he held her close.
“When this is done, when I get through all of this—we’ll go,” he murmured. “We’ll disappear for a while. Just the two of us. And we’ll be okay.”
She buried her face in the crook of his neck. The words clung to her like something fragile and sacred.
She wanted to believe him, she wanted it to be true so bad.
Her eyes stung as she shut them tightly, locking the tears in place.
There had been times she’d tried to walk away. Arguments. Breakups. Breakdowns. But she always came back. They always found each other again. And the truth, the one she never spoke aloud, was that Tony Stark wasn’t just the man she loved. He was the center of her universe.
And she didn’t care if she wasn’t his.
She didn’t care if she’d never be the thing that pulled him away from the machines and the metal and the weight of the world.
All she wanted—all she wanted—was to be near him. To see him survive it. To watch him be okay.
And if that meant staying in the shadows of all the things he couldn’t say and couldn’t give, then so be it.
She would take what she could get.
_____
The Wakandan sun hung high and merciless in the sky, beating down on Clint Barton’s shoulders like a silent warning. The air was thick with heat, clinging to his skin, sinking into his bones. He’d been traveling for nearly twelve hours straight, dragged out of bed at an ungodly hour by a call from Fury—gruff, urgent, and with no room for argument.
“There’s a quinjet waiting for you on the roof of the Tower. You leave in thirty.”
That was it. No briefing. No prep. Just a location, a flight plan, and a name: Barnes.
Clint hadn’t even had time to pack properly. He’d thrown on the first clothes he could find, grabbed his gear with one hand and his caffeine with the other, and half an hour later, he was airborne—still half-asleep, and entirely in the dark.
Only after he’d settled into his seat, the rumble of the engines beneath him, did he finally receive the mission details.
That was when he realized just how serious this was.
The S.H.I.E.L.D. intel pointed to a possible resurgence of Hydra-like activity, fragmented tech resurfacing, black-market interest in old programs, whispers of super soldier serum that echoed the one that had created the Winter Soldier. And if there was even the slightest chance that someone was trying to revive the program, there was only one man alive who had the insight and the scars to help stop it.
James Buchanan Barnes.
Clint knew from the start it wasn’t going to be easy. Not because of logistics or politics—but because convincing Bucky to walk away from the fragile peace he’d carved out for himself was going to be the real battle. And maybe, just maybe, that battle had already been lost before it even began.
But Clint had to try.
By the time he’d landed on Wakandan soil, tired and irritable, he’d been informed that Queen Ramonda and her daughter Shuri were now overseeing all foreign affairs. Getting an audience with them hadn’t been easy. Convincing them to allow him access to the one they called the White Wolf had been even harder. Clint wasn’t Wakandan. And Barnes—Barnes was theirs.
The palace had been majestic, of course. Curved architecture with edges smoothed by time and tradition, gleaming technology pulsing quietly beneath its ancient stones. But Clint had been too tense to appreciate any of it. He’d done his best to remain diplomatic, respectful. He’d explained the mission. He’d emphasized the stakes. And eventually, they’d agreed.
But only under one condition: he’d be escorted.
Now, under the blistering sun, Clint followed Okoye—Commander of the Dora Milaje, and quite possibly the most intimidating person he’d ever had the displeasure of sweating beside. She didn’t speak as they walked. She didn’t need to. Her posture was straight as a spear, her presence commanding. She moved through the tall golden grass like a blade through silk, unbothered by the sweltering heat, while Clint swatted at insects and cursed under his breath.
She looked back at him only once, and even that glance seemed to judge him.
He felt small. And he hated it.
It took over an hour of walking through the savanna, the palace now a distant silhouette behind them, before they arrived at a small, secluded compound tucked between a rise of trees. It wasn’t much, just a large structure made of wood, stone, and canvas draped with vibrant Wakandan patterns. It looked temporary, but not fragile.
Okoye stopped just before the entrance. She didn’t move closer, didn’t call out immediately. She stood still for a beat, scanning the perimeter as if silently making her presence known.
Then, finally, her voice cut through the stillness.
“White Wolf,” she called. “You have a visitor.”
Clint shifted uncomfortably, the back of his neck damp with sweat, his shoulders aching. He rubbed a hand over his face, already regretting the entire situation. He wasn’t even sure what he was supposed to say. Barnes hadn’t seen him in more than a year. The last time they’d crossed paths, things were… way different.
He didn’t know what he was expecting.
But it wasn’t this.
From the shadows of the structure, someone stepped out—tall, broad-shouldered, moving with a calm, deliberate grace. His hair was longer now, brushing his collarbones, and his face was half-shadowed by the sunlight. He wore a simple Wakandan robe, deep blue with silver embroidery, and his left arm—made of pure vibranium—caught the light with every step he took.
Bucky Barnes looked nothing like the man Clint remembered. He looked… peaceful.
Clint stared, for a moment too long, struggling to reconcile the image before him with the fractured ghost he’d known back when the Winter Soldier was more myth than man.
Barnes stopped a few steps away, his expression unreadable.
“Clint,” he said, voice steady, quieter than Clint expected. “Long way from New York.”
Clint blinked. Swallowed.
“Yeah. Something like that.”
They stood in silence, the weight of years hanging heavy between them. Okoye remained nearby, unmoving, but she didn’t interrupt.
Clint cleared his throat. “Look, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. I know this isn’t what you signed up for. I know you’ve earned some peace. But we have a situation. One that… might need you.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked down for the briefest moment, then returned to Clint’s face. “I left that life behind months ago.”
“I know. But you’re the only one who knows what we’re dealing with,” Clint replied. “And Fury personally asked for you.”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed, the barest shift of expression. “Last time I trusted Fury, I ended up on a mission that turned out to be a setup,” he said flatly. “The intel was bogus. The threat was manufactured. Just bait. I walked into a trap, Clint. And I don’t take orders from Fury anymore. Or the U.S. government, if that’s what you’re here to sell.”
Clint took a breath and stepped forward. He didn’t rush—no sudden movements, just steady and deliberate, the way you approached a wounded animal that had learned to bite.
“I know,” he said quietly. “Believe me, I know everything you just said. And you have every right to be done. With all of it. But this time… this time it’s real.”
Bucky didn’t speak. But his jaw tightened.
Clint pressed on. “I wouldn’t have come all this way if it wasn’t. I know what it took for you to find peace here. I’m not here to drag you back into the mud.” He exhaled through his nose. “But we’ve got a situation. One I can’t handle alone.”
Bucky’s brow arched just slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Funny. Last time someone said that to me, I ended up covered in blood and sleeping with one eye open.”
Clint gave a tired smile. “Yeah. I figured you’d say that.”
There was a beat of quiet between them. The wind picked up, rustling the soft fabric of Bucky’s robe. His vibranium arm glinted in the sun, unmoving.
Clint lowered his voice. “Listen… I get it. You want to be done with all of this. God knows, you’ve earned that right more than anyone I know. But this isn’t about politics or revenge or another meaningless mission.” He hesitated. “It’s about prevention. Containment. Fury sent me because he thinks some vials are resurfacing again. But this time, the intel is solid. There’s already movement. Whispers about field tests.”
Bucky’s eyes darkened.
“And it won’t just be you.” Clint added. “You wouldn’t be going on your own.”
That earned a reaction. A slow, skeptical lift of the head.
Clint nodded, pulling a slim black folder from the interior of his jacket. He held it out.
“This is everything Fury has.” he said. “I’m not asking for a yes. Just asking you to read it. Look it over. Make the decision yourself.”
Bucky didn’t take it. Not immediately.
“I’ve already made the mistake of jumping back in without thinking it through,” he said. “I don’t want to be that guy again. The guy who fights because it’s all he’s good for.”
“You’re not.” Clint replied. “That’s not why I’m here.”
Bucky’s gaze was unflinching. “Then why?”
Clint hesitated. Then said, quietly, “Because we need someone who’s been on the inside. Someone who knows what it means to be turned into a weapon. Someone who can recognize it before it’s too late, who is strong enough to fight it if necessary.”
He let that settle in.
“And I’m not that guy,” Clint admitted. “Not this time. Not with what’s on the table.”
It cost him to say it. He didn’t like admitting limitations. But Bucky needed to see that this wasn’t posturing. That Clint wasn’t playing Fury’s errand boy. He was desperate.
Bucky’s fingers twitched. Just slightly.
Finally, he stepped forward and took the folder, the leather creaking softly under his grip. But he didn’t open it yet.
“I’ll read it,” he said. “That’s all I’m promising.”
Clint nodded once. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Bucky turned the folder in his hands, eyes not on Clint now, but somewhere far beyond the horizon. The Wakandan breeze tugged at the loose edge of his robe.
And in his silence, there was a shift. Not surrender. But consideration.
It was enough. For now.
At that point, Okoye turned to Clint, her expression unreadable as ever. “It is time to return to the palace,” she said calmly. “You will sleep there until the White Wolf makes his decision. The Queen has agreed to host you for the night.”
Clint gave a faint nod, trying not to let his shoulders sag at the thought of another hour of trekking through the Wakandan wilds. But at least Bucky had agreed to look at the file. That was already more than he’d expected.
As he followed Okoye down the path, he cast one last glance over his shoulder—Bucky hadn’t moved.
Clint exhaled slowly, thoughts circling in his head.
Let’s just hope he doesn’t take too long to decide. They didn’t have much time, Fury had made that painfully clear.
_____
Pepper sighed, swiping the back of her hand across her forehead. It was sweltering down here. The breathable lounge set she’d thrown on that morning was now clinging to her skin, streaked with dust and God-knew-what else. She stood alone in one of the old storage levels buried deep beneath Avengers Tower, a place few had touched in years.
With Tony away more often than not, and with far too much time on her hands lately, she’d finally decided to tackle the one thing that couldn’t be outsourced: the storage purge. The move to the new compound was scheduled in just a few weeks, and someone had to decide what was worth bringing and what was better left behind.
Happy had mentioned it offhandedly during a morning briefing—how half the inventory hadn’t been catalogued in years, how most of it was probably junk.
But someone had to go through it. Carefully. Deliberately. Not everything deserved the trash.
And sure enough, there were gems tucked among the chaos. Old childhood photos of Tony. A few early Stark Industry prototypes, probably Howard’s work, still stamped with faded serial numbers and grease-smudged labels. Fragments of a past Tony barely spoke about. And while none of it was urgent, all of it was real.
It was the kind of work that she usually enjoyed to do, but what was slowly driving her mad, was the physical effort of hauling dusty crates across concrete floors and sneezing every other minute. Her sinuses were in open rebellion.
She bent down, set the current box in the “trash” pile she’d made on the far side of the room, and stood there for a moment, hands on her hips, chest rising and falling with exertion. She glanced around the space. Still so many boxes left untouched. The kind of clutter that would take hours to get through. Maybe days.
She could’ve asked for help. Easily. But she hadn’t. Because she didn’t want to talk to anyone today.
The truth was, she needed the silence. Needed the distraction. Her mind was too full, too loud, and this… this mindless sorting of old relics, even if it made her sweat and swear, was the closest thing to quiet she’d found in weeks.
She looked down at her hands, already dirty again, then up at the ceiling. Better get on with it, she thought. This tower isn’t going to declutter itself.
She was trying to make room, pushing deeper into the storage room where the oldest boxes were stacked against the back wall. That was probably where the bulk of the junk would be—the things long forgotten, left untouched for years. Starting from what was most likely useless would make it easier to sort through the rest. Toss the trash, salvage what mattered.
Pepper grunted softly as she shifted a heavy box to the side, her hands already coated in dust. But still, she pressed on.
Eventually, she came across a stack of old framed photographs, some large, others no bigger than a notebook. She started with the smaller ones. A few childhood shots of Tony. One in particular caught her attention: Tony as a baby, cradled in Maria Stark’s arms. Maria was smiling faintly at the camera, serene and composed, while baby Tony had an adorably grumpy, sleepy expression. The kind of scowl that still lived in his features today. Pepper let out a small laugh, softened by the warmth of nostalgia. For a brief moment, the fatigue seemed less sharp. She gently placed the frame aside, deciding she’d keep any personal photos in a separate corner.
She continued sorting through a few more—group shots of Stark Industries employees from decades ago, family portraits of Howard and Maria. Then, buried beneath a couple of larger frames, she found one roughly 12 inches wide, medium-sized, its back corner slightly frayed. The glass was clouded with age, and one edge of the matte had yellowed.
Pepper turned it around—and froze.
At first, she wasn’t entirely sure what she was looking at. Her eyes took a second to catch up with her brain. But when they did, her breath hitched.
It was a wedding photo.
The groom was holding the bride in his arms—one arm under her legs, the other supporting her back. Her arm curled around his shoulders, her head tipped back in laughter, eyes shining with unrestrained joy. She was beautiful. Long, platinum-blonde hair fell in loose waves around her pale face. Her dress was beautiful, crafted from delicate French lace that caught the light in intricate patterns. The off-the-shoulder neckline framed her collarbones with soft grace, while the fitted bodice hugged her torso with quiet precision. From the waist down, the skirt flowed in gentle waves, light and airy, moving like a whisper around her legs.
But it was the groom who made her stomach twist.
Dark hair slicked back. That unmistakable smirk. A dusting of facial hair. And the way he looked at the woman in his arms—with wonder, with devotion, with love.
He looked like Tony.
Not kind of. Not vaguely. It was Tony. Tony younger, yes, but unmistakably him.
And the bride?
Pepper’s fingers trembled around the edges of the frame. The photo nearly slipped from her grasp.
It looked like Jane.
No—it was Jane. That hair, those eyes, that luminous, strange beauty that set her apart even in a crowd. But the photo was old. Worn. The edges curled, the print itself beginning to fade from time. This wasn’t some new memory. It was decades old.
Pepper’s heart thundered in her chest.
How?
How was this possible?
Tony had aged. That photo had to be from over twenty years ago. At least. He looked no older than twenty-five in the image.
But Jane… Jane hadn’t changed. Not a single year. Not a single line on her face.
She looked exactly the same as she did in the picture.
And the part that terrified Pepper the most wasn’t just how impossible that was—it was that she couldn’t make sense of it. Couldn’t find a single explanation that didn’t feel like the beginning of madness. Because if that wedding had really happened, if that moment captured in faded ink and grainy color was real… then why didn’t anyone remember it? Why wasn’t there a trace of it in the world? No articles. No records. No rumors.
And Tony… Tony Stark, the man who couldn’t go on a dinner date without the press knowing—had always been known as the eternal bachelor. If he had gotten married, it would have made headlines. It would have been everywhere.
Pepper clutched the frame tighter, her fingers trembling slightly against the wood. Slowly, she tucked it under her arm, her thoughts spinning faster than her pulse. With careful steps, she wove her way out of the maze of boxes and into a clearer section of the room where the light poured in from the windows.
There, standing in the open space, she pried the back of the frame loose. The seal cracked softly, dust lifting from the old paper inside. She slid the photograph out, hesitating for the briefest moment, then gently rolled it up, tucking it securely under her arm like something fragile and forbidden.
A few seconds later, Pepper stepped out of the storage room, the door hissing shut behind her.
In that moment, she was certain of only one thing: that picture had to disappear.
It would raise too many questions.
And the answers… the answers could be dangerous.
For everyone.
And for her, too.
Notes:
Here we are with a new chapter! To be honest, it’s a bit of a transition one—but that doesn’t mean it’s not important. We’re slowly but surely laying the groundwork for some big things coming very soon. And yes, I know there aren’t any direct Jane-Tony moments in this one, but… the chapter still ends on a bit of a cliffhanger… so, interesting things about them are definitely brewing.
This time around, there’s quite a bit of Pepper, and it was honestly fun (and a little heartbreaking) to explore her character more deeply in the context of this story. I hope I didn’t make you feel too bad for her—swear I don’t hate Pepper! Even if it might seem that way sometimes, ha. She’s just… well, let’s say her arc in this story has some pretty heavy moments.
Also—finally!—Bucky has officially entered the chat. Okay, okay, just a tiny appearance for now, but still… he’s here! I’ve been dying to introduce him. We’re just a few chapters away from getting into the heart of his storyline, so hang in there.
That’s all for now—I hope you enjoyed the chapter and I can’t wait to hear what you think. Your comments and thoughts genuinely mean the world to me, so please don’t be shy!
Wishing you all a happy Easter (if you celebrate), and hoping to get the next chapter out as soon as possible. One a week is still the goal, though if I can manage two over the holiday break… well, fingers crossed!
Sending love, see you soon!
Chapter Text
Dust clung to every surface of the old house. It rose in delicate swirls beneath Jane’s boots as she climbed the creaking staircase, her footsteps the only sound in the stillness. White sheets draped over the furniture like ghostly sentinels, softening the shapes of familiar armchairs and polished tables. The windows were shuttered, letting in just enough light to sketch out the contours of the once-vibrant space. The air was thick and stale, untouched for years, maybe decades. There was no electricity. No hum. No warmth. Just silence.
And yet Jane moved as if she belonged there. Her feet carried her with a memory too deep to forget, even after everything. She knew exactly how many steps turned on the first landing, how the floorboard by the second window always creaked, how the hallway narrowed toward the master bedroom. It had taken her days to work up the courage to come. From the moment she set foot back in New York, the thought had haunted her. This house. It pulled at her, quietly and persistently.
She hadn’t come for anything specific. She didn’t even know what she was hoping to find. But the urge had gnawed at her. So, after endless resistance, she’d finally given in.
This was the house she and Tony had shared for five years. Tony had bought it as a wedding gift.
She had been underwhelmed at first. Not because the house wasn’t beautiful—it was, in a way only old money estates could be. But it was far from the city. Hidden in a quiet corner of upstate New York, surrounded by trees and hills and nothing else. This felt too secluded.
But she grew to love it. Slowly. Through decorating it together, through laughter and long nights and lazy mornings. Through the simple joy of waking up next to him and knowing he was hers. For a while, that house had been her entire world.
Back then, Tony had just returned as CEO of Stark Industries, his mind a whirlwind of prototypes, global summits, and strategic plans. He was full of ideas, hungry to rebuild the legacy of his family, to prove that he could be more than just the reckless genius with a tragic past. But hope, in those days, had been a fragile thing.
When Fury first sent Jane to him, Tony was unraveling. His parents had only recently died, and the pain of their loss was still raw—buried beneath layers of sarcasm, alcohol, and sleepless nights. He was drinking heavily, cloistered inside his mansion like a ghost among the echoes of his former life. The reports had been thorough. Fury hadn’t sugarcoated the situation: Tony had already attempted suicide once. A failed, desperate attempt that Jane had been told about in private briefing. It was the reason her mission even existed. She wasn’t just supposed to watch him. She was supposed to keep him alive.
Fury’s instructions had been blunt: Find a way in. Any way. Keep him from slipping further.
But Fury hadn’t been the first to find her.
Long before the S.H.I.E.L.D. files bore her name—Jane Russo—there had been the TVA. It was after she started to live her eight or ninth life in a new century, that they found her. Or rather, that she stumbled directly into them.
At first, they treated her like a criminal. A disruption. An anomaly. The kind of unstable variable that could jeopardize the Sacred Timeline. And she hadn’t exactly made a great first impression. She had been volatile, defensive, evasive. But when the dust settled and the interrogations ended, someone high up in the TVA hierarchy realized something: Jane wasn’t hungry for power. She wasn’t chasing history to rewrite it in her image. She wasn’t even entirely sure why she kept leaping, only that she had to.
And maybe, just maybe, she could be useful.
So they gave her a choice.
She remembered the room. Bright white, sterile, cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. And the man standing across from her, not TVA brass exactly, but someone who had access. Someone who handed her a file and said, simply: “Tony Stark.”
He’s going to be important, the man continued. Crucial, actually. Not yet, but one day. One day he’ll stand between this timeline and total annihilation.
Jane had flipped through the file, expression confused, until she saw a picture—Tony, disheveled, looking nothing like the icon he would one day become. The timestamp put the photo just weeks after the deaths of his parents.
He’s going to kill himself, the man said. You have the ability to travel to that point. To be there. To do something about it.
And why me? she had asked. Not angry. Just curious.
Because you’re not from there, he replied. Because no one remembers you. Because if you die doing it, nothing breaks. But if you succeed, everything holds.
And so they took her to S.H.I.E.L.D., Or rather, they dropped her at Fury’s feet, the same way you might drop a grenade you’d removed the pin from.
She’s yours now, they told him. Train her. Deploy her. Just don’t waste her.
Fury, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He looked at Jane like he already knew what she was capable of. And maybe he did.
Still, when he first explained her mission, her real mission, Jane had almost laughed. Babysit a rich drunk with a death wish? Intervene in a suicide? Keep a narcissist genius from unraveling his own future?
It sounded ridiculous.
It sounded like fun.
She was bored. She was drifting. Jumping from one point in history to the next had lost its edge, its thrill. So when Fury said get close to him, she didn’t ask questions. She didn’t care why this Tony Stark mattered.
Not yet.
So she found him, and staged a car accident.
It was a rainy night on the Upper East Side, visibility low, the pavement slick. Tony, drunk behind the wheel of one of his vintage cars, had swerved too fast around a corner. He barely missed hitting her. The moment was orchestrated, choreographed down to the last detail—she knew how fast he’d be driving, where he’d be looking, how best to appear disoriented but not critically hurt.
When he stumbled out of the car, pale and panicked, she was already lying on the wet pavement, clutching her arm and blinking up at him. He was shaking, muttering apologies, insisting on calling an ambulance. She refused, said she had no insurance, no ID, nothing. She begged him not to involve the authorities.
His guilt hooked him instantly.
He took her home. Wrapped her in towels. Sat her on the leather couch in his living room.
She let him believe she was in worse shape than she was. It worked.
A few days turned into a week. A week became something else. He asked her to stay. Said the place felt less empty with her in it. She cooked for him, listened to his rants, gently took the bottle from his hand when he drank too much. They talked late into the night. Sometimes about science, sometimes about grief. About fear. And over time, slowly, she became the anchor he hadn’t realized he was missing.
It wasn’t supposed to be permanent. Jane reminded herself of that every day. She was there to prevent a tragedy. That was all.
But the more time passed, the more Tony began to change. He drank less. Talked about new technology. Started working again. Smiled more. Laughed, even. The version of him that existed in the world, the Tony Stark that people believed in, began to reassemble himself, piece by piece. And Jane… she stayed.
And now, years later, she stood once again in the dust-covered house they’d made a home, tracing the edges of the life they’d once shared—one step, one breath, one buried memory at a time.
Jane reached the master bedroom and hesitated. The room was cloaked in white sheets, just like the rest of the house, but she could still make out the shape of the vanity, the bedframe, the tall mirror mounted to the closet. A flash of memory hit her: she at the vanity, dabbing on lipstick, while Tony stood behind her adjusting his tie, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. Her chest tightened.
She shook her head, pushing the image away, and crossed into the room.
There were two adjacent doors. One led to the en suite bathroom, the other to the walk-in closet. Jane opened the closet and stepped inside. The scent hit her immediately: traces of old perfume, leather, dust, and something faintly floral. She flipped on the flashlight attached to her belt and swept the beam across the room.
It was untouched.
Her clothes still hung in place. Her shoes still lined the shelves. The drawers were closed neatly. It was as if no time had passed at all.
Of course. Of course no one had touched it. When she’d erased herself from Tony’s mind, she had erased herself from everyone’s. Staff, systems, even Happy. They had all forgotten her. Including this room.
She hadn’t meant to take anything.
That had never been the plan. Her idea, if one could even call it that, had simply been to come here, to stand in those rooms again, to let the silence of the house wrap around her and remind her of who she had once been. Maybe to breathe it in one last time, like the fading scent of something precious that time had tried to scrub away.
But then something shifted. Something small, quiet, instinctual. A whisper in her chest that said: Take them. Bring them with you.
As if gathering those pieces of her life, of that life, could somehow make it real again. As if the fabric, the metal, the scent still lingering faintly on the collar of a shirt could stitch the past back together. As if she could carry even a sliver of it forward with her, just for a little while.
She crouched, reached under the bigger bench, and pulled out one of the old duffel bags Tony had insisted on ordering for their weekend trips. It was still there, tucked away and untouched, a layer of dust coating the zipper. She set it on the bench, unzipped it, and began to pack with movements that felt mechanical, like her body was remembering something her mind was trying too hard to forget.
A few of her favorite dresses—one dark blue velvet with a high neckline and slit back that Tony used to call her silent weapon. Another, burgundy lace, worn one memorable New Year’s Eve where they’d danced alone in their living room with music loud enough to shake the windows. Her boots—the tall ones, worn and weathered and soft at the edges—went in next. Then a leather jacket, the one that still smelled faintly like her perfume, and a loose, well-worn button-down shirt that she used to throw on when lounging around the house. She remembered how Tony once came home early from work to find her in that shirt, legs tucked under her on the couch, reading something old and romantic. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, watching her, until she looked up and asked, What?
You look like home, he’d said.
Jane blinked the memory away and reached for the scarf drawer. Her fingers brushed over a delicate rose-peach silk shawl, still smooth beneath her touch. Tony had given it to her one spring morning, for no reason at all—just because, he said, it matched her eyes when she was happy. She folded it carefully and placed it on top of the clothes.
Then came the drawer of jewelry. She opened it, expecting to find it empty. But there they were. Still arranged in perfectly lined trays. Rubies. Sapphires. Emerald studs. She didn’t take all of them, just a few she remembered wearing often. And then her breath caught.
Tucked into the corner was a small, red velvet box. She froze.
She hadn’t seen that box since the day they moved into the house. It had been packed away with other keepsakes, wedding things. She reached for it with trembling hands and opened it slowly.
Inside sat her wedding band: a slender ring of polished yellow gold, simple and elegant, still catching the light like it had the first day he’d slid it onto her finger. And beside it, the engagement ring—brilliant, bold, a solitaire diamond that had stolen her breath when she first saw it. Not because of its size or value, but because of the look on Tony’s face when he’d held it out to her. The disbelief, the hope. The way his voice shook. I don’t know what the future holds. But if there’s any version of it where I get to keep you, I want to fight for that.
She’d been so overwhelmed, she couldn’t even answer at first. Just kissed him. Cried, and kissed him again. That night, they hadn’t said much. But Tony had worn the biggest grin she’d ever seen. And she… she had never felt safer.
Jane stared down at the rings now, her breath catching in her throat. Her eyes burned suddenly, sharp and sudden, like tears were about to rise, and her throat tightened, a raw ache that pulsed behind her collarbone. The kind of pressure that made it hard to swallow, that made your jaw ache just from holding it all in. Her chest lifted in a shallow breath, and she clenched her teeth to ground herself.
But she didn’t cry.
She refused to.
Her lashes blinked back the wetness, and she let out a breath—slow, controlled, almost like a warning to her own heart not to go further.
Then, with the same careful reverence she’d once used to say I do, Jane snapped the velvet box shut and placed it gently into the bag.
Jane moved next to the dresser—an old, elegant piece carved from dark walnut, its handles dulled with age. She opened the top drawer, half-expecting to find it empty, but it was still full of clutter: vintage clutch purses, scarves she hadn’t worn in years, old folded tops with faint traces of her perfume. She sifted through them absentmindedly, until her fingers brushed against something soft tucked into the far back corner.
She stopped.
There, nearly hidden under a bundle of fabric, were a pair of tiny white baby booties. Hand-stitched. Untouched by time.
Jane stared.
The memory crashed over her like a wave. She remembered buying them—how small they’d looked in her palm, how surreal it had all felt. It had been the very same day she’d found out she was pregnant. She’d stepped out of the clinic and wandered into a quiet little baby boutique without meaning to. Those booties had called to her, delicate and perfect. Back then, she’d thought, hoped, she’d find the courage to tell him.
The plan was simple. Hide them in his office. Maybe in a drawer he used often. He’d find them eventually, and ask. What are these?
And she’d smile and say, Congratulations. You’re going to be a father.
That had been the plan.
But she never hid them. Never told him. Never found the strength.
So the booties stayed. Forgotten in that drawer for all these years, just like the truth.
Jane’s throat closed. One single tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, almost angry with herself for letting it fall. She didn’t deserve to cry. Not after what she’d done. She’d made her choices.
For a split second, she considered putting the booties back. As if she could pretend she hadn’t seen them, hadn’t felt the sharp twist in her chest. But her fingers tightened around the soft yarn. She just couldn’t let go. So she added them to the disorganized pile inside her duffel bag.
That was it. The end of the line.
The time for wandering through memories was over. She didn’t know what she had come here looking for. She wasn’t even sure now, standing in the middle of this place that had once been her home. But she knew she couldn’t stay. Not a second longer.
Jane slung the duffel over her shoulder, heavier now, not just in weight, but in everything it carried. Her feet retraced their steps down the stairs, this time faster, each step echoing off the walls. The house felt colder now, even heavier than before.
She reached the ground floor and crossed the dusty foyer until she stood before the front door—tall, imposing, carved wood inlaid with Stark-level security tech that had long since powered down.
Her hand rested on the knob.
Then she turned, one last time.
The filtered light barely reached the corners of the room. The draped furniture, the layers of dust, the stillness, it all seemed like the ghost of a life she once lived. Probably the last time she would ever see it. And yet it all hurt just the same. The tight pull in her chest was identical to the one she’d felt the day she left all those years ago.
She’d been stupid to think she’d moved on. She hadn’t. Not really.
It had all just settled beneath the surface, waiting.
Love and loss.
She’d spent years telling herself she’d buried it. That it was over. But it wasn’t. It never had been. And standing there now, she knew the truth:
She hadn’t changed. Not where it counted.
Jane turned back and opened the door. Sunlight poured in. Just beyond the path, a Stark car waited at the end of the drive, engine idling quietly. The chauffeur leaned against the side of the car, face turned up toward the sun, waiting.
She could’ve driven herself. Part of her had wanted to. But she knew if she’d been behind the wheel, she would’ve turned around halfway. Found an excuse. Run.
This was better. Cleaner.
The driver straightened when he saw her approaching. “Ma’am,” he greeted with a polite nod. “Where to?”
Jane pulled the strap of the duffel tighter on her shoulder.
“Back to the Tower.”
___
Jane stepped through the main entrance of Stark Tower, her ID badge already in hand. The security gates beeped softly as she passed—routine, almost ceremonial at this point. Most of the staff barely glanced her way anymore. She was just another familiar face now.
She made her way toward the elevators, her mind already a step ahead—thinking about peeling off her boots, throwing her bag down, maybe taking a long shower before even attempting to deal with her feelings from the morning. But just as she reached for the call button, a voice stopped her.
Daniel.
Sweaty, breathless, visibly shaken in a way she’d never seen before. His perfectly ironed shirt was rumpled, his usually composed expression fractured by tension. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. She felt it in her gut before he even opened his mouth.
“Miss Russo,” he said, stopping her with a firm hand on her arm. “There’s been an attack.”
Her body went rigid. “Where?”
“Morgan Stanley Children’s Hospital.” he said, voice clipped. “Terrorist cell. Sokovians. A retaliation, they’re saying.”
Her heart dropped. It was the same hospital Tony and Pepper had made a sizable donation to just a few weeks ago. The same one that had been on the news for its cutting-edge trauma ward.
“Tony?” she asked, then, quickly, “Peter?”
Daniel shook his head. “They’re already there. I haven’t been able to get through to either of them since they left. It’s chaos. But there are no confirmed casualties, at least not yet.”
Jane nodded, trying not to let her panic show. No confirmed casualties. It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t anything. Just air filling the silence between questions and dread.
She moved toward the elevators, instinct kicking in. She needed her suit. She needed to get to them.
But Daniel grabbed her arm again. “You won’t need to go upstairs.”
“What?”
“Everything you need is right here.”
From inside a slim black case strapped over his shoulder, Daniel withdrew a rigid circular bracelet. It was metallic, deep gunmetal black with subtle veins of violet glinting along the inner ridges—elegant, smooth, and cool to the touch. He placed it in her palm.
“Put it on.” he said. “That’s your new suit. Stark tech—nanotech. These were the upgrades Tony wanted to show you the last time he called you in.”
She stared at it. It was deceptively simple-looking. But the moment she snapped it around her wrist, the transformation began.
A thin sheen of black crept over her skin like ink bleeding through water. Silent and weightless. It covered her body in a matter of seconds, forming a reinforced tactical suit that hugged her frame like a second skin. Sleek and flexible, designed for speed and protection, the suit gleamed softly under the tower’s lights. Her fingers flexed, encased in thin gloves with violet-lined seams.
She reached behind her head, pulled the hood up, and adjusted the smooth, high-tech mask that slid up over her lower face. It clung snugly to her nose and mouth, locking in place with a soft click, leaving only her eyes visible. Sharp and focused beneath the shadow of the hood.
“Directions?” she said, voice slightly muffled behind the mask.
Daniel pulled up a map on his tablet, fingers moving quickly to zoom in on the location. “You’re heading to the Morgan Stanley Children’s Hospital. You’ll want to follow the FDR south, then cut across near 165th—most streets are already locked down, so air access will be your best bet. The rooftop of the adjacent cardiac center should give you a clean entry point. Land there and head straight to the ER level. That’s where the chaos is focused.”
He tilted the screen toward her, letting her take it in. “S.A.S.S.I. is synced to your suit now,” he added, tapping the side of his own comm piece. “She’ll give you precise directions once you’re airborne. Navigation, threat detection, tactical guidance. You’re covered.”
Jane nodded, scooping her dropped bag from the ground and handing it to him. “Have this sent to my room.”
Daniel took it without question, eyes scanning her, almost hesitating. “Miss Russo… be careful.”
She gave him one last look, a quick nod, then turned toward the open entrance.
She didn’t wait for permission.
She ran, boots thudding against the polished floor, then with a leap so fluid it felt like instinct, she propelled herself into the air. The suit caught her momentum, and with a pulse of energy at her back, she soared out into the sky—cutting through the clouds like a missile.
The wind howled in her ears, tugging at the edges of her hood as the New York skyline streaked past in a blur. Her body sliced through the air with precision, the black and violet suit humming softly around her like a second skin.
The new version felt impossibly light, almost weightless, but every movement she made was supported, stabilized, by the advanced Stark tech woven into the nanofiber.
Small pulses flickered across her arms and spine as the suit adjusted mid-flight, syncing with her vitals and correcting her balance automatically.
“Altitude optimal.” S.A.S.S.I. reported calmly in her ear. “Approach vector stable. You are three minutes out from target: Morgan Stanley Children’s Hospital. Emergency signals are concentrated on the west-facing side. Estimated damage zone: entire ER level.”
Jane’s chest tightened. She didn’t respond, didn’t have to. Her jaw set, her eyes narrowing behind the mask. She dipped lower, gaining speed.
“Change trajectory.” S.A.S.S.I. continued. “Turn south toward Broadway, then veer west. If you hit the Columbia Building rooftop, you’ll have a straight glide path to the entrance level. I’ll guide you from there.”
“Understood.” Jane said, her voice clipped. Focused.
There was a brief pause. Then S.A.S.S.I. spoke again.
“Warning. Incoming connection request. External signal attempting to access comms. Identity confirmed—Tony Stark.”
Jane barely had a moment to react before his voice filled her headset.
“Jane. Jane, can you hear me?”
Her heart stuttered.
For a second, just a second, she froze. Her body hovered midair, suspended between the weight of the past and the urgency of the present.
Then she blinked hard and forced herself to keep flying.
“Yes.” she breathed, adjusting her course. “I hear you. Where are you?”
“We’re on the roof,” Tony answered, calm but unmistakably urgent. “Peter and I. The building’s compromised—most ground-level entrances are blocked. We’re scanning for structural weaknesses now. Meet us up here. Do not try going in through the lower levels.”
Jane gritted her teeth, her voice steady. “Copy that. I’ll be there in seconds. Are you—”
“We’re fine.” another voice broke in—Peter, crackling over the comm with that same irrepressible energy that made Jane want to both roll her eyes and smile. “At least, we’re fine. And seriously, how cool is this? All of us connected like this. Full team mode. Real Avengers stuff.”
Jane didn’t answer at first.
She felt a strange twist in her chest. It wasn’t envy exactly. It wasn’t even fear. It was something in between. Something sharp and guilty and a little ashamed.
Because somehow Peter could still talk like that. Still find the excitement in the chaos. Still joke while the world was on fire.
And she… she couldn’t even breathe right.
Maybe that was experience. Or maybe it was just him. Either way, part of her envied that lightness.
She pushed the thought down and focused ahead.
The hospital was close now. She could already make out the gray bulk of the rooftop through the thickening smoke. Emergency lights flickered below. Sirens wailed in the distance.
And then she saw them.
Two figures standing steady against the wind: Tony in his signature armor, crimson and gold gleaming in the sunlight; and Peter, suited up, mask on, crouched in a ready stance.
She dropped down fast, boots landing with a solid metallic clank against the rooftop gravel. The landing was smooth, precise. A far cry from the wobbly descents of her early training days.
The moment she touched down, Peter turned toward her, lifting his head. His mask obscured his face, but she could still feel his smile.
“Jane!” he said into the comm. “Your flying? Totally next level. I’m serious.”
She didn’t reply.
Instead, she turned to Tony. The mask covered the lower half of her face, but her eyes were hard and clear.
“What’s the plan?” she asked.
Tony didn’t answer right away.
He looked at her. Really looked at her. The suit. The glow of it. The presence. There was a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.
But he nodded, voice steady.
Tony didn’t answer right away.
The faceplate of his armor had retracted, leaving his expression fully visible—sweat along his brow, eyes sharp and alert.
Jane’s gaze lingered on him, reading the lines around his mouth, the tension in his jaw. Whatever he was about to say, it wasn’t going to be good.
“They’re Sokovian loyalists.” Tony said at last, his voice steady but edged with steel. “Survivors from the fallout. They’re not just attacking the hospital. They’re here for me.”
Jane’s shoulders tensed. Her pulse thudded faster in her ears.
“For you?” she repeated, her tone sharper now. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Tony gave a small, humorless shrug, his eyes not leaving hers.
“I’m the only one left from the old guard—of the ones who were actually on the ground in Sokovia. Everyone else is gone, god knows where. I’m the name they remember. The face they blame.”
He looked down briefly, jaw tightening. Then, softer, he added, “They won’t hurt the kids. Not if they think they can get to me first.”
Jane’s eyes narrowed. Her voice came out low and incredulous. “Are you serious? That’s your plan? That’s a suicide mission.”
Tony met her gaze. “It’s a distraction. I go in loud, draw them to me. That’s the only play that gets us all out of this. You and Peter find the bombs, get the kids to safety.”
“Wait—bombs?” Jane asked sharply. “What bombs?”
“They’ve planted explosives on multiple floors. Entrances, stairwells, key choke points. They’re threatening to blow the whole place if I don’t hand myself over. And I will. It will give us time.”
She stepped closer, fists clenched at her sides. “You’re assuming they won’t kill you the second you walk through the door.”
“They can try,” Tony said evenly. There was that same half-smile she’d seen a thousand times. The reckless one. The one that terrified her the most.
Jane’s breath hitched, but she didn’t waver.
“This isn’t a suicide mission,” she snapped. “You don’t have to play hero like this.”
Tony’s voice softened. “It’s not about being a hero, Jane. It’s strategy. Classic misdirection. And come on—should I be offended you’re this worried about me? I’ve been through worse. Aliens. Gods. A giant green rage monster. This… this is different, yeah. But I’m not walking in blind.”
His gaze drifted for a second, almost unconsciously, as if the weight of old memories tugged at the edge of his composure. Sokovia still lived somewhere behind his eyes.
“I’m not underestimating them,” he said, quieter now. “I know what pain can turn people into. I’ve seen it. I’ve caused it. But if there’s a way to end this without anyone getting hurt, especially the kids, I’m taking that shot. And if that means I step in first, so be it.”
Her jaw clenched so tightly it ached. She hated this. Hated that he was already halfway to gone, committed to this course no matter what she said.
Peter cleared his throat over the comm. His voice was calm, but not carefree. “Okay, uh… So what’s the timing on this? Just tell me when, and I’ll move.”
Tony glanced briefly at Peter, then back at Jane. “I’ll enter through the ER floor. It’s where the bulk of them are. From what we’ve been able to map, it’s also the center point of their comms and explosives rigging. I draw them down. You two enter from the pediatric level. It’s quieter, fewer hostiles. But that’s where some of the charges are.”
Jane crossed her arms. “And you’re going in alone.”
Tony didn’t flinch. “It’s the only way to keep their attention where we want it.”
“You mean off us.”
“I mean off the kids.”
Another pause stretched between them, taut and thick.
Tony added, more gently this time, “I’ll hold them long enough. That’s all we need.”
Jane held his gaze. Her heart was pounding, but her mind was clear. There was no talking him out of this. She could see it written all over him. The stubborn tilt of his chin. The way he was already calculating every second.
She inhaled slowly through her nose, then nodded once. “Fine. But the moment things go sideways, you call for extraction. You don’t try to be a martyr.”
Tony smirked faintly. “No promises.”
Peter exhaled. “Right. So… we good? We doing this? Because standing on rooftops is fun and all, but we’ve got bombs to disarm and bad guys to punch.”
That cut through the tension, just a little.
Jane turned toward Peter with a flicker of something between annoyance and affection. “Yeah. We’re ready.”
Tony gave a nod, stepped to the ledge. He turned his head slightly, just enough to meet Jane’s eyes one more time.
“Let’s make this count.”
Then the faceplate slid back into place with a hiss, sealing him behind the armor once more.
He stepped forward, and leapt.
A streak of red and gold arced across the sky, headed straight for the smoke.
____
The Citadel, the heart of Wakanda’s royal domain, stood as a testament to the nation’s harmonious blend of tradition and cutting-edge technology. Its towering spires and intricately carved facades, adorned with motifs honoring Bast and the ancestral lineage, rose above the vibrant cityscape of Birnin Zana. Within its walls, the air was imbued with a sense of reverence and innovation, a place where the past and future coalesced seamlessly.
Clint Barton found himself navigating the luminous corridors of this majestic stronghold, his footsteps echoing softly against the polished vibranium-infused floors. The ambient light, filtered through translucent panels etched with ancient symbols, cast shifting patterns that danced along the walls, creating an atmosphere both serene and awe-inspiring. As he approached Shuri’s laboratory, the gentle hum of advanced machinery grew louder, a symphony of progress that resonated with the archer’s own heartbeat.
Inside the lab, Shuri moved with practiced precision, her hands deftly assembling intricate devices with an ease that spoke of both genius and dedication. Clint watched her, captivated by the fluidity of her movements and the spark of curiosity that lit her eyes. In her, he saw echoes of Tony Stark’s brilliance, yet devoid of the ego that often accompanied it. Shuri’s demeanor was one of focused determination, her intellect matched by a humility that made her all the more formidable.
“You’ve summoned me.” Clint began, his voice carrying a note of intrigue. “I assume it’s about the mission.”
Shuri nodded, her gaze never leaving the data streams before her. She looked almost too young for her role—slim build, high cheekbones, dark braids pulled back in a loose, practical style—but her voice carried the weight of someone who had seen too much to be underestimated. There was a striking contrast between her youthful appearance and the brilliance that radiated from everything she touched.
“Indeed. I require more information, particularly regarding Barnes. Why is he essential to this operation?”
Clint leaned against a nearby console, arms crossed as he considered his response. “It’s not just about physical ability, though his will be useful—especially since he might be facing enhanced individuals, possibly people altered by the serum. But there’s also a moral weight to it. Bucky knows better than anyone what can happen when a super soldier falls into the wrong hands, or worse—serves the wrong cause. He’s lived the consequences. That makes him more than just qualified, it makes him motivated. If the serum really is back on the market, he won’t stop until it’s destroyed.”
Shuri tilted her head, processing the information. “And you mentioned there would be two operatives. Who is the second?”
A brief smile touched Clint’s lips as he thought of Jane. “Jane Russo. Former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, now… something more. She’s developed abilities that allow her to manipulate the elements—water, fire, air, and earth. Her control over water is particularly advanced; she can extract moisture from the environment, shape it into weapons or barriers. She’s also telekinetic, capable of flight. Her growth has been remarkable.”
Shuri’s eyebrows rose in interest. “She can control the elements? Could she, for instance, influence tides or ocean currents?”
Clint chuckled softly. “We haven’t tested that yet. But her potential is vast. She’s still exploring the extent of her powers.”
A new voice entered the conversation, smooth and familiar. “Flight, elemental control… sounds like a fascinating partner.”
Clint turned to see Bucky Barnes entering the lab.
Clint’s surprise was evident, but Shuri’s calm demeanor suggested she had anticipated his arrival.
“Welcome, White Wolf.” she greeted, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.
Clint observed him, noting the subtle changes—the relaxed posture, the clarity in his eyes. Time in Wakanda had been kind to him, offering a respite and perhaps a sense of peace. But peace didn’t mean softness. There was still something sharp in the set of his jaw, something solid in the way he held himself. Clint could recognize a man who hadn’t let go of his edge. Not completely.
While Bucky stepped closer, Shuri had returned to her monitors but kept a subtle eye on the interaction, clearly invested in the conversation.
“So,” Clint started, trying to keep his voice casual. “You accepted.”
Bucky stopped a few feet from him, arms loose at his sides. “No,” he said, voice firm but calm. “Not yet. I’m here to ask questions. Evaluate your answers.”
Clint didn’t show his relief, but he felt it bloom in his chest. Barnes wasn’t shutting the door. He was interested—wary, maybe, but interested. That was all Barton needed.
“Fair enough,” Clint said. “Ask anything. I’ll tell you what I can. Most of it is already in the report I left you, though.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow. “The report’s vague. Reads like a bad spy novel. A lot about a pair of Hydra-adjacent lunatics with delusions of grandeur. The Vogels, right? But not much about the serum.”
Clint nodded. “That part changed. When Fury first briefed me, it was all theoretical. One informant. Some whispers. But now…”
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Now, we’ve got intel suggesting the Vogels are planning a new auction. Underground. Quiet. But they’re spreading the word they have working vials of the serum.”
Bucky frowned. “And? How do you know it’s true?”
“We don’t. Maybe it’s all smoke. Maybe it’s fake. But what if it isn’t? Can we afford that risk?”
The two men locked eyes. Clint didn’t flinch. Bucky’s stare was intense, calculating. But behind it, something else. Something unsettled.
He didn’t answer right away. He just stood with his arms loosely folded, his stance quiet but grounded, eyes fixed somewhere beyond Clint’s shoulder—beyond the open balcony and the golden savanna stretching out toward the horizon.
“If I were to consider this,” he said at last, his voice steady but tinged with weariness, “it wouldn’t be to do the government a favor. That ship sailed a long time ago.”
Clint said nothing. Honestly, part of him expected that reaction.
“Why would I put myself out there again?” Bucky continued, eyes narrowing slightly. “Why would I crawl back into the field, risk my neck for the same people who turned their backs on me?“
There was no accusation in his tone, just a tired sort of clarity. Like he’d thought these things a hundred times before, and now the words came without bitterness, just truth.
“I know what I did,” Bucky said quietly. “I live with it every day. And I’ll never stop paying for it. But I didn’t choose that life. I didn’t ask to be broken and turned into a weapon. Hydra did that to me. And now they want me back because there’s some new threat, and they’re short on solutions. And I guess a living fossil with a bloody past suddenly looks useful again.”
He paused, his voice low, almost inaudible.
“Maybe it would’ve been better if I’d died a long time ago. For everyone. Talking about justice, then maybe I don’t even have the right to complain.”
Clint shifted his weight, his jaw working tight.
“That’s a heavy thing to say.” Clint murmured, almost more to himself than to Bucky.
But Bucky didn’t flinch. He wasn’t looking for reassurance, or disagreement. He was just telling the truth. Raw and unfiltered.
And Clint, for a second, didn’t know what to say. Because what do you say to someone who genuinely believes the world would have been better off without him?
He rubbed a hand over his face and let out a breath. “You’re not wrong about the damage,” he said finally. “But you’re still here. Still standing. That’s gotta count for something.”
Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just stubborn. So tell me. What do I get out of it?”
Clint met his gaze, and for a moment, he hesitated. Then, carefully: “You’d get a full pardon. No prison. No trial. No more running or hiding. The record would be wiped clean.”
Bucky blinked once, slowly, like the words didn’t quite register.
“And,” Clint added, “there’s a compensatory fund. Enough for you to start over, wherever you want. A home, a new life. Freedom.”
Bucky gave a quiet, humorless chuckle. “A payout. After everything, they’re trying to pay me off.”
“It’s not about money,” Clint said. “It’s about giving you the choice. Finally.”
But Bucky shook his head. “You can’t buy peace, Barton. Not mine, at least.”
Clint sighed. “No. But maybe you can build it. Somewhere. On your terms.”
For a long moment, Bucky didn’t say anything. He looked past Clint again, out through the arches toward the open land. The breeze stirred the fabric hanging over the windows, the scent of warm earth and flowering trees drifting in.
“There are already too many monsters in the world,” he murmured. “More than enough.”
He looked down at his metal hand, then slowly curled it into a fist.
“I’m one of them. But if there’s a way to stop more from being made… maybe that’s not a bad way to end this story.”
Clint exhaled, slowly, the tension easing from his shoulders.
“I’m not promising redemption,” he said. “Just a chance to do something good. One more time.”
Bucky turned back to him.
“I don’t believe in redemption,” he said. “But I believe in stopping the wrong people from getting power. If that’s what this is, then yeah… I’ll go.”
Clint blinked. “You’re in?”
Bucky nodded once, quick. “Let’s call it my last ride.”
There was a beat of silence before Clint offered a faint smile. “They’ll be thrilled to send you into retirement.”
Bucky arched a brow, then turned. “They afraid of me?”
Clint smirked. “Not Fury. But… pretty much everyone else.”
Bucky let out a dry, amused breath. “They should be.”
____
Jane and Peter slipped into the hospital undetected, entering through an emergency exit on the third floor. The lock hadn’t stood a chance against Jane’s telekinesis—just a quiet, precise twist of metal, no sparks, no alarms. The hallway they entered opened into a barely lit treatment room with two empty hospital beds, a tray of unused instruments, and cabinets lining the walls. No children. No guards. Just silence thick with tension. It was a clean entry—at least, for now.
They didn’t speak. Instead, their eyes met for a heartbeat, a silent exchange of understanding passing between them. Then, voices. Low, guttural tones in Sokovian, drifting through the thin wall. The sound of children crying followed, muffled and frantic. Jane’s breath caught in her throat.
“They’re right next door.” Peter whispered, stepping lightly toward the far wall. He tapped the side of his mask. “Karen is reading explosive signatures. We’re talking multiple devices in that room.”
Jane nodded, her hand drifting to the wall, fingers splayed as if she could feel the danger through the drywall. A beat of silence. They needed a diversion. If the bombs were inside with the hostiles, and the children too, they couldn’t risk storming in. Someone had to draw the men out. Someone had to go in and disable the devices.
“I don’t know how to disarm a bomb.” Jane muttered.
“Neither do I.” Peter admitted, glancing at her sideways.
S.A.S.S.I.’s voice chimed in calmly through Jane’s comm. “You won’t need to. I’ll walk you through it as soon as you have visual confirmation of the device. Real-time guidance. I’ve already synced to Karen to coordinate.”
Jane’s shoulders tensed. “So that means I go in.”
Peter stepped back, his posture straightening. “And I make some noise.” He grinned behind the mask, trying to veil his nerves. “Good at that.”
She grabbed his wrist before he could turn. “Peter, wait—be careful. Don’t do anything stupid.”
His grin softened into something more sincere. “I’ll be fine. We’ll all make it out of here in one piece. You, me, and Mr. Stark.”
Jane’s lips parted at the mention of Tony, but she said nothing. It was too obvious—the way she clenched her jaw, the way her gaze flicked toward the wall, as if she could see through it, as if she needed to. Peter noticed, of course. He always noticed.
“I’ve seen him fight,” Peter added gently. “He’s strong. And he always finds a way. That’s why I look up to him, you know?”
A faint smile curved Jane’s lips, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She bit down on her lower lip, and for a second, Peter hesitated.
“Jane?” he said, his voice suddenly quieter. “Can I ask you something?”
She glanced at him. “Go ahead.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “You and Mr. Stark… did you know each other before? I mean… Before all this?”
Her expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker in her eyes. “Why are you asking?”
Peter shrugged with one shoulder. “I don’t know. You just—you act like people who’ve known each other for a long time. There’s a kind of… I don’t know. Familiarity.”
He hesitated, then added with a half-smile behind the mask, “Plus, I mean… no offense, but I’ve never seen anyone talk to Tony Stark the way you do. You don’t flinch. You give him orders—and he actually listens. That just doesn’t happen. Not even Pepper pulls that off most days.”
Jane looked away, her gaze landing on a cabinet across the room. For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Her lips parted slightly, then closed again. She shifted her weight, arms crossed tighter across her chest, like she was holding something in.
“No,” she said finally, voice low. “Not exactly.”
The words came out thinner than she intended, like they cost her something. Not quite a lie, but far from the truth.
Peter nodded slowly. He didn’t press. “Okay,” he said, backing up toward the door. “I’ll… go make something explode. Or yell. Or do a backflip. I’ll figure something out.”
And then he was gone, disappearing into the hallway with light, practiced steps, leaving Jane standing alone in the half-shadowed room—heart pounding, mind already racing ahead to what came next.
A sudden burst of gunfire cracked through the building, echoing up from the floors below. Jane flinched instinctively. It wasn’t Peter. He hadn’t had time to engage yet. These shots came from below their floor.
No, it had to be Tony.
A rush of panic surged through her chest like ice water, her breath catching. For a heartbeat, she felt her vision narrow, her pulse thundering in her ears.
They were shooting at him.
But then she closed her eyes and exhaled. No. Not now. There was no room for panic. No room for fear. She needed to stay focused. Tony needed her to stay focused. The mission had to go right. There were lives depending on her, not just his.
A door creaked open in the next room.
Jane turned toward the sound and crept to the edge of the doorframe. She peeked around the corner just in time to see two men step out of the adjacent room and down the corridor. The door behind them swung slightly ajar.
Peter was nowhere in sight. He must have headed toward the gunfire, toward Tony. Typical Peter.
Jane took a breath and moved silently into the next room.
The space was cramped and dimly lit. Medical beds were pushed haphazardly against the walls, and in the far corner, a group of children huddled together, eyes wide with fear. Near the opposite wall, nestled behind a cabinet and partially concealed, she spotted the explosive devices, crudely mounted but deadly-looking. There were timers on each of them, synced to the same display. The red numbers blinked: 1-0. The countdown hadn’t started. Yet.
Jane approached cautiously, but as she did, a sharp noise cracked from the corner.
Gunfire.
She spun, just in time to raise her hand and deflect the incoming bullets mid-air with a controlled telekinetic burst. One of them ricocheted and buried itself in the ceiling. The shooter had been hiding behind a low metal desk, shielded from view. The children screamed and scattered, diving behind Jane for cover.
“Shit—” Jane hissed under her breath.
With a sharp twist of her wrist, she yanked the rifle from the man’s hands. It flew across the room and smashed into the far wall with a thud. Before he could react, she thrust her hand forward again, and his body slammed into the concrete hard enough to knock him unconscious.
The room went still.
The kids were sobbing, but no longer screaming. Jane turned to them slowly, lowering her arms.
“It’s okay,” she said, her voice low and steady. “You’re safe. Just stay right here.”
They clung to each other, a cluster of trembling limbs and tear-streaked faces. Jane turned back to the devices. There were two—one set to detonate and the other clearly wired to the first. Dual triggers. Probably amateur work, but still dangerous.
“S.A.S.S.I.,” she breathed, already moving toward them. “What am I looking at?”
The AI assistant replied instantly. “These devices appear to be improvised. Unsophisticated, but functional. The triggering mechanism is active, but not yet counting down. However, any false move could initiate the sequence.”
“What do I do?”
“There are three wires on the primary bomb. Color-coded—green, red, and black. Do not touch the red wire under any circumstances. The green wire is a bypass. The black is the detonator’s capacitor line.”
Jane crouched low, peering closer. “How do I cut them?”
“There are microblades integrated into the right thigh compartment of your suit. Reach just behind the outer seam—yes, right there. Press down.”
Jane slid her fingers along the seam and felt the mechanism click beneath her touch. A small, sleek blade popped out, catching the light. She took it carefully, steadying her breath.
“Cut the green wire first,” S.A.S.S.I. instructed, voice calm. “Slowly. Do not pull. Just slice through.”
Jane’s fingers trembled slightly as she brought the blade to the wire. She counted her breaths. One. Two. Three.
The LED on the side of the bomb flashed once. Then again.
“Good.” S.A.S.S.I. said. “Now the black. Same technique. Gentle. Precise.”
She moved to the next wire, lips pressed tightly. Behind her, one of the children let out a soft hiccup from crying.
Jane tightened her grip and sliced.
A long pause followed.
The LED lights on both bombs dimmed, then faded out entirely.
“All clear.” S.A.S.S.I. confirmed. “Device deactivated.”
Jane exhaled a sharp breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The knife fell from her hand with a dull clink, and she slumped against the wall for a second, letting the adrenaline taper off.
“One down.” she whispered. “Let’s keep it that way.”
There was no more time to waste.
Jane turned toward the group of wide-eyed children huddled behind her.
“Listen to me,” she said gently, but firmly. “You need to stay in this room. Lock the door. No matter what happens, no matter what you hear—don’t move from here. Do you understand?”
A few of them nodded. One boy wiped his nose on his sleeve and whispered, “Will you come back?”
Jane didn’t hesitate. “Yes. I will.”
She turned and left the room, sealing the door behind her as best she could with a push of telekinetic force against the broken frame. Then she moved—fast.
The stairwell wasn’t far. She took the steps two at a time, her suit adjusting seamlessly to her motion. But halfway down, a thunderous blast erupted from below. The walls shuddered. The metal railing warped inward. A wave of heat and force hit her full in the chest like a battering ram.
Jane screamed as her body was flung backward. She hit the stairs hard, tumbling down half a flight before slamming into the landing.
Dust. Smoke. Debris.
She coughed violently, vision swimming. Her ears rang with a high-pitched screech that blocked out all other sound. Her head throbbed. Her body ached.
For a second, she couldn’t even remember where she was.
Then she heard it, screaming. Children’s voices. Cries of pain.
Her eyes snapped open.
She forced herself upright, grabbing the railing for support. Her balance was shot. Her suit was still operational—S.A.S.S.I. flashed muted warnings in the periphery of her heads-up display—but her equilibrium was off, the ringing in her ears relentless.
Still, she pushed forward.
As she reached the next floor, the devastation unfolded in front of her like a nightmare. The corridor leading to the emergency wing had been obliterated. Walls torn open. Medical equipment scattered in fragments. One side of the hospital had collapsed in on itself, exposing the mangled steel skeleton of the building.
A doctor lay trapped beneath a support beam, his legs crushed, moaning incoherently. Around him, children staggered in the smoke. Some crying, some running blindly, others frozen in terror.
Fires licked the edges of nearby machinery, flames crawling along splintered desks and broken IV stands.
Jane’s gut twisted.
She pushed her hands forward, focusing through the chaos. Water surged from her palms, rising from the ambient moisture in the air, from the ruined sprinkler system overhead, from her own sweat, gathering into a wave that rushed across the room.
The flames hissed and sputtered, vanishing in bursts of steam.
She turned to the children.
“Go! Upstairs! The way I came—go now! It’s safe up there. Follow the stairs. Don’t stop!”
They hesitated, terrified, but one by one they obeyed, fleeing toward the upper floors.
Jane barely had time to breathe before she spotted movement near the rubble.
A small boy, no older than five, was pinned beneath a collapsed cabinet. His tiny leg was trapped at an angle that made her stomach flip.
She rushed over and dropped to her knees beside him.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”
The child was crying too hard to answer.
She placed both hands against the heavy cabinet and exhaled. A pulse of energy surged through her arms. The furniture lifted just enough. With a careful tug, she pulled the child free, cradled him against her chest, and rose.
“Go,” she told the boy, pointing. “Run!”
He obeyed, limping slightly, but managing.
Then—gunfire.
Close.
Jane whirled around.
Peter was on the ceiling just a few meters away, clinging upside-down and firing webs in rapid bursts. He snagged a rifle out of a man’s hands, kicked another away with a sharp swing, and shot Jane a quick glance.
“You okay?”
Jane didn’t have time to answer.
A new spray of bullets lit up the far end of the corridor.
She turned—just in time to see Tony, armor scorched and battered, firing repulsor blasts toward two men with automatic weapons.
“Jane!” he shouted. “Get down!”
One of the gunmen turned toward her. She barely managed to throw up a shield of telekinetic energy, the bullets ricocheting away in arcs of kinetic light. The strain on her body was immediate. Her head spun. The ringing hadn’t stopped.
Still, she fought through it.
She rose slowly into the air, hovering above the chaos. One hand lashed out, seizing the nearest attacker and slamming him into the wall hard enough to crack the plaster.
Tony turned toward her, armor flickering slightly as he rebalanced.
“On your left!”
Jane spun.
The last gunman raised his weapon and fired.
But Jane was faster.
She caught the bullets mid-air, froze them in place, then redirected them in a wave of harmless metal shrapnel to the ground.
Silence.
Jane dropped to her knees, gasping for breath, her suit whirring gently in response to her vitals. She looked up, and across the room, Tony stared at her. His faceplate was lifted, his expression taut with concern—but proud.
Peter landed beside her a second later.
“Whoa,” he muttered, eyes wide behind his mask. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
Jane couldn’t even answer.
She was shaking.
But she was standing.
They were all still standing.
Tony then moved in their direction, toward a young girl curled near an overturned gurney, her face streaked with tears and her leg slick with blood. She was trying to crawl forward, one hand dragging behind her, the other clutching at the floor. Jane hadn’t even seen her there until now. Tony dropped to one knee and gently scooped her into his arms, holding her close against his chest as she whimpered in pain.
Behind them, Peter leapt on a wall beam, webbing a man who’d appeared from a shadowy corridor, gun raised. The weapon clattered to the floor a moment later as Peter slammed the man against the wall with a grunt. “Seriously? How many of these guys are there?” he muttered to himself, already moving toward the next threat.
Jane stumbled to her feet, her chest still heaving. Her vision was swimming, but she forced her legs forward, making her way to Tony. “Let me take her.” she said, voice hoarse.
Tony turned to face her. The light from a shattered fluorescent panel above them cast stark shadows across his jaw, but his eyes were clear, focused, locked on hers.
“You okay?” he asked, gaze dipping briefly to her temple. “You’re bleeding.”
Jane reached up, fingertips grazing the spot he was looking at. Her fingers came away red.
“It’s nothing,” she said quickly. “Doesn’t matter.”
Tony didn’t look convinced. Still holding the girl, he studied her face for a moment longer. “It matters. If you’re hurt, I can get you out. Just say the word. I’ll cover you.”
“No,” she said, more forcefully this time. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. I can fight.”
“You’re shaking.” he said quietly.
“I can do it.” Jane snapped back, maybe a little too sharp. “Just trust me.”
And then it happened.
Tony’s eyes flicked past her, just for a second. It was all it took.
“Jane, behind you!”
She spun on instinct, raising her hand, and caught the first round of bullets with a telekinetic shield just in time. The air cracked with noise as the rounds crushed against the shimmering barrier she managed to summon in front of them. She tightened the field around Tony, the child, and herself, teeth clenched. Her powers burned in her veins, pushing against the limits of what she could hold.
But she didn’t see the second shooter.
A sharp crack split the air, closer this time.
Pain exploded in her side like fire.
The impact was so sudden, so violent, it took her breath away. Her shield faltered, just for an instant, as she staggered back. The world tilted. A blinding pressure throbbed against her ribs. Her legs gave out beneath her.
She didn’t even realize she was falling until she hit the ground. The back of her head cracked hard against the cold tile, sending a dull echo through her skull. The ceiling above her spun, the lights flickering wildly, and then—
Darkness.
A low, rising hum in her ears.
And Tony, shouting her name.
Notes:
So here we are!
The end of Jane’s first big mission. And what a ride it was. Writing this chapter was both exhausting and incredibly fun: action, emotions, danger, and of course… Tony. I know I’m leaving you on a pretty big question mark, but you’ll find out what happens next soon enough. Promise.On another note—Bucky’s in. He’s officially accepted the mission, which means his presence will start to take up more space in the next chapters. I’ve mentioned this before, but I’ll say it again: I’ve always been deeply fascinated by Bucky as a character. His trauma, his complexity, the emotional depth he carries… it’s something I genuinely can’t wait to explore in full. Up until now, he’s only appeared in fragments, but wait a few more chapters and he’ll step into the spotlight.
This chapter was also quite nostalgic in its own way—especially the beginning, with Jane returning to that old house, to those memories. And I finally had the chance to give you a clearer picture of Jane’s first mission with the S.H.I.E.L.D., how she was inserted into Tony’s life, and how it all led to their marriage. I think we’re close to having the full puzzle on the table now.
As always, I’d love to know your thoughts. Comments mean the world, so please don’t be shy! Tell me how you’re feeling, what hit you hardest, what you’re hoping to see next.
Until next time!
xx
Chapter 8: Take me
Notes:
Okay, deep breath. This chapter is going to have some smut.
I’m honestly a little nervous about it because I don’t think it’s exactly my strongest skill… so, yeah, please be kind!
I just hope it doesn’t turn out too terrible. Ugh.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy the chapter! Thank you so much for reading!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It started with a twitch of her eyelids, a flicker at the edge of consciousness. Then came the subtle tightening of her hand, fingers curling instinctively into the soft fabric beneath her. Sheets. A bed. Her skin registered the coolness of the air before her brain caught up. Slowly, almost painfully, she opened her eyes. Light stung. Everything looked white. Sterile. The walls, the ceiling, even the faint buzz of overhead fluorescents made her squint. It wasn’t the battlefield, it wasn’t fire or rubble or screaming, it was quiet. Too quiet. Her head throbbed, a dull, insistent pain that pulsed behind her temples, and as she tried to shift, a sharp stab shot through her right side. Her breath caught. It all came rushing back—the mission, the children, the explosion.
Before panic could spiral, a voice cut gently through the haze. “Don’t move too much. You hit your head hard. Just… take it easy, okay?”
She turned toward the sound, eyes still adjusting. There, seated beside her, was Tony.
The sight of him made something settle in her chest. His hair was a little messy, his jaw unshaven, and there was a bruise darkening the edge of his cheekbone—just beneath his left eye. He looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept in days. But he smiled at her, soft and warm, and somehow, that made everything inside her loosen just enough to breathe.
She blinked slowly, voice rasping. “Where am I?”
Tony leaned in closer, his hand gently pressing to her shoulder to keep her from sitting up. “Back at the Tower. Medical wing.” he said, trying to keep it light. “New location unlocked on your Avengers map. Congrats.”
Jane tried to smile, but the effort sent a ripple of pain through her ribs. She touched her forehead and felt a thick bandage there. Her fingers trembled slightly. “Peter? The kids—?”
“You don’t have to worry about them.” Tony said quickly, his tone shifting into something softer. Calmer. “Peter’s completely fine. Not even a scratch, the showoff. The kids… a few broken bones, some cuts. But they’re safe. All of them.”
As he spoke, his eyes dropped for a second, as if replaying the carnage in his mind. The smirk faded. There was something darker hiding in the tension of his jaw.
Jane reached up, her movements careful but deliberate, and placed her hand lightly over his. “We did it.” she whispered.
Tony met her eyes, then nodded. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “We did.”
He didn’t let go of her hand.
“It wasn’t your first mission,” he added, quieter now. “But definitely the hardest. And you were… incredible, Jane.”
Something in her chest clenched. Not from pain this time, but from the sheer intimacy in the way he said her name. Her gaze lingered on the bruise beneath his eye, and before she could stop herself, she lifted her hand again and gently touched it. Her fingers brushed the skin with a featherlight caution. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just looked at her.
And in that moment, she couldn’t tell if her heartbeat hurt more than the wound in her side.
“You were shot,” Tony said softly, his voice careful, as if trying to keep the words from sounding heavier than they already were. “That’s why you collapsed. You got hit in the side—just a graze, thank God.” He paused, catching himself. “Well, not God, obviously. Just… good luck, maybe. Or stubbornness. Or maybe you’re just too damn tough to take down.”
There was something else in his voice, something that cracked at the edges, unfinished. His eyes dropped for half a second to her side, then came back to her face. “If it had been worse… I—” He didn’t finish the sentence.
Jane’s fingers slipped away from his cheek.
It wasn’t abrupt, just slow enough to feel deliberate. Like she suddenly realized how close they were. How much heat passed between them in that space. Her hand drifted back to the edge of the blanket, fingers curling into it, and she glanced away.
Tony cleared his throat, shifting slightly backward. Not too far, but enough to give them both a breath of space. Still, their eyes remained locked.
“You know,” he said, with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach the weariness behind it, “they’re already talking about you on every news outlet I can think of. You’ve stolen my spotlight.”
Jane blinked, thrown by the sudden turn. “What?”
He shrugged, as if trying to make it sound casual. “Apparently some lucky reporter caught footage of you flying in and landing on the rooftop. And after the chaos, a few of the kids started talking about you—said you saved them. Said you kicked the bad guys’ asses.”
Jane stared at him, unsure whether to be flattered or uncomfortable.
Tony went on, more amused now. “One of them gave you a name. It’s gone completely viral. He said all superheroes need one, and since you didn’t have one yet, he picked one for you.”
He paused for effect. Then, with a faint smirk: “Violet Wing.”
That made her laugh—soft and dry, but real. The sound was low and brief, but it tugged at something warm in his chest.
“Violet Wing?” she repeated, eyebrows rising. “That’s… actually kind of cute.”
“It is,” he agreed. “Very cape-and-thunder. Sounds like an Avenger name.”
“I’m not an Avenger.” she said quickly, shaking her head.
“Not yet,” Tony replied. “But you’re close. Closer than you think.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and sincere.
Jane exhaled, shifting slightly on the bed, trying to prop herself up with one arm. But the moment she did, a sharp pain shot through her side, and she let out an involuntary wince.
Tony was beside her in a second, hands steadying her. “Careful,” he murmured, one hand at her back, the other on her shoulder. “You’re still banged up.”
Their faces were inches apart again.
Close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. Close enough to see the gold flecks in his tired eyes. Close enough that her heart beat once, loud and steady, and then twice, faster.
She didn’t move. Neither did he.
The world outside was quiet. Medical equipment hummed faintly in the background, and the distant murmur of Tower activity buzzed beyond the walls. But here, in this stillness, there was only them. Just Jane, with her hair scattered against the pillow, a bandage above her brow, and her hand pressed to the place on her side where she’d been shot. And Tony, so close she could count the days he hadn’t slept written into the shadows beneath his eyes.
“Violet Wing.” he said again, softly now. “Yeah… it suits you.”
She looked at him, really looked, and something unspoken passed between them.
Tony had just leaned in, hands outstretched in that instinctive gesture to steady her, when the words came quietly, almost as if they’d slipped out on their own.
“Always said a good name does half the job. Slap—”
Jane’s voice, soft but certain, cut in before he could finish the thought. “Slap the right label on something and people eat it up.”
Tony blinked, caught off guard. His brows knit, not in confusion, but in something far more personal, recognition. His voice dropped lower, almost hoarse.
“My mom used to say that.” he murmured. “How did you—?”
But then he stopped himself. Shook his head slightly, like swatting the question away midair. And instead of waiting for an answer, he leaned in and kissed her.
Suddenly, just like that.
At first, it was gentle. Tentative. He brushed his fingers along her jaw, almost reverent, as if afraid he might hurt her. His lips grazed hers, careful, leaving her room—space to pull back if she wanted to. But she didn’t. Not for a second.
Jane reached up with both hands, cupping his face and drawing him closer, deepening the kiss with an urgency that startled even her. He shifted, carefully, the edge of the cot creaking beneath them as he leaned over her. His lips trailed along her cheekbone, her jawline, down to the curve of her neck, and she gasped softly, her body arching toward him before she even realized it.
She whispered his name, breathless, and he answered with a kiss to her shoulder, murmuring something she couldn’t quite understand.
They didn’t hear the footsteps in the hall. Didn’t see the door crack open.
Peter stood just inside the room, the bundle of white tulips still clutched awkwardly in his hand. He had hesitated outside the infirmary for nearly ten minutes before working up the nerve to come in, shifting his weight back and forth, replaying in his head what he might say. He’d told himself it was stupid—that Tony had already assured him Jane was fine, that she was just resting—but still, he couldn’t shake the unease. He hadn’t seen her since the hospital, and the last image he had of her was blood and smoke and a body collapsed to the ground.
A whole day had passed since the attack. He hadn’t been able to sleep. Aunt May had been a wreck, maybe even more anxious than he was. She had shoved the flowers into his hands that morning, insisting he go check on Jane. “I’m sure she’d love to see you.” she had said, although her voice was tight with nerves. May wasn’t good at pretending. And neither was Peter.
So he had come. Because he cared. Jane had become something of a constant in the chaos of his new life, snarky and guarded and mysterious as hell, but she was always there. Present for him in a way he hadn’t expected. And when he’d seen her hit the ground, when the gunfire had lit up the ER like the Fourth of July, he’d felt a type of panic he couldn’t explain.
Now, standing in the doorway, he thought he heard something from inside the room. A sound. A low, muffled murmur. Maybe a groan of pain. His heart jumped, maybe she was awake. Maybe she was just starting to stir. Maybe she’d be cranky and sore and dramatic about it, and he could tease her, make her laugh. That had become their rhythm, bickering in the best kind of way. He’d already thought of what he’d say.
But when he pushed the door open just a little, the words evaporated.
He froze.
Jane was awake, yes, but not in the way he’d imagined. She and Tony were tangled together on the medbay cot, bodies impossibly close, lips moving in a kiss that was far from being innocent. It was real. Intimate. A moment too private for any outsider to witness.
Tony’s jacket was half-off, Jane’s hands were gripping his shirt, and when she winced softly from pain, he backed off just enough to murmur something—Peter couldn’t hear what—and kissed her again, gently, along her jaw. She pulled him in tighter.
Peter’s chest went tight. He didn’t move. Just stood there, blinking, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. It wasn’t judgment, not exactly. He wasn’t even angry. Just… stunned. This wasn’t what he’d come in for. He wasn’t ready. And it hit too hard, too fast. It was like stumbling into someone’s diary—only worse, because this was real and breathing and happening right in front of him.
The tulips slipped from his hand and hit the floor.
He took a step back, then another. His sneakers were too loud on the tile. But they didn’t hear him. Of course they didn’t. They were too far gone.
Peter turned and walked quickly down the hall, not looking back. His ears were burning. His face was hot. Embarrassment curled in his chest, tight and breathless. Because he’d seen it. Because now he knew.
And he wasn’t supposed to.
The door remained ajar, forgotten. Neither of them noticed. They were far too wrapped in the gravity of each other. Jane’s fingers fumbled with the buttons of Tony’s shirt, half-desperate, half-deliberate. Every second counted. Every inch of skin felt like proof that they were still alive, still here.
Tony moved carefully above her, mindful of her injuries, his touch reverent but hungry. His palm slid along her waist, brushing over the bandage at her side, then found safer ground along the curve of her hip. He paused for just a second, as if asking without words if she was sure.
She answered with a kiss that left no room for doubt—pulling him closer, arms around his neck, her body arching toward his. Her breath hitched as his mouth found her collarbone, then her shoulder, then traced a slow path back to her lips.
There was a desperation in the way they held each other. Not frantic, but consuming. Jane felt the warmth of his breath against her skin, the way his fingertips moved over her ribs with impossible gentleness, and she realized she was trembling, not from fear, but from need. From relief. From everything she hadn’t let herself feel in so long.
For now, she wasn’t thinking about timelines or missions or what would happen after. She wasn’t thinking about the cost of this, of him, of them. She just wanted to feel it. To remember what it meant to be wanted, held, loved. Even if it was only for now. Even if it was only borrowed.
Tony’s hands slid under the hem of her hospital gown, slow, cautious, and when she didn’t stop him, he let his fingers trace over her bare skin like he was rediscovering something he thought he’d lost.
And Jane let him.
Because for the first time in what felt like years, she didn’t feel like a ghost. She felt real. Anchored. Wanted. His.
Even if the moment was fragile. Even if it was already slipping through their fingers.
His hands went forward, down the line of her abdomen, then following the curve of her hip, and she felt the skin under his touch burn and shiver at the same time.
Jane wanted him.
And she wanted him to know. She wanted him to notice it, to feel it.
That’s why she slowly started to part her legs, making room for him to get closer. And he did, adjusting his body against hers with ease. And that’s when he started to really push against her, letting her feel he was ready to surrender.
His lips opened while his fingers started traveling down her leg, inside her inner thigh. Jane blinked and breathed slowly while leaning forward his touch.
It was too much, and still not enough.
With a courage she did not even know she had, she wrapped her legs around Tony's waist, drawing him to her. He let out a stifled moan.
It was at that moment that she felt it. Hard and warm against her skin.
It was real. The undeniable sign that he wanted her just as much as she wanted him.
Tony pressed his nose in the crook of her neck, kissing and biting her to mute his own sounds as he panted.
It was something familiar and foreign at the same time. It had been so long since she had heard him like that.
"J-Jane."
He whispered against the tender skin of her neck as he hastily moved the light sheets from her body with his hands. The last layer between them.
And now Jane was exposed. Naked before his eyes. Her legs spread, her skin flushed, her breath frantic.
Tony stood looking at her for a few seconds, as if hypnotized by the vision, then looked into her eyes again, looking for permission.
"Closer."
She just said. Placing her hands on his shoulders and pulling him back to her.
By now, she was a bundle of nerves and instinct. There was no more rationality or logic. There was only the desire to feel him as close and deeply as possible.
He didn’t wait.
Tony kissed her again. And as their lips chased each other, his hand began to stroke first along her groin and then, as she moaned into his mouth, into the center of her pleasure.
Jane was wet with sweat and desire when his caresses, before gentle and uncertain, became something else.
"Tell me to stop."
He murmured. His voice rough against the corner of her mouth.
"Tell me to stop now and I won't touch you."
But even if she had wanted to stop him, she wouldn’t have been able to. That strength had long since left her. Jane had spent decades wishing for that exact moment to come. No matter how wrong, how reckless, how foolish it was.
She wanted it. She wanted Tony, at least one more time. At least one last time.
"Touch me. Please, Tony, t-touch me."
And that was all he needed. All it took to make him finally give in. The last vestige of self-control now lost who knows where. As the fist finger dived hungrily inside her, generating a sound that was both obscene and wonderful at the same time.
Jane arched, biting her lips. Shame still imposed her to control her moans, her moves, but the pleasure he was inflicting her was evident all over her face.
She could see Tony smirk, satisfied.
Eyes locked in hers.
He presses another finger inside, meeting almost no resistance. Jane’s hole clenched around his fingers, warm and so obscenely wet.
Tony thrusted his fingers inside, crooked them and presses them against the bundle of nerves that had Jane now moaning brokenly, her legs shaking at the sparks of pleasure sent up her spine.
She clung to him, dipped her nails into his bare back, scratching him as his hot breath tickled her cheek.
She hadn’t been touched. By anyone. Not in all those years. Not since him.
Because despite everything, even though Tony couldn’t remember, she had always belonged to him. And for Jane, that truth never changed.
She had stayed his, through all the years, all the loneliness. And that made this moment burn deeper, sharper, almost too much to take.
Jane felt her heart beating in her chest so hard and fast that she had the absurd feeling that it might explode.
Then Tony had stopped his fingers and started focusing his attention on her breasts, cupping them and then rubbing his hands on them. She whined like a baby.
"Take me."
She pleaded moaning against his skin, now shame forgotten. She just couldn’t stand that torture or wait any longer.
And Jane couldn't quite tell at what point he had unzipped his trousers and prepared himself for her, it had all been so fast, so overwhelming. Perhaps time was flowing differently. Perhaps what seemed like seconds to her were actually minutes or hours. She could not tell.
All she can comprehend was that now Tony was inside her, pushing his cock with slow thrusts, hissing at her skin while Jane sighed shakily, a sheer layer of sweat covering her forehead.
"F-Fuck." Tony grunted, putting his hands on Jane’s hips. "You’re so tight."
And now his fingers dug into her flesh as he pulled back and then thrusted inside harder, Jane moaning as she pushed her hips toward him.
And she held him and herself so tightly that the muscles in her arms began to ache. But she didn’t want to let go.
She didn’t want him to move one inch away from her.
The now air was too thick, hard to breathe, as he put a hand on Jane’s neck and pushed her down firm but gentle at the same time, making her squirm under his touch. Tony moved his fingers to Jane’s head and grabbed her blonde hair, pulling her closer and leaning down to press his nose in the juncture between neck and shoulder, tongue licking at her dump skin. Jane clenched around him as Tony yanked her hair harder.
"I'm close. A-Amore I am—"
And that name. The name he used only for her. How could he remember it? How was it even possible?
But Jane was too clouded with pleasure, too distant to think straight. And so, she pushed herself against him again, murmuring incoherent sounds, dipping fingers and nails in Tony’s skin so hard it must have hurt. But she didn’t care. She was too close.
“Tony, p-please...“
Tony thrusts into her went faster and Jane came with a sharp cry, her body shaking with the force of her orgasm.
Her mind went completely blank as she heard Tony moan loudly in her ear. He barely stiffened, bit her earlobe and finally, emptied himself inside her.
After that, there were no words.
He let himself collapse onto Jane's chest. Gasping. While she was still shivering.
It had happened. They had made love. And it all seemed like a fever dream.
Yet they were there. Still sweating. Still against each other.
Jane could still feel Tony's labored breath on her skin, her flesh twitching and tingling between her legs.
She wanted to speak. Anything. Even just a word, a whisper, but nothing came. Her throat was dry, her chest tight. It was as if the weight of everything they had just shared had hollowed her out, leaving no space for language. So instead, she simply lifted a hand, threading her fingers gently through Tony’s damp, tousled hair. She stroked it slowly, rhythmically, not to comfort him, but to ground herself, to remind herself that this was real. That he was here, warm and heavy against her, his breathing beginning to slow as the adrenaline wore off.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stayed there, resting against her, his head nestled against her chest, as if the world had finally quieted for a moment. She couldn’t see his face from where he was, and maybe that was a good thing. She wasn’t sure she could have looked into his eyes. Not after what had just happened.
And even now, even in the afterglow of it all, she still couldn’t fully process it. Her body ached, her head throbbed, and somewhere deep inside, she knew, this wasn’t right. It had been a mistake. A moment of weakness. Of reckless need. But God help her… she couldn’t regret it.
Not the way she’d regretted that kiss, weeks ago, the one that had cracked the fragile balance she had worked so hard to keep. This time had been different. This time, everything had been on the edge. She had come so close to never waking up again. To never seeing him again. And that terror, that closeness to the end, had been like permission. A pass to feel what she hadn’t allowed herself to feel for so long. Maybe it was selfish. But felt inevitable.
She didn’t dare hope it would change anything. That somehow, this would bridge the chasm between them. She knew better. Their lives had gone in different directions, torn apart by choices and secrets and time. She wasn’t delusional enough to think this changed that.
Her purpose, her focus, had shifted. She was meant to become an Avenger now. That was what mattered. That was the path she had carved out for herself. Everything else… everything she felt, everything she longed for… had to remain in the background. And if it hurt, so be it. She had long since stopped trying to make sense of her actions, of her impulses. She was tired of asking herself why. For once, she just wanted to be reckless. Just once, she wanted to be selfish. And that’s what this was. A selfish, senseless act. But it was hers. And she wouldn’t take it back.
The moment shattered with the sharp, jarring buzz of Tony’s phone.
It rang loud and sudden, slicing through the quiet room like a blade. Tony jolted as if he’d been snapped out of a trance. His body pulled away from hers, warmth vanishing all at once. He reached for his clothes hastily, yanking up his trousers from the floor and rummaging through the pockets. Jane lay frozen, watching the moment disintegrate piece by piece.
He looked at the screen—and she saw it. The shift in his face. The subtle clench of his jaw. She didn’t need to ask. She didn’t need to see the name on the screen. She knew. She felt it in her bones.
Pepper.
Of course.
He turned slightly away from her, thumb swiping to answer. “Hey, Pep,” he said quickly, his voice strained, too casual. “Yeah, I know—I’m running late. I’m coming now. No, I know, let’s talk about it later, okay? I’m on my way. Yeah, I’m still at the Tower. I’ll be there in a few.”
As he spoke, his free hand moved with awkward urgency, scooping his shirt off the floor and tugging it on hastily, fingers fumbling with the buttons. He missed one, had to start over.
He yanked on his jacket and didn’t bother to fasten it, the fabric rumpled and slightly askew as it hung off his shoulders.
And there was something about the way he wore his clothes—hastily thrown on, wrinkled, uneven—and the way he tried to steady his voice, that felt off. Uneasy. Even grotesque. Like he was wearing a version of himself that didn’t quite fit anymore.
She could still hear Pepper’s voice on the other end, a muffled blur of words he clearly wasn’t ready to answer, when he finally hung up.
Tony turned to her again, briefly. His face was pale, drawn, and guilty.
Jane gave him a small, bitter smile. “You don’t have to explain.” she said, her voice quiet. “Go.”
He hesitated, as if wanting to say something more. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he nodded faintly.
They locked eyes for a second too long. And Jane wanted, more than anything, to disappear.
Once, she had been his wife.
Now, she was the other woman.
The one who made him feel guilty and ashamed.
She hated herself for it.
Tony broke the gaze, lowering his eyes to the floor, then turned away. He walked toward the door without another word, slipping back into the man he was expected to be.
And Jane lay there, still, her fingers curled loosely around the sheets, blinking up at the ceiling, feeling the shame begin to settle like dust around her.
Tony closed the door behind him with a quiet, clipped motion, as if shutting it could somehow seal off what had just happened. As if the weight of it wouldn’t follow him out like a shadow stitched to his back. He stood still for a moment, back against the cool metal, trying to pull in a breath that didn’t feel like acid. But then he saw it—a small bundle of white tulips lying on the floor just outside the room, his heart clenched.
He didn’t touch them. He didn’t need to. The implication was clear. Someone had been here. Someone had come to see Jane. And someone had left. Quietly. Without a word.
Panic rose in his chest, sharp and immediate. Had they been seen? Who had come? What had they witnessed? But the thought was unbearable, and he shoved it down before it could fully form. What would it change now? The damage was done.
He forced himself forward, every step heavier than the last. His thoughts were already spiraling toward Pepper. Toward the life he had just betrayed.
He felt sick.
It was only now, only with the hallway stretching in front of him and Jane fading behind him, that the full reality of what he had done began to settle in his gut. He had cheated on Pepper. The woman who had stood by him through everything. The one who’d seen goodness in him when he couldn’t see it himself. When the rest of the world saw an arrogant, reckless narcissist, she’d seen a man worth believing in. And this was how he repaid her, by crawling into a hospital bed with a girl half his age. A girl he barely knew.
And still… every time he looked at Jane, every time their eyes met across a room or over a mission table, it was like something inside him stirred. Like a chord had been struck that he couldn’t place. It wasn’t just attraction, it was familiarity.
She haunted his dreams with an intensity that made sleep unbearable. He kept remembering things that couldn’t have happened. Feelings that shouldn’t exist. Obsessions that had no logical foundation.
He told himself it was just some kind of meaningless infatuation. Just misplaced curiosity. But that was a lie.
He was unraveling, and Jane was at the center of it.
The elevator doors slid open, and he stepped inside, pressing the button for the top floor—their floor. His and Pepper’s. The luxury suite where they lived together. Where she waited.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrored panel. Disheveled. Wrinkled shirt. Shirt buttons misaligned. Collar twisted. Hair a mess. Guilt written across every inch of his reflection. It was written all over his face—what he’d done, who he’d touched, what he’d wanted. He tried to fix it, running a hand through his hair, straightening the fabric. It felt useless. Hollow. He couldn’t scrub this kind of shame from his skin.
The doors opened again with a soft chime, and the scent of something warm and savory reached his nose.
Pepper was in the dining area, lighting the last of the candles. The table was set, beautifully. Food was spread across the surface. Real food. Homemade, his favorites. A celebration dinner. Her way of saying you made it through after a harrowing mission. After Sokovia had come crashing back into their lives, dragging guilt and trauma with it. She’d done all of this for him. To comfort him.
And he’d shown up reeking of another woman.
Pepper turned when she heard him. Her eyes lit up with that familiar softness that had always made him feel like the luckiest bastard alive. “There you are.” she said with a smile, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Late, as always. But at least you made it.”
And just like that, Tony Stark felt like the worst man on Earth.
She moved toward him with that grace that always came so naturally to her, looping her arms gently around his neck, pulling him close. Her perfume hit him first, familiar and comforting, a scent that usually grounded him. And yet now it felt almost suffocating, like a thread wrapping too tightly around something already cracked.
Up close, with her chest resting lightly against his and her eyes searching his, Pepper’s expression shifted just slightly. Her smile faltered for half a second—barely a flicker, but enough. She had noticed something. The mussed collar. The half-buttoned shirt. The way he didn’t meet her gaze right away. But she said nothing. She just looked at him, then offered another soft smile.
“It’s all ready,” she said, voice light again, pulling back just a touch. “You just need to sit down, relax, and eat.”
And that—her warmth, her effort, the gentle kindness in her voice—made it worse. It pressed down on Tony like a weight. Because all of it was real. And all of it was undeserved.
“I—” he swallowed, forcing a smile. “Yeah, I’ll be there in like… three? Five minutes? I just need to take a shower. I did a bunch of running around earlier and—yeah, just need to wash the day off me.”
His voice cracked slightly at the end, and he cleared his throat like that would smooth it over. He stepped back, just far enough to break the contact. Not far enough to be rude, just enough to breathe.
Pepper’s brow pinched, almost imperceptibly. “The food’ll get cold.” she said, her tone neutral.
Then she stopped, mid-thought, something flickering behind her eyes. But she blinked it away, like a reflex, and gave him that practiced smile. The one she used at press conferences and awkward charity galas when everything was going wrong behind the scenes but the show had to go on.
“Of course,” she said. “Go ahead. I’ll be here.”
She stepped back, giving him space. But her hands lingered at her sides, like they didn’t know what to do without him in their orbit. Tony nodded once, stiffly, and turned toward the hallway without another word. The clack of his shoes on the marble felt louder than usual, echoing around the soft warmth of the candlelit room behind him.
And as he walked away, Pepper stood in the center of the apartment, their apartment, alone, eyes fixed on the hallway even after he disappeared from view. The table was set. The wine was breathing. The candles were burning low.
And all of it suddenly felt very far away.
______
The morning light spilled through the tall windows of Jane’s room, painting the white walls with a golden hue. Outside, New York glistened beneath a clear, brilliant sky—one of those rare spring mornings where the air felt alive and everything seemed possible. And yet, Jane couldn’t bring herself to smile. She had always preferred warm seasons, and spring was the soft prelude to the summer, her absolute favorite. But today, that lightness didn’t quite reach her chest.
She stood barefoot, wrapped in a soft cotton robe, staring out into the city. The windowpane was cool under her fingertips as she leaned slightly forward, eyes half-lidded from a restless night. The events of the past twenty-four hours were still pressing too heavily against her chest to let her sleep properly.
Her body ached. Nothing unbearable, just that dull, persistent soreness that lingered after battle. Her head throbbed in the background, but far less than it had the day before. The pain in her side was manageable now, reduced to a sharp twinge when she moved too quickly. All things considered, she was lucky.
Still, she hated the sterile quiet of the infirmary room. The antiseptic scent. The too-white walls. The way every sound echoed a little too loudly. It felt suffocating. Lifeless. She wasn’t used to stillness. Not anymore.
Then came a knock—light, but distinct.
The door creaked open gently, and she turned with a flicker of curiosity. Peter stepped through first, holding something behind his back, his movements oddly stiff. Behind him was Happy, tall and broad-shouldered as ever, his expression visibly relieved at the sight of her standing. Jane’s face immediately lit up. “Peter!” she said, smiling, and moved instinctively toward him.
He froze. Just for a second. His posture locked, arms pinned at his sides like he didn’t know whether to hug her or salute. His eyes flickered across her face—then away, then back again—resting nowhere, too quick, too nervous.
Jane slowed slightly, confused by the hesitation, but still stepped into his space and gently wrapped her arms around him. For a second, she thought he might pull back. But then, tentatively, he wrapped his arms around her waist, returning the hug. It wasn’t as tight as usual, wasn’t as natural. It was just a little too careful. But it was still a hug.
“You’re okay, then.” Peter mumbled, his voice low against her shoulder. “All that drama for nothing.”
She laughed quietly, a small puff of amusement against his neck. “Hey, we’re not all built like Spider-Man. Some of us are mortal. You didn’t even get scratched. So unfair.”
She pulled back slightly and studied him. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she teased, trying to lighten the mood. “Like I’m some kind of ghost. I’m fine, see?”
Peter dropped his eyes, shrugging with a tight smile. “Just… making sure.” he said quickly. “You had us worried. Aunt May’s been freaking out. And—well, I guess I kinda have, too.”
Jane tilted her head, her smile softening. The odd tension in his body, the way he wouldn’t quite meet her eyes—something about it felt off. She couldn’t quite place it, but she chalked it up to stress, to the mess they’d all just come out of. He was probably still processing everything. She didn’t blame him. Hell, she wasn’t even sure she had processed it yet.
She turned her attention to Happy, offering him a crooked grin. “Well, if it isn’t my personal chauffeur.”
Happy gave her a dry look that barely disguised the relief in his eyes. “Glad to see you upright. We were worried.”
“Apparently, I’m tougher than I look.”
Happy huffed a soft laugh. “Clearly.”
Then Peter finally pulled his hand from behind his back and held out a bouquet of tulips. They were a rich, velvety red—dramatically different from the white ones she’d never received the day before.
“They’re beautiful.” she said, her fingers brushing the petals as she took them. “Thank you, Peter. I’ll put them in water as soon as I’m back in my room.”
“You’re being discharged?” he asked, perked up slightly.
She nodded. “Soon. Just waiting on the final tests. Should be cleared any minute. And no,” she added, preempting him with a grin, “I’m not getting back in bed. I’ve been lying down for two days straight. I need to move.”
“You should still be resting.” Peter muttered, almost instinctively.
Jane rolled her eyes affectionately. “I’m fine. A little sore, maybe. Probably look like hell, though. I haven’t even had a chance to shower or wash my hair yet. It’s a disaster.”
Peter opened his mouth to say something, then hesitated again. That same odd pause. Then he gave a crooked little shrug and said, “I mean… I could make fun of you, but the truth is, you still look kind of amazing. You always do.”
There was a pause, brief but charged, and Jane’s gaze dropped to the flowers again, suddenly unsure of what to say.
Happy cleared his throat behind them. “Well. I won’t stay long. You two probably have a lot to talk about. But… congrats, Jane. You did good.”
Jane smiled faintly. “Thanks, Happy.”
With a nod, he stepped out, closing the door softly behind him and leaving them alone in the hush of the morning light.
Peter let out a small sigh and dropped into the cushioned chair beside Jane’s hospital bed, sinking into it like the weight of the last two days was finally catching up to him. He glanced up at her with a faint frown and gestured loosely toward the bed in front of him.
“I know you don’t want to lie down,” he said, shifting his weight. “But would you at least sit? You’re making me nervous just pacing like that.”
Jane rolled her eyes, half amused, half exasperated. She crossed her arms but humored him, lowering herself slowly to sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to strain her side. “I’m older than you, remember? Shouldn’t I be the one worrying about you?”
Peter huffed and tilted his head, giving her a look. “Why do you always act like you’re a thousand years older than me? You do this all the time.”
“Because you’re a child,” she teased, leaning in with mock solemnity. “And maybe I really am a thousand years old. You don’t know.”
Peter shook his head and laughed under his breath, but there was still a flicker of something tight in his expression. A silence stretched between them for a few moments, just long enough to feel intentional. Then he glanced at her again, more serious this time.
“Hey, uh… have you heard from Clint?” he asked. “He just kind of disappeared. No warning, nothing. He even canceled training. That’s not like him.”
Jane blinked, brows furrowing slightly. She had wondered the same thing. It had crossed her mind more than once, especially in the stillness of the hospital days when there was nothing to do but think. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “I’ve thought about that too. It’s weird. He never skips out like that. Maybe they sent him on a mission or something. You know how it is, someone like Clint doesn’t exactly get a vacation.”
Peter frowned. “Do you think he’ll be back soon?”
“I really don’t know.” Jane admitted, her tone softer. “It is strange, though. But then again, what about our lives isn’t strange lately?”
He let out a faint, amused snort.
“Maybe this is our chance to train without getting thrown across the room every five minutes.” she added. “We could figure something out. Take a break. Can’t hurt, right?”
Peter leaned back, his arms folded behind his head. “For the record, I don’t want to hear anything about training. Not until you’re fully healed. Deal?”
Jane laughed. “It’s adorable how much you worry about me. But if I want to be an Avenger, I’ll probably end up more bruised than this. What will you do then? Cry like a baby?”
He groaned in mock exasperation, throwing his head back. “You always have to remind me how tough you are. I know. We all know.”
Her smile faltered just a little at that. It was a joke, but not really. She’d always hated feeling weak, even in front of someone like Peter—especially in front of Peter, who noticed more than he let on.
“Well,” she said lightly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “Changing topic. Once I’m back on my feet, I’m coming over. We’ll have that ragù with your aunt again. I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”
Peter brightened at that. “She actually made lasagne for you today. I was gonna bring you some, but with all the chaos, I… Honestly, I forgot. But maybe tomorrow… if you’re around. I don’t have school, so we could have lunch. At the Tower. Together.”
Jane tilted her head slightly, touched. “I’d like that.”
Right then, there was a knock at the door and a nurse stepped in, holding a tablet. “Miss Russo,” she said with a warm smile, “your scans came back clear. Mild concussion, no complications. You’re good to return to your quarters as soon as you’re ready.”
“Finally.” Jane muttered, slumping with relief. “I need a real shower and something that isn’t this itchy hospital gown.”
Peter stood as the nurse exited, looking a little awkward again. “Well… I should let you go. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything, okay? And seriously, rest. Or stand. Or keep pacing like a tiger.”
She laughed, and the sound was soft but real. “You should rest too, Spider-Man. You might be invincible, but you still deserve a break.”
He smiled again, a little sheepishly, and scratched the back of his neck. There was something boyish about the gesture that made Jane’s chest tighten with fondness. So young, and yet already so heavy with responsibility. She admired him more than she could ever say.
“Catch you later, Violet Wing.” he said with a crooked grin and threw her a half-salute and a mock-serious wink.
She laughed, and as he walked to the door, he paused, made a goofy little gesture—something completely absurd, just between them—and vanished down the hallway, leaving Jane alone again.
Once she returned to her apartment, the very first thing Jane did—without a moment’s hesitation—was head straight for the bathroom. The shower, more precisely. The water was blistering hot, exactly as she liked it, and the heat coursed over her skin like a balm. It was the kind of scalding warmth that made her muscles twitch and sigh as if they, too, had just come back from war. The aches in her limbs, the residual tremors in her fingers, the dull throbbing in her temples—all of it dulled, soothed by the cascading stream. The sting of her wounds was still there, yes, but the tightness in her chest slowly began to unravel.
After what felt like a small eternity under the water, she stepped out, her skin flushed pink, and wrapped herself in a soft white cotton robe. The steam clung to her like a veil as she stood in front of the mirror, inspecting the damage. The gash on her forehead, mostly hidden by a few damp strands of hair, was small—narrow and shallow. Clean. It would heal well. No permanent mark. She traced it with a fingertip, then touched her ribs, more tentatively this time. The injury to her side was worse: an angry red welt still throbbing dully under her skin . It was deeper, more stubborn, and it tugged painfully with each breath, but it wasn’t alarming. Just annoying. The kind of thing that would make her hiss when bending down for the next few weeks.
She sighed, rolled her shoulders, and moved barefoot through the apartment. The tiles were cool beneath her soles. Her damp hair dripped against the fabric of her robe as she walked, trailing tiny dark spots across the pale floor. Her body still felt heavy and not entirely her own, as if she were adjusting to a new version of herself, one that had survived something violent and lived to tell the tale.
In the quiet that followed, she wandered into the kitchen. She opened the fridge absentmindedly, not expecting much, and froze, eyebrows raising slightly in surprise. It was fully stocked. Neatly arranged produce, juice cartons, containers of ready-to-heat meals… all clearly organized by someone who’d had a very precise grocery list. She blinked once, then smiled softly to herself.
“S.A.S.S.I.,” she murmured, a small huff of breath escaping her nose. “Of course you did.”
Her gaze scanned the shelves until it landed on something that made her grin. A bottle of chocolate milk, glass, with a deep cocoa tint visible through the frosted surface. The kind she had offhandedly mentioned liking once during one of the fist meetings she attended at the tower. Tony had raised an eyebrow at the time and made some sarcastic remark about “children’s preferences.” But he’d remembered. Or maybe the system had. Either way, here it was.
“Okay,” she said aloud, opening the fridge a little wider. “You win.”
She pulled the bottle out and twisted off the cap, feeling its cool weight in her hand. The first sip was already on its way to her lips when the silence of the apartment was abruptly broken by a ringtone, not her usual one. Not even coming from her smartphone, which sat locked and undisturbed just a few feet away on the countertop.
Jane paused mid-motion, eyes narrowing slightly.
The sound was coming from the bedroom.
She set the milk down carefully and moved with quiet purpose toward the source. A flicker of memory passed through her: a nondescript burner phone, cheap and small, the kind Clint had handed to her weeks ago with nothing but a nod and a quick “In case Fury needs you.” She hadn’t thought about it since. Had almost forgotten it existed.
She opened the bottom drawer of her dresser and pushed aside the layers of clothing and old mission gear until her fingers found it—matte black, plastic, and buzzing softly with incoming urgency. The display blinked once. No caller ID. Just the vibrating presence of someone who, whoever they were, knew exactly how to reach her.
She stared at it for half a breath before flipping it open and answering.
“Jane.”
She didn’t need more than a breath to recognize the voice on the other end.
“Fury.” she said flatly.
There was a brief silence, then a low chuckle. “Still sharp,” Nick Fury replied. “I saw the footage from your mission. Heard the full report from Stark himself. You did well. Saved a lot of lives. Clint’s last update said your training was coming along great too. I knew you’d be capable of great things.”
Jane didn’t let herself be softened by the compliments. She knew Fury better than that. The man wasn’t exactly known for warm pleasantries.
“I appreciate that,” she replied, voice even. “But I don’t think you called just to pat me on the back. You’ve never called me before. So why now? What’s going on?”
She could hear the faint amusement in his voice when he answered. “Years go by, but you don’t change. Still hate small talk.”
“Despise it.”
“Well, good. Then I’ll cut to it. I need you, Jane. There’s a mission. A critical one. You’ll be extracted tomorrow morning at dawn. Don’t worry about packing—everything you’ll need will be provided. Just be ready to board.”
Jane blinked, caught completely off guard. Her fingers tightened around the cheap little phone.
“Tomorrow morning?” she echoed. “I just got out of the med ward. I still have bruises and stitches, and I don’t even know what this is about. I’m not exactly in the best condition for a mission, especially a blind one.”
But the truth was, those were excuses. Weak ones. The truth was simpler, and far more humiliating. She didn’t want to leave.
Not yet.
Not while the sheets in her bed still carried his scent. Not while his touch still echoed on her skin. Not while every corner of her mind was screaming at her to hold on just a little longer.
She wasn’t delusional. She knew what had happened was wrong, a mistake, a blurring of lines that shouldn’t have been crossed. She knew she didn’t have a place in Tony Stark’s life, not really. But despite everything, she wasn’t ready to walk away from him again. Not so soon. Not without something more.
Still, Fury didn’t waver.
“I know your condition,” he said, his voice hardening just slightly. “If I could wait, I would. But we don’t have that luxury. You’ll have time to recover en route. And you won’t be alone. You’ll have a partner on this.”
Jane blinked again, her throat tightening. “Clint?” she asked, grasping for something familiar.
“Not Clint,” Fury replied. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Her heart dropped into her stomach, and a quiet dread began to bloom behind her ribs. She didn’t like surprises. Not from Fury. Not now.
“Why me?” she pressed, more desperate than defiant. “What is this mission about? I deserve to know more than a vague order and a helicopter at dawn.”
But his tone left no room for further argument. “You’ll be briefed on the way. And Jane—don’t make the mistake of thinking this is optional. You’ll understand soon. When you do, I know you won’t hesitate.”
The line went dead before she could reply.
Jane stared at the phone for a moment, her expression darkening. Then, with a short, frustrated breath, she threw the burner onto the bed, where it bounced once and landed face-down on the blanket.
So that was it.
Just like that, her peace—what little of it she’d managed to cobble together—was over. She’d been starting to get used to this new version of life: the quiet rhythm of the Tower, her apartment, her workouts with Peter and Clint, the sharp focus of her training, the occasional missions. It wasn’t easy, but it was starting to feel real. Grounded. Even… good.
And now it was over.
Of course it was. She should’ve known it wouldn’t last. This wasn’t a vacation. Her purpose here was never about settling in. It had always been about the work, about what she could do for them, what they needed from her. Not what she needed for herself.
Even so, it still hurt. The way it came so fast. The way it meant she had no time. No chance to tell Peter goodbye. No moment to make peace with what had happened with Tony, whatever that even meant.
No, she could tell Peter. He deserved at least that much.
Jane exhaled sharply through her nose, her decision made. She crossed the room and opened her closet, grabbing the most comfortable thing she could find—a pair of fitted black sweatpants, a matching hoodie with a zipper and oversized hood. Something easy. Neutral. Forgettable. She pulled her hair into a messy bun, high on her head, wet strands still clinging slightly to her temples. Her body still ached, but the weight of what she was about to do dulled the pain.
Barefoot, she padded across the cold floor of the apartment to the kitchen, retrieved her personal phone from the counter, and thumbed the screen to life.
Jane scrolled through her contacts, thumb hesitating only a second before tapping Peter’s name. She quickly typed out a message.
Jane :
I know we just met each other, but I need to meet you. There’s something important I have to tell you. Around 9 p.m.?
She hit send before she could second-guess herself, then tossed the phone onto the couch beside her and leaned back, exhaling slowly.
The large windows in her living room stretched from floor to ceiling, flooding the space with the clear, unfiltered light of late morning. Outside, New York City pulsed with its usual chaotic rhythm—cars honking below in impatient bursts, sirens weaving through traffic like a melody only the city could play. The sunlight was crisp and high, casting sharp-edged shadows against the buildings and shimmering off the glass façades of the skyscrapers. As the minutes passed, the golden sharpness of morning softened gradually into the warmer tones of early afternoon. The light thickened slightly, more mellow, spilling over the skyline in creamy hues, while the city never once slowed. Even from above, Jane could feel it—the heartbeat of the world below, relentless and alive. And yet, even surrounded by all that movement and light, a sense of tightness still curled deep in her chest.
Her phone buzzed against the couch cushion. She snatched it up faster than she meant to, her pulse spiking.
Spider-kid :
Is something wrong? Should I be worried?
Peter’s message blinked on the screen.
Jane bit her lower lip, feeling a pang of guilt twist through her. Maybe she’d made it sound more dramatic than she intended. She quickly typed back.
Jane :
No, nothing bad. But it’s something important. I’d rather tell you in person.
Another message came almost instantly.
Spider-kid :
Always so mysterious. Fine, Violet Wing. See you at nine. Where?
Despite everything, a small smile tugged at her lips at the nickname. She stared at the screen for a second, then replied.
Jane :
Let’s meet at the 7-Eleven closest to the Tower. You know the one? Right across from that weird donut shop you made me try last month.
Spider-kid :
Ok. Strange meeting spot, but hey, whatever. See you later!
Jane tapped “See you later.” and then set the phone down carefully beside her again.
She let her head fall back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the weight of everything settle onto her. Tomorrow, everything would change again. She could feel it like a hum in her bones, a tide she couldn’t stop.
After staring blankly at the fading light for what felt like an eternity, Jane pushed herself up from the couch, refusing to spend another second wallowing in useless self-pity. She marched back to the kitchen, yanking open the fridge again. There were a few ready-made meals waiting for her—organized, efficient, sterile. The idea of just reheating something felt unbearable. She needed to move, to create, to occupy her hands so her mind wouldn’t spiral. So she grabbed a handful of fresh vegetables, some noodles, and whatever else she could find, setting to work with the determined air of someone trying desperately not to think.
The act of cooking helped, a little. The rhythmic chopping, the heat rising from the pan, the clatter of utensils, all of it gave her a short-lived sense of purpose. But no matter how hard she tried to focus on the simple task at hand, her mind kept drifting. It kept pulling her back to Tony.
And it was ridiculous, wasn’t it?
She had survived years without him. She had walked away from him once without even daring to look back, and though it had nearly destroyed her—like tearing a piece of herself off—she had survived. She had endured.
But now? Leaving for a mission that might last a few weeks, maybe months? It felt unbearable. Like she was that same reckless, stupid girl all over again, clutching at something that had never truly been hers to keep.
By the time she sat down at the breakfast bar with her quickly prepared stir-fry, her appetite had all but vanished. She picked at the noodles absently, the flavors barely registering. Her thoughts chased each other in circles, dragging her deeper into the quicksand of guilt, longing, and frustration. She couldn’t leave without a word. Not again. Not this time.
When she finished cleaning up and glanced at the clock, it was already close to seven. She had no idea where the time had gone. A dull panic started to rise in her chest. She couldn’t stay still. If she stayed still, she’d change her mind, and she couldn’t afford that.
Without even thinking, she grabbed her phone, shoved it into the pocket of her hoodie, and left the apartment, descending the stairs two at a time. She didn’t bother with the elevator. She needed to move .
Her feet carried her almost on autopilot to the lower levels of the Tower, to a hallway she knew too well by now. She approached the entrance to Tony’s lab, half-hoping—half-dreading—that he might still be there. The biometric sensors scanned her automatically, granting her access without hesitation, and the heavy door slid open with a soft hiss.
The lab was empty.
Jane stepped inside anyway, her sneakers squeaking softly on the polished floor. She moved across the space, past the familiar clusters of unfinished projects, the workbenches littered with scraps of tech and blueprints. Her hands hesitated for a moment before reaching for one of the desks. There was a notebook lying open, a pen buried among the clutter.
She grabbed it, uncapped the pen with her teeth, and scribbled a message on a torn page.
(646) 555-0199
You can reach me here.
-Jane.
She stared at the note for a long moment, heart pounding. It felt ridiculous. Tony Stark didn’t need a handwritten note with her phone number to find her. If he wanted to talk to her, he had all the resources in the world at his disposal. This wasn’t about practicality. It was a gesture—an offering. A way of saying, I’m not disappearing. If you want to find me, you can.
Whether he would, or whether he would want to, she had no idea.
Her stomach twisted painfully as she placed the note carefully where he couldn’t miss it, weighed down by a paperweight. And then, without giving herself another second to hesitate, she turned on her heel and left the lab, letting the door seal behind her with a final, definitive click.
Then, she left the tower.
Outside, New York was shedding the last remnants of daylight. The sunset had painted the sky in soft hues of orange and pink, bleeding slowly into deep violet as the first stars began to prick the skyline. The air had cooled, a soft breeze sweeping through the streets, carrying with it the scents of exhaust, hot dogs, and spring blossoms. Jane tightened her hoodie around herself and crossed the street, heading toward the 7-Eleven where she and Peter had agreed to meet.
There was a small park across from the store, with a few scattered benches, most of them empty. She chose one near a lamppost, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She rested her chin on her knees, her eyes fixed blankly on the movement of people and cars as the city settled into its chaotic nighttime rhythm.
She wasn’t sure how much time she had to wait for Peter to show up, but for now, it didn’t matter. She just needed to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Away from the Tower, from her thoughts, from everything she was too tired to face.
Jane was almost drifting off, her knees still hugged to her chest, the soft breeze playing with the loose strands of her hair, when a voice broke through the quiet hum of the city.
“We had the same idea, huh?” Peter’s voice was tentative, carrying a nervous energy that made Jane’s heart clench. “I’m early… but I couldn’t wait. Honestly, the message you sent kind of freaked me out.”
Jane turned toward him, blinking slowly. Peter was standing a few feet away, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket.
A small smile tugged at her lips. “There’s nothing to worry about.” she said, pushing herself to her feet with a soft groan. Her body still ached, but it was manageable.
Peter opened his mouth to protest again, but Jane cut him off by reaching out and placing her hands lightly on his shoulders.
“Come on,” she said, her voice light. “Let’s go inside. I want ice cream.”
Peter raised an eyebrow at her, skeptical. “Jane… seriously? You text me like it’s the end of the world, and now you want ice cream?”
She just squeezed his shoulders gently, smiling. “Yes. Ice cream first. Talk later. That’s the deal.”
Peter sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching upward despite himself. “Fine. But you owe me explanations. Big ones.”
They stepped into the 7-Eleven, the automatic doors sliding open with a faint whoosh. The fluorescent lights inside were harsh, buzzing faintly above their heads. A kid sat slouched behind the counter, probably no older than seventeen, chewing gum and scrolling lazily on his phone. He barely glanced up when they entered.
Jane led the way toward the freezers at the back, feeling a strange comfort in the utter normalcy of the place. The chill of the open doors brushed against her skin as she scanned the rows of colorful tubs and garish flavors.
Peter was already pulling out a ridiculously neon tube labeled “Marshmallow Mirage.”
“Absolutely not.” Jane said, wrinkling her nose. “That stuff is pure sugar. We’re getting something fruity.”
“Fruity?” Peter echoed in horror. “What’s the point of ice cream if it tastes like healthy stuff? At least let’s get chocolate.”
Jane shook her head, half-laughing as she dug deeper into the freezer. “Alright, compromise.” She held up a container triumphantly. “Chocolate and strawberry. Perfect.”
Peter made a show of considering it before nodding. “Okay, fine. But next time, I pick.”
They paid at the counter, where the young cashier barely looked up from his phone. With a lazy swipe, he dragged the single tube of ice cream across the scanner, the machine beeping dully. He muttered the total without even meeting their eyes. Jane handed over a few bills, and Peter grabbed a couple of plastic spoons from a jar near the register, then they stepped back outside.
The city had shifted while they were inside. The sunlight was almost gone now, replaced by the deep indigo of early night, and the streetlights flickered to life one by one, bathing the sidewalks in pools of yellow.
They settled back onto the bench, the tube of ice cream balanced precariously between them. Jane peeled off the lid, handed Peter a spoon, and for a moment they just ate in silence, the sounds of the city a steady background hum.
Finally, Jane exhaled slowly. “Peter… I’m leaving tomorrow. For a mission.”
Peter froze mid-bite, staring at her like she’d just told him she was moving to Mars.
“What?” he blurted. “You’re kidding, right? You’re still hurt! You can’t go on a mission like this—no way.”
Jane let him get it all out—the worry, the anger—before she spoke again, her voice calm but firm. “I don’t want to go. But I have to. It’s important. You would do the same if it were you.”
Peter set his spoon down, his face scrunching in frustration. “Where are you even going?”
Jane shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. They’ll tell me once I’m already on the way. That’s how it works sometimes.”
He looked at her like she was crazy. “So you’re just gonna… disappear?”
“It’s not forever,” Jane said softly. “I’ll be back before you know it. And then we can get back to kicking each other’s butts in training.”
Peter huffed a laugh, though his heart clearly wasn’t in it. “I don’t like it.”
“I know.” she said. “But it’s not like we chose this life because it was easy, right?”
They fell into a more comfortable silence after that, slowly working their way through the ice cream. The chocolate and strawberry flavors blended together in a messy swirl—imperfect, but somehow fitting.
When they finally scraped the bottom of the container, Peter checked his phone and groaned.
“May is going to kill me.” he said, half-joking, half-serious. “I was supposed to be home an hour ago.”
Jane smiled warmly at him. “Then you better get going, Spider-Man.”
Peter stood up, hesitated, then stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her in a tight, fierce hug. She felt him squeeze her almost too hard, like he was trying to anchor her there, to make sure she would come back.
“Take care of yourself, Jane.” he whispered against her hair. “Promise me.”
Jane closed her eyes, her throat tight. She hugged him back just as fiercely. “I promise, Peter.”
When he pulled away, there was a shine in his eyes he quickly tried to blink away. He gave her a crooked smile, made a silly salute, and then disappeared into the night, his figure quickly swallowed up by the city lights.
Jane stood there for a long time after he left, her arms wrapped around herself, the empty ice cream container forgotten beside her.
The streets bustled and honked and shouted around her—life continuing, indifferent to her heavy heart.
Notes:
And that’s a wrap for this chapter!
Wow, what a ride. I feel like this one was… intense, in so many ways. We had some long-awaited emotional moments, a bit (okay, maybe more than a bit) of angst, and yes! I finally dipped my toes into writing a spicier scene.
I’m going to be honest with you guys: I was nervous. Smut isn’t exactly where I feel most confident yet, and part of me was absolutely freaking out while writing it. (“Is this awful? Should I just delete it?”) But in the end, I decided to keep it, because it felt right for the characters, for their journey, and for how much they’ve been holding back.Also… surprise! I finally added a cover to the fic!
I know it’s just a small thing, but it felt special. I enjoy giving this little universe we’re building together a proper face. I really hope you like it!As always, thank you so, so much for reading. Every comment, every kudo, every piece of feedback truly means the world to me.
I’m always curious to know your thoughts. What you liked, what made you scream internally (or externally, lol), or even what you’re hoping to see next.
Don’t be shy, tell me everything!See you soon in the next chapter — it’s going to be very interesting!
xx
Chapter Text
The morning air was cool against Jane’s skin as she stood on the rooftop of the Avengers Tower, her small backpack slung over one shoulder. Fury had insisted she didn’t need to bring anything—“You’ll have everything you need on site.”—but Jane couldn’t help herself. She had packed a few changes of comfortable clothes, a handful of essential toiletries… and, tucked safely at the bottom of the bag, the velvet-red box containing her old engagement ring and wedding band. It was stupid, she knew. Nostalgia, or maybe just sentimentality she hadn’t yet managed to shake off. She wasn’t even sure why she’d brought them. Just the idea of leaving them behind had felt wrong.
The whirring sound of rotor blades cut through the early morning quiet, growing louder as the helicopter approached. Jane shaded her eyes, watching as it descended with surgical precision onto the helipad. The wind from the blades whipped her hair around her face, but she barely noticed. Her eyes had already found Clint, seated inside, giving her a familiar, lopsided smile. Relief bloomed in her chest at the sight of him. At least there would be one familiar face.
Seated next to Clint was a woman Jane didn’t recognize at first. A poised figure in a sleek dark suit with sharp eyes that missed nothing. As soon as Jane approached, Clint rose from his seat and stepped forward. He extended a hand to her without hesitation, his grip steady as he helped her climb aboard the waiting helicopter. The rotors thundered above them, creating a downdraft that whipped at Jane’s loose hair and tugged at the hem of her jacket. She slung her small backpack over her shoulder and settled into the seat beside him, her stomach doing a little somersault—not from the flight, but from the rush of adrenaline that always came with the unknown.
“This is Maria Hill.” Clint said, nodding toward the woman seated across from them.
Maria turned slightly, her posture crisp and professional, offering Jane a short nod of acknowledgment.
“Nice to meet you.” Jane pronounced, mirroring the nod. She pulled the seatbelt across her lap and clipped it into place with a metallic snap, the vibration of the helicopter already rumbling through her body.
Within moments, they were airborne, the helicopter slicing through the cool morning air, ascending higher and higher until the sprawling skyline of New York faded beneath them. Jane stared out of the window for a moment, watching the buildings shrink away like toys. Then she turned back to Clint, unable to contain the swirl of questions bubbling up inside her.
“So,” she said, voice pitched a little louder to carry over the engines, “what’s all the rush? What’s this massive mission that couldn’t even wait for me to heal properly?”
Clint shot her a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth twitching into a familiar, teasing grin. He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed loosely over his chest, and shrugged in that casual way of his that somehow always managed to say buckle up, kid.
“By the way,” he said, as if they were discussing the weather, “I heard about the Sokovian terrorists. Saw the news coverage. Read the full mission report. Talked to Fury too.”
Jane raised an eyebrow at him, catching the glint of mischief in his eyes. “What, are you gonna tell me you’re proud of me now?” she asked, her tone dry, but a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Going full-on daddy behavior on me?”
Clint tried to hide his smile. “God, no. Don’t make it weird.” he said, feigning a shudder. “You’re way too much trouble for me to claim as my offspring. I’d demand a refund.”
Jane chuckled under her breath, the tension in her chest easing a little. It felt good, this banter—normal, familiar. Even up here, speeding toward some mystery mission that smelled suspiciously like a death trap, Clint managed to ground her with just a few sarcastic comments.
Still, there was an undertone beneath his joking. She caught it in the slight tightness around his eyes, the subtle seriousness that never fully left him when it came to things that mattered.
And somehow, without him needing to say it directly, Jane knew: he was proud of her.
Even if he’d rather jump out of the helicopter without a parachute than actually say the words.
Before Jane could answer, Maria Hill cut in smoothly, an amused glint in her eye.
“Being honest, he hasn’t shut up about you since we left. Spoke about you like you were his talented little creature.”
Jane snorted. “First of all, little creature who? Secondly, can someone please tell me why I’m being sent into a mission just a couple days after I got shot?”
Clint gave Maria a look before turning back to Jane. “If we could wait we would do it, believe me. And please, take this seriously. This is mission is important. But you won’t be alone.”
“I know,” Jane said dryly. “Fury told me. A partner. Great. And the mystery partner is…?”
“You’ll meet him soon enough.” Clint said, laconic.
Jane groaned dramatically. “Why all the secrecy? Is it that bad?”
Maria, with her professional efficiency, pulled out a high tech holographic tablet and handed it to Jane. A set of images projected into the air—a man and a woman, dressed in sharp designer clothes, the sort of couple you could smell money on from a mile away.
“The Vogels.” Maria began. “Christian and Annalise Vogel. Former Hydra affiliates turned black market moguls. Rich beyond belief. They made their fortune selling weapons, stolen tech, even illegal biotech enhancements. Anything and everything that can fuel a private war, they deal in.”
Maria swiped the tablet, bringing the images into sharper focus.
“Annalise is known for her obsession with luxury and status,” she began, her voice clipped and precise, “but don’t be fooled. Underneath the diamonds and designer dresses, she’s deeply unstable, prone to depressive spirals, irrational bouts of paranoia, and a narcissistic streak a mile wide. She craves attention like oxygen and despises anyone who dares to outshine her.”
Jane leaned closer, taking in Annalise’s image. The woman was stunning in a brittle, cold way: auburn hair swept into an immaculate chignon, green eyes framed by long, dark lashes. Her cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass, her expression frozen into an elegant, detached sneer. There was beauty there—undeniable, striking beauty—but it was the kind of beauty that warned rather than invited.
Maria swiped again, switching to Christian’s profile.
“Christian,” she continued, voice turning even colder, “is worse. A textbook sociopath. Charming when it suits him, manipulative, quick to anger, and completely devoid of empathy. He enjoys control—for him, cruelty isn’t just a tool, it’s a pastime.”
Jane studied the man’s face. Christian Vogel had the rugged handsomeness of a man who knew he was dangerous and enjoyed it. Dark brown hair, slicked back with casual precision, a jawline so defined it looked almost exaggerated, and deep-set hazel eyes that gleamed with a calculating light. His smile in the photo was all teeth, sharp and shark-like, his gaze holding no warmth, only the predatory amusement of someone who saw people as pawns on a chessboard.
They looked like they could have stepped straight out of a glossy magazine, if you ignored the deadness in their eyes, the icy detachment that no amount of glamour could hide.
Jane’s stomach twisted with unease as she stared at their perfectly composed faces. She could almost feel the rot underneath the polish, the violence hiding behind the expensive clothes and flashing jewelry. Something told her that whatever they were about to walk into, it would be even worse than Maria and Clint were letting on.
“Together,” Maria said quietly, almost as if reading her thoughts, “they’re volatile. Unpredictable.”
Jane nodded slowly, the reality sinking in deeper with every passing second.
This wasn’t just a mission. This was a potential powder keg, and she and her mysterious partner were about to walk right into the heart of it.
“And this time,” Maria continued, voice sharpening, “it’s more serious than usual. We have strong intel suggesting they’re selling Stark tech—real weapons-grade tech. High-powered plasma rifles, experimental drones, maybe even a small-scale fusion device. Weapons capable of leveling city blocks if they fall into the wrong hands.”
Jane’s breath hitched slightly, but she kept her face neutral.
“And,” Clint added grimly, “there’s rumor they’ve gotten their hands on something else. Something worse.”
He looked at Maria, who gave a small nod before Clint leaned in.
“Super Soldier serum.”
The words landed heavy in the cabin. Jane stiffened.
Clint quickly added, “I know you’re not exactly caught up on all the Avengers history…and you probably didn’t grow up hearing about Steve Rogers, but—”
“I know who Captain America is,” Jane interrupted, her voice steady. “I did my homework. And I know what the serum can do. I know what kinds of monsters it can create.”
A moment of silence stretched between them. Maria and Clint exchanged a brief, weighty glance.
“You and your partner,” Maria said at last, “will infiltrate the Vogels’ circle. Their auctions are strictly invite-only, extremely private. You’ll need to pose as a wealthy couple looking to build a private army. Play the part perfectly, gain their trust, and find a way to get your hands on those vials before they sell them.”
Jane exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of it all settle on her shoulders.
Jane exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of it all settle on her shoulders. This was it. No backing out now.
“When we land in Paris, you’ll get a full debriefing,” Maria continued, her voice clipped and efficient. “You’ll receive detailed profiles of the identities you’ll assume, mission objectives, contingency plans, all of it.”
She extended the tablet toward Jane with a slight tilt of her head. “For now, start studying.”
Jane accepted the device, feeling its cool surface against her fingertips. The hologram flickered to life in her hands, projecting a neat, professional profile in the air. Blonde hair, a poised smile, sharp gray eyes. An entire life, meticulously fabricated.
“Catherine Young.” she read aloud, tasting the name like something foreign and dusty on her tongue. A name that didn’t belong to her, but that she would have to wear like a second skin. A new name, a new life…at least for a while.
Her gaze lingered on the shimmering letters, and for a moment, her mind drifted.
“The fist time I visited Paris,” she murmured, almost to herself, “it was during the Belle Époque. The city was… different.”
She smiled faintly, her voice tinged with nostalgia and something older, wearier. “I met Oscar Wilde, you know. Man, what a character. He thought he was the most brilliant mind to ever walk the earth. And don’t get me wrong, the man could turn a phrase like nobody else. But between you and me—” she leaned in slightly, lowering her voice as if confessing a scandalous secret “—he was insufferable. Full of himself beyond redemption. Still, may he rest in peace.”
She leaned back again, casually flipping through the tablet as if she’d just commented on the weather.
Across from her, Clint and Maria exchanged a quick, startled glance, barely masking their surprise. It was a fleeting thing, but Jane caught it.
They know, she realized.
They know exactly what I am. What I can do. They’ve read the full file.
A strange warmth fluttered in her chest—unexpected but not unwelcome. It was… pleasant, in a way, knowing there were people she could actually speak with about parts of her life she’d always had to bury, to pretend didn’t exist.
She wasn’t just some anomaly to them. They didn’t look at her like unexplainable chaos wrapped in human skin. They knew, and yet they still treated her like one of their own.
And while Jane wasn’t one to cling to sentiment, the realization sparked a small ember of comfort inside her. Maybe, if she really wanted to, she could talk to Clint someday—about the past, about the impossible things she’d seen, about the centuries she carried on her back.
The thought made her almost smile. Almost.
It was still bizarre, though.
To think Clint Barton—Clint, of all people—had somehow morphed from being her jailer, the man who had once been tasked to monitor and report on her, to this: a strange, almost comforting presence in her life.
It still made her head spin, when she thought about it too hard.
Life had a twisted sense of humor, clearly.
The flight had been long, longer than she’d expected. Hours passed in a blur of engine hum and shifting light, the sky outside growing steadily brighter with the time change.
Somewhere around the halfway point, Maria had tapped Jane on the shoulder and motioned for her to follow to the rear of the helicopter, where the roar of the rotors was a little duller. Without much ceremony, she’d unzipped a matte black duffel bag and pulled out a sleek designer outfit.
“You’ll be arriving in character.” she said simply. “We don’t land in Paris as agents. We land as Catherine Young, jet-setting wife of a wealthy investor, and her entourage. Better to look the part.”
What she handed Jane wasn’t just elegant, it was expensive. A tailored silk jumpsuit in a deep navy blue, sleeveless with a plunging neckline that danced the line between dangerous and tasteful. The fabric clung to her figure just enough to suggest power, cinched at the waist with a thin gold belt. A light cropped blazer in ivory offset the look, giving her the illusion of casual control. The heels, pale beige stilettos with golden accents, were high, but not impossible. Just enough to elongate her frame, to draw attention when she entered a room.
Maria added finishing touches: a pair of sapphire stud earrings, a delicate gold necklace that rested just above Jane’s collarbone, and a minimalist watch that screamed money. She even handed her a pair of oversized sunglasses to tuck into her neckline, should she need them when they landed.
“Costume’s not just the clothes,” Maria reminded her as she adjusted the collar for her. “It’s posture. Presence. You walk like you own the place.”
And so, Jane returned to her seat—hair brushed smooth and tucked behind one ear, mouth set, body tense in unfamiliar fabric. The weight of silk and gemstones replaced the comfort of her suit, but it anchored her to the role she’d have to inhabit.
It was only after at least three or four more hours—just as the cabin had grown unbearably still and the weight of travel was sinking deep into her bones—that the soft, familiar silhouette of Paris finally began to emerge beyond the clouds, delicate and distant against the horizon.
Jane turned toward Clint, who seemed lost in thought, his gaze fixed ahead with a focused tension.
“You’ve been gone a while. Where were you? Another mission?”
Clint gave a dry, knowing smile. “Wakanda. In a way, I was working for you.”
Jane blinked, her expression twisting in confusion. “Working for me?”
But Clint didn’t elaborate, and the moment was cut short as the helicopter began its descent.
Outside, The city unfolded below them glowing under a soft pink and amber sunset. Golden rooftops, tree-lined boulevards, and the distant glimmer of the Seine.
They landed smoothly on a private helipad tucked near a secluded terminal of the Charles de Gaulle Airport. Waiting on the tarmac were two large, matte black suitcases. Jane stepped down behind Clint and Maria Hill, squinting against the lowering sun. She gestured to the cases.
“What’s all this? Weapons?”
Maria smirked. “Not unless you consider couture a weapon. It’s your new wardrobe. You’re going to be posing as disgustingly rich woman. You’ll need to dress like one.”
Jane let out a small laugh, brushing a hand through her hair. “You know what? This mission might actually be fun.”
A lustrous Audi A8 was waiting nearby, gleaming beneath the golden light. Its windows were tinted, the interior a pristine blend of leather and polished wood. Maria slipped into the front seat without a word, while Jane and Clint took the back. As the car merged into the denser arteries of the city, Jane leaned her forehead against the cool window glass.
Paris showed outside the window in sweeping frames of light and motion—the wide boulevards lined with stately Haussmann buildings, the warm blur of streetlamps flickering to life as dusk deepened, cafés spilling with laughter and clinking glasses, the Seine flashing gold beneath its bridges. They passed through the 16th arrondissement, weaving through elegant avenues, the occasional glimpse of the Eiffel Tower cutting across the skyline like an exhale of iron and memory.
The city had changed. It was cleaner, louder, faster than she remembered. Gone were the horse-drawn carts and muddy alleys of the 19th century she’d known; in their place, a modern empire of steel and glass. But it was still beautiful, achingly so.
She wished she could lose herself in it. Wished she could feel excitement, or the clarity of a fresh beginning. But her thoughts betrayed her.
Because no matter how many turns the driver took, no matter how many monuments flashed by, her mind kept pulling her back—back across the ocean, back to New York, back to Tony.
She could still feel the ghost of his fingers brushing her cheek. The rasp of his breath, the way he had looked at her like she was something he hadn’t dared hope for. She’d left him without a word, just a note, tucked carefully beside the schematics he always left half-finished on his bench. You can reach me here. A phone number. That was all.
She had told herself it was meaningless. That it had been for closure. That he wouldn’t call. That he shouldn’t.
And yet, she’d written it with trembling fingers and the kind of hope that hurt more than any bullet.
Now, watching Paris roll by, her stomach churned with guilt and doubt. He was on the other side of the world. With Pepper. Living a life she had no right to disturb. And still, still, some foolish part of her wished she could go back. Wished she could have just one more hour with him. One more moment. One more anything.
She shut her eyes tightly and pressed her forehead harder to the glass, letting the chill numb her skin. Enough.
This wasn’t about Tony. Not anymore.
She had a mission. She had a role to play. And if she wanted to survive, if she wanted to stop what was coming, she needed to be all in.
When she opened her eyes again, they were gliding past the Tuileries Garden, pulling up to the Hôtel Le Meurice—a five-star palace nestled in the heart of the 1st arrondissement. The kind of place where everything smelled faintly of jasmine and polished marble. Staff in elegant uniforms moved with quiet efficiency beneath grand chandeliers. Jane stepped out of the car, her heels echoing softly against the stone.
Maria turned to her before stepping back into the car. “Be ready tomorrow morning at ten. You and your partner will be picked up here for your first official briefing. There you’ll have more details on the Vogels, on your personas, on your mission. Be sharp.”
Jane offered a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
Clint rolled his eyes and grabbed both suitcases before she could protest. “I’ve got it. You’re not supposed to carry your own bags, remember? Spoiled heiress and all.”
“I might get used to it, then.” Jane smirked.
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” Clint pronounced, pretending to be annoyed.
“At least one of us should.” She muttered back.
They entered the gilded lobby, and Clint stepped up to the reception desk with practiced ease.
“This is Mrs. Catherine Young,” he said smoothly. “Her husband is already in the suite.”
The clerk, unfazed, handed him a sleek keycard and nodded politely.
They moved toward the elevator and as the gilded doors closed behind them, Jane looked at Clint more carefully. He seemed deep in thought, his eyes distant.
“You didn’t explain what you meant…” she said quietly. “About Wakanda.”
Clint gave a dry smile, not quite meeting her gaze. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
She frowned at his evasion but let it drop. The elevator chimed and opened onto the floor of their suite.
The corridor was just as opulent—thick carpeting, gilded molding, and walls lined with abstract art that probably cost more than what she could imagine. It all felt a little surreal, as if she were slipping into someone else’s life. Again.
They walked in silence until they reached the door. Clint stopped and handed her the magnetic keycard.
There was the smallest pause, just a beat too long, as Jane stared at the polished plastic piece in her hand. Something in her chest tightened. She didn’t know why, but her heart was pounding.
“Everything okay?” Clint asked, his voice unreadable.
She ignored him and turned the card over in her fingers, then slipped it into the lock. A soft beep. A blink of green. The door opened with a low click.
The suite was dark, only the distant city lights filtered in through the tall windows, casting faint streaks of silver-blue across the parquet floor. Jane stepped inside cautiously, the sound of her heels echoing against the hardwood.
“Barnes?” Clint called out behind her, stepping in after.
There was a pause. Then the soft creak of footsteps approaching. A silhouette emerged from the shadows, and as it came closer, Jane’s breath caught. Her stomach dropped.
No. No. No.
She stepped toward the light switch and flicked it on, and the world tilted.
There, standing in the warm lamplight, was the man she had spent years trying to find. The face she had seen in old files, in grainy surveillance photos, and, once—up close, when he had thrown her across a concrete wall like she was weightless.
The Winter Soldier.
Bucky Barnes.
Her entire body went rigid. Her fists clenched so tight that her nails dug into her palms. Her heart pounded like a war drum in her chest. She took a sharp step back, barely aware of Clint’s presence beside her.
“You’re joking.” she said, her voice low, strangled. “This is a joke, right?”
Clint blinked, visibly caught off guard. “Jane—”
“You’re not seriously telling me he’s my partner. That the winter soldier is the man I’m going undercover with. Tell me this isn’t happening.”
Clint hesitated, then “He’s stable. He’s been in Wakanda for months. They worked with him, helped him. He’s not the man he was. He’s in control now.”
“I don’t care.” Jane’s voice rose sharply. “I don’t give a fuck if he spent ten years meditating with monks. He’s a monster. Monsters don’t change.”
Across the room, Bucky hadn’t moved. He stood silently, arms at his sides, eyes shadowed. He didn’t speak. Didn’t defend himself. Just watched her.
That silence made her skin crawl.
Clint stepped closer, lowering his voice like he might calm a bomb. “You have to trust me. He’s the best man for this mission.”
Jane let out a bitter, incredulous laugh. “I won’t work alongside the man who murdered Tony’s parents.”
The moment the words left her mouth, Clint’s expression changed. Sharpened.
“He told you.” he said, quietly. “Stark told you.”
“No,” she snapped, too quickly. “No, he didn’t. I—”
But then she stopped.
Because really—what could she say?
That she’d once been Tony Stark’s wife?
That beneath her new name and her official S.H.I.E.L.D. file, there was a truth no one had ever been allowed to see—a marriage erased, a life shared in secret, lost in time?
How could she explain that she’d seen Tony’s grief not as an abstract tragedy, but as something immediate, raw, and visceral—something that had burned her hands when she tried to touch it?
How could she tell Clint that after she left Tony she hadn’t hunted Bucky Barnes to stop the past from happening—that would’ve meant tampering with Tony’s destiny, and she could never do that—but to avenge it?
To avenge them. Howard and Maria. And Tony, most of all.
She couldn’t explain that she had nearly died trying.
That for years she’d chased the ghost of a man the world called a myth. The Winter Soldier.
That she’d studied every lead, followed every rumor, thrown herself into every whisper of Hydra activity, desperate to find him. To look into his face and make him pay. But he’d always been one step ahead. A phantom. An erasure.
Except once.
Once, she had managed to find him. And he hadn’t even looked at her.
Just thrown her like a ragdoll against a crumbling concrete wall, cracked two of her ribs, and disappeared again back into the shadows, back into the mission, like she had been nothing but a fly in the path of a bullet.
She remembered the taste of blood in her mouth that night.
She remembered lying there on the floor, unable to breathe, staring up at a starless sky and wondering if that was it—if that was how she would die. Broken and useless and alone.
She had sworn she’d find him again. She had sworn she’d kill him. But he kept vanishing. Appearing, striking, vanishing again. In and out of time like a specter. And she, too weak, too untrained, not even close to unlocking the powers that now coursed through her, had finally had to give up.
Or, at least, pretend she had.
She had moved on. Built a new life. Or tried to. But the truth was, she’d never really escaped that part of her past. It was stitched into her bones.
And now he was here. In front of her. In that room.
And she couldn’t say any of that. Not to Clint. Not to anyone. Not without unraveling a story so impossible it would sound like madness.
So instead, she drew in a shaky breath and stared Clint down. “I won’t do it. I can’t do it. I’m using everything I have in me right now not to throw him out that goddamn window.”
Clint opened his mouth to speak, but Jane was already turning away. She moved fast, her heels clicking loudly on the floor as she marched across the suite. Her whole body shook. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
She reached the window, threw it open, and stepped onto the small balcony.
And then, without a word, she took flight.
The wind caught her hair. The city stretched out below. And for a moment, all she wanted was to be anywhere else but there.
____
The room smelled faintly of stale air and cheap fabric softener. The kind of smell that clung to the curtains and seeped into the mattress, the walls too thin to keep out the city’s muffled noises, yet somehow too thick to let in any real light. Jane sat hunched at the edge of a bed that was too firm and too small, surrounded by shadows despite the hour. The curtains were drawn tight, casting the whole room in a dull, gray murkiness. The television buzzed softly in the background—some French news broadcast she wasn’t really listening to, though she caught enough to understand the headlines. Her French was rusty, sure, but years of travel had carved languages into her like second skins.
On the nightstand, an army of bottles stood in accusation—vodka, tequila, half-empty beers, a half-finished packet of crackers she couldn’t even remember opening. The amber light from the screen flickered against the glass, giving everything a sickly, surreal glow. Her mouth was dry, her tongue coated with that bitter, acrid taste of a hangover that never quite went away when you never truly sobered up. Her head throbbed so hard it felt like it was pulsing behind her eyes. When she sat up too fast, the world tilted sideways.
She hadn’t eaten properly in two days. Not since she’d landed in Paris, blown up her mission, and checked herself into this anonymous hotel, far enough from the center to be affordable, close enough not to look completely like she was running. She hadn’t used her credit card, part of her had screamed to go, book a flight back to New York and disappear. Just leave. Call it all off.
But some other voice, quieter, colder, had stopped her. Had reminded her not to burn every bridge. Not to screw her cover up. Not yet.
Instead, she’d sold the jewelry Maria Hill had given her. It was expensive enough to pay for a couple weeks in this place and a few meals if she rationed well. She’d stuffed the cash in her sock drawer, like some half-baked criminal, and shut out the world. The mission was over. At least for now. No one from S.H.I.E.L.D. had called, which meant either they didn’t care, or they were waiting for her to crawl back. Either way, it left her in limbo, stuck in a space she couldn’t define. She hadn’t moved forward. She hadn’t returned. She just… floated.
The mattress dipped under her as she stood. Her bare feet met the cold laminate floor, sticky in spots and far from clean. Her body ached—head, stomach, even her skin felt tender. Her last clean outfit clung to her in the most uncomfortable way, a black tank top and sweatpants from her emergency stash, the only things left in her backpack. She hadn’t dared touch the wardrobe that had been gifted to her for the mission. Not after what happened.
She caught her reflection in the mirror and winced. Her hair was tangled and dull, her eyes sunken and ringed with red. Her skin had that hollow, pale look of someone running too fast on too little. She thought about a shower, about putting herself back together, but even that felt like too much.
Instead, she stumbled into the bathroom, rinsed out a dusty glass from the sink, and filled it with lukewarm tap water. She drank slowly, letting each sip dull the thudding ache behind her forehead. The water tasted like metal and chlorine, but it was better than nothing. She braced her palms against the sink, breathing through her nose, trying to keep the nausea at bay.
She hadn’t slept properly in days.
Every time she closed her eyes, the same image returned—Tony, backlit by the dim glow of his workshop, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie askew, a glass of whiskey dangling from his fingers. His eyes bloodshot, hollow. Haunted. He was thinner then, and not just physically. It was like there was less of him to hold onto—less presence, less spark. The way he had looked in the weeks right after his parents’ deaths, when Jane had found him broken and furious and half-mad with grief. Sitting on the floor in a silk shirt stained with whatever he’d spilled, yelling at a ghost only he could see.
She could still remember how he’d looked up at her the first time she spoke his name. How something inside him had flinched. How he hadn’t trusted her, not really, not at first. But she had stayed. And that grief, the sheer weight of it, had seeped into her bones. Even now, years and lifetimes later, it clung to her. That memory, that version of him, was etched so deep into her that no time, no distance could scrape it away.
And now it was all coming back.
Every time she let herself fall into sleep, it was like falling into that same night again. The smell of scotch. The silence between sobs. The way he had reached for her without realizing he was doing it. The way she had touched his face and felt something irreversible shift between them.
Jane stared at her reflection, she had no energy left to name. She swallowed the last of the water and set the glass down with a soft clink, gripping the edge of the sink like it could keep her grounded.
Then, her stomach gurgled in protest, loud enough to make her laugh bitterly.
She leaned out from the bathroom doorway, eyes settling on the bulky hotel phone resting crookedly on the nightstand, its plastic cord twisted and dust-flecked. One of those old-school clunky receivers, probably the same model since the ‘90s.
It wasn’t a smart idea, not really. Room service was overpriced and she’d already burned through more money than she should have just keeping herself holed up here. But outside, beyond the heavy curtains, the world carried on—bright, loud, alive. The idea of facing it, walking down into the lobby with her hair a mess, her clothes wrinkled, her skin pale and drawn from sleepless nights, felt like asking to be stared at. Pitied. Judged.
She hated all of that.
So, instead, she dropped back down on the bed, reached for the phone, and lifted the receiver with a sigh. The dial tone buzzed faintly in her ear. After a few seconds, a voice picked up—polite, practiced, and fast. Her French was decent, but she hoped her accent didn’t make her sound like a fraud.
«Bonjour, je voudrais commander le déjeuner, s’il vous plaît.»*
A pause. Then the voice on the other end listed off a few options, and Jane did her best to follow along. It wasn’t until she heard the word lasagnes that she smiled faintly.
«Oui,» disse. «Les lasagnes. Parfait.»**
She thanked them, hung up, and set the receiver down with a dull click.
Lasagna. It made her think of home—of New York, of aunt May, of Peter. Mostly Peter, with his stupid jokes and stubborn optimism. Peter, who would’ve made some smart-ass comment about her hangover, then insisted she eat something, probably waving a fork at her face like a weapon. Peter, who somehow still managed to make her feel better when everything else had spun out of control.
A tired smile tugged at her lips before she could stop it. God, she missed him.
She lay back on the mattress again, staring at the water-stained ceiling, the ticking of the old wall clock filling the silence. She didn’t have a plan—not really. Not anymore. She didn’t know what would happen tomorrow, or the day after.
The thought made her stomach turn.
She closed her eyes again, hoping the food would come quickly. Hoping the lasagna would taste like something familiar, something solid. Something like comfort.
The knock at the door startled her more than it should have. In the haze of gray silence she’d wrapped herself in for the past two days, any sudden noise felt like an explosion.
Jane padded lazily to the door, half-expecting a tired employee in a wrinkled uniform, cart in tow, ready to drop her food and vanish. But when she opened it, it wasn’t a stranger on the other side. It was Clint Barton, standing behind a service cart, arms folded, expression caught somewhere between exasperation and the quiet fury of a man about to launch into a lecture.
Jane blinked, then she arched a brow. “Took you a while to find me, huh?”
“We never lost you. We were just giving you space. Two days. Pretty generous, considering time’s running out.” He replied dryly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
Jane gave a bitter laugh, stepping aside and sweeping a hand dramatically across the disheveled room. “Welcome to my palace.”
Clint’s gaze swept the small, dimly lit space—unmade bed, clothes on the floor, empty bottles clustered on the nightstand like a shameful shrine. Something darkened behind his stare. His nose wrinkled. “This place is a pigsty.”
Then he went on “You wanna tell me what the hell that meltdown was two days ago?” His voice was low, sharp.
Jane rolled her eyes, collapsing back onto the bed and dragging the food cart closer. “Is there actually food under this thing, or is this another surprise?” then she lifted the cloche, and the scent of lasagna drifted up in a cloud of steam.
Clint didn’t laugh.
She peeled open the plastic cutlery with slow, deliberate movements, stabbing her fork into the pasta.
“There are a lot of things I don’t tell you, Barton.” she said, not looking at him. “So no, I don’t expect you to understand. But putting me on a mission with him? That was a low blow. From Fury, if not from you.”
“I don’t know why you hate Barnes so much,” Clint said, easing down onto the edge of the bed beside her. “I wish I had time to say ‘Talk to me, tell me everything.’ But the truth is—we don’t have that luxury. We need you, Jane. This mission can’t happen without you. And I know you. You’re built for this. You have the fire. And I also know—deep down—you want to stop this. Just like him.”
Jane froze, fork in mid-air at the mention of Barnes.
“I don’t want to talk about him.” she snapped.
Clint didn’t flinch. “We have to. Because of everything he did. Because of the monster he used to be. And that’s exactly why we can’t let those serum vials end up in the wrong hands. He’s not the danger anymore. But someone else could be, and he would do anything in his control to stop this from happening.”
“I can do the mission alone. I don’t need him.”
“You know that’s not true.” Clint said firmly. “You need cover. You need someone to watch your back. You’re not invincible, Jane. And you don’t have the field experience for this kind of op alone. It’s dangerous.”
Jane whipped her head toward him. “Then why me at all?” she demanded. “Why choose me if I’m not qualified?”
Clint’s voice softened. He reached out, his hand landing gently on her shoulder. “Because you are. Because despite everything, you’re the one who gives a damn. You care. You have something to prove—to yourself, maybe. And you’re not the only one with ghosts to fight. Barnes knows what he’s done. That’s why he’s here.”
Her eyes stung, and before she could stop them, the tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. The bite of pasta in her mouth was suddenly impossible to swallow. She dropped the fork and buried her face in her hands.
“I can’t do it.” she whispered. “I can’t, Clint. I’m sorry, but I just—I can’t.”
Clint looked at her—really looked at her. He’d seen her charge into combat, take brutal hits in training, stare down Fury himself with steel in her eyes. But this? This version of Jane—small, trembling, undone—he’d never seen before. And it gutted him.
Without a word, he pulled her into his arms, holding her close as she sobbed against his shoulder. He ran a hand gently through her hair, letting her break. Letting her fall apart.
“You can,” he murmured. “And you will. Because no one else can do this but you.”
She clung to him, tears slipping hot and silent down her cheeks, soaking into the shoulder of his jacket. And she hated herself for it—for how weak she felt, for how her body trembled with the weight of everything. Most of all, she hated that a part of her had always known this moment would come. That she’d break.
Because no matter how furious she was, no matter how gutted she felt at the thought of being paired with him, she could never allow those vials to fall into the wrong hands. She couldn’t stomach the idea of another monster being made. Another Bucky Barnes. Another Winter Soldier.
She couldn’t live with that. And she felt ridiculous for even pretending she might walk away. Like a spoiled child, throwing a tantrum in the dirt while the world burned around her.
She hadn’t known it when she first saw him, when his silhouette stepped out of the dark and her world flipped on its axis, but the more time passed, the more the truth had begun to bloom inside her like something sour: she would go back. She would do the mission. Maybe she’d hate every second of it. Maybe she’d never forgive Fury. Maybe she’d never forgive him*. But she would go. And maybe, just maybe, once it was over—once they’d recovered the vials and dismantled whatever nightmare Vogel and his wife were building—she’d finally get her moment. She’d finally look Bucky Barnes in the eye and make him understand what he had done. Or maybe she’d just hurt him. Maybe she’d take that pain and channel it into something sharp and cruel and honest.
But first, the mission.
After a few more moments, Jane pulled back, her breath shuddering in her chest, her face blotchy with tears. She wiped a sleeve across her cheek and looked Clint in the eye.
“Okay,” she said, voice raw. “Where do we go?”
Clint stared at her for a second, then let out a long, quiet sigh. He shook his head and glanced toward the mess of empty bottles and clothes. “Not like that, you don’t. Get in the shower. Now. We’re leaving soon. And for the love of God, wear something clean.”
Jane let out the ghost of a laugh, nodded once, then rose to her feet. She couldn’t stand the way he looked at her for one second more, like she was breakable. Like she was still coming apart at the seams.
She closed the bathroom door behind her, took a deep breath, and pressed her palms to the sink.
She didn’t know how she was going to get through the next few days. She didn’t know how she was going to breathe the same air as Bucky Barnes, let alone pretend* with him. Smile. Act like they were something they weren’t.
But she would. She had to. Because if she didn’t, she’d never escape this. Never move past it. Never stop being the girl who let her grief eat her alive.
No. She would be strong. Strong enough to look him in the face. Strong enough to hate him without being consumed by it. And one day, one day when it was over, she’d get her justice.
She’d waited this long.
She could wait a little longer.
____
By the time Jane reached the ground floor, Clint was already waiting for her outside the hotel, leaning casually against a flashy sports motorcycle with vivid green detailing that gleamed under the gray Parisian sky.
Jane stared at the vehicle, then at Clint, one brow arching skeptically.
“This doesn’t exactly scream subtle, you know?” she said dryly.
Clint grinned without a hint of remorse.
“Yeah, well. I borrowed it for a few days. What’s the worst that could happen? Paris traffic’s a nightmare anyway—we need something fast.”
With that, he tossed her a helmet. Jane caught it, exhaling sharply as she shook her head in disbelief. Insane, she thought. But she slid the helmet on and climbed behind him, wrapping her arms stiffly around his waist.
And honestly, all that whole physical closeness thing was starting to feel… weird.
It was still Clint, after all—grumpy, sharp-tongued, unfiltered Clint Barton. And the fact that lately he’d been acting more like a human being didn’t make being pressed up against him any less awkward.
But the ride was quick, the bike weaved through the clogged streets with ease.
In less than twenty minutes, they were well beyond the bustling tourist traps of Paris, heading into a quieter, grittier part of the city where the buildings sagged with age and graffiti clung to crumbling walls. Clint pulled up outside a nondescript, abandoned-looking building.
They climbed two flights of creaking stairs before reaching a door that opened into a surprisingly high-tech hideout: holographic screens flickered from every wall, scattered equipment covered the floor, and a faint metallic hum filled the air.
Maria Hill sat behind a desk in the center of the room, papers and tablets strewn around her. But Jane barely noticed her.
Because standing with his back to them, framed by the low light filtering through the dust-choked windows, was him.
James Buchanan Barnes.
His hair was long, brushing the tops of his shoulders, dark brown and slightly disheveled. His posture was rigid, the broad line of his back tense under a fitted leather jacket. The unmistakable glint of his metal hand caught the light, the silver surface of it gleaming faintly.
Jane’s stomach twisted painfully.
She hesitated, feeling Clint’s gaze on her, before forcing her feet to move. She crossed the room and sat down stiffly beside Bucky, her body taut with tension. Clint remained standing behind, an immovable sentinel between them.
Maria’s cool voice cut through the silence.
“Well. Glad you finally decided to join us. You’ve kept us waiting long enough.”
Jane’s jaw tightened at the accusation dripping from her words. She met Maria’s gaze with defiance.
“I wouldn’t even be here if you hadn’t begged me to come back. Maybe try not to make me regret it.”
The two women exchanged a look—sharp, bristling with thinly veiled hostility—before Maria moved on, flipping open a folder on her desk.
“Your cover identities.” she said briskly. “You’re newlyweds. Rich, thanks to private investments in weapons development. Mr. Young”—she nodded toward Bucky—“is an entrepreneur with a special interest in starting his own little army. Catherine and Benjamin Young. Madly in love, fresh off a lavish honeymoon.”
Jane felt bile rise in her throat at the words. Madly in love. It was almost laughable.
Maria slid two thin dossiers across the desk.
“You’ll memorize everything—backgrounds, history, habits. Once you know it cold, you burn the documents. No traces.”
Jane reached out, took her file without a word. She could feel Bucky’s presence beside her, an unrelenting pressure at the edge of her awareness. She forced herself not to look at him. Not yet.
“Tonight,” Maria continued, “you’ll be attending the Opéra Garnier. The Vogels are patrons of the arts, and they’ll be attending the premiere of the Swan Lake.”
Jane frowned. The Opéra Garnier was a grand, lavish place—gold and red velvet, chandeliers that looked like they belonged in palaces, an excess of glittering opulence. Hardly the kind of place she associated with arms dealers.
Maria flicked her gaze to Bucky.
“You’ll find a way to approach them. When the time is right, you’ll say the passphrase—‘Die Sonne geht niemals unter für die, die das Geschenk des Wissens tragen.’”
Bucky raised a hand slightly.
“Yeah, could you repeat that?” he said dryly. “Might want to write it down.”
Maria’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
“You have an hour before the performance. Make it count. We’ll have someone tailing you discreetly, but you’ll be on your own.”
Jane risked a glance at Bucky then, really looked at him for the first time.
The face was familiar, but there were differences. A beard now, shadowing his jaw. His eyes were sharper, more present. Not empty like before.
He must have felt her stare, because his eyes flicked to hers—and for a moment, they simply looked at each other.
No words. No movement.
Just raw, electric tension simmering between them.
Jane broke the gaze first, her heart hammering painfully against her ribs.
Maria was still talking, laying out instructions, but the words blurred.
All Jane could think about was the fact that she was going to have to stand beside him, smile, pretend he was her husband.
Pretend she didn’t feel like screaming every time she was close to him.
As Maria wrapped up the briefing, Clint pulled Jane aside and handed her a worn-looking backpack.
“Your change of clothes is inside,” he said. “Get ready. There’s a room over there you can use.” He nodded toward a door near the back of the room.
Jane nodded stiffly, clutching the bag.
The room she found was tiny and bare, with a single cracked mirror hanging on the wall and an ancient stool in the corner. The air smelled musty, heavy with dust and old wood.
She shut the door behind her, leaned back against it, and closed her eyes for just a second.
Then she set the bag down, opened it, and began to change.
Because whatever it took, no matter how much it cost her, she wasn’t going to fail.
The dress was folded delicately inside the bag, simple and dangerous in its elegance. A one-shouldered black velvet gown, cut to hug every curve, with a slit so high it flirted with scandal. It looked like it had been made for her. Jane slipped into it slowly, the fabric gliding like water over her skin. In the bottom of the same bag, she found a pair of black leather stilettos, sharp and glossy as obsidian, and a small pouch filled with minimal but effective makeup: mascara, a red lipstick, concealer and some blush. Enough to look polished, seductive, but not overdone.
She pinned her hair into a low side-swept style, using a set of diamond-encrusted clips that sparkled under the flickering light. They caught against her platinum strands
making them gleam under the neon light. When she reached the bottom of the bag, her fingers brushed something cold and metallic: a compact pistol, no larger than the palm of her hand, tucked into a dark thigh-holster—thin, discreet, and designed to go unnoticed.
She stared at it for a second, lips tightening, then attached it carefully to her upper thigh, the one hidden by the velvet of the dress. Finally, she found a pearl-studded clutch, luxurious and useful at the same time.
When she stepped out of the makeshift dressing room, her heels clicked softly on the wooden floor. And there he was.
Bucky stood across from her in the hallway, dressed in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, white shirt crisp and immaculate. His hair had been combed back, still long but neater now, just brushing his collar. He looked… good. Devastatingly good. And that fact disgusted her. How could someone with so much blood on his hands look like that?
He didn’t look away. His eyes followed her movements, cool and precise. She hated the way it made her feel—exposed, evaluated. When she turned to Clint and muttered, “I’m ready.” Barnes didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.
Clint led them down the creaking stairwell together, the tension between Jane and Bucky nearly palpable. Outside, the same sleek black Audi A8 that had driven her from the airport was idling at the curb, its engine purring softly in the evening air.
“This is where I leave you.” Clint said. “From this point on, you’re on your own. Good luck.”
He looked at Jane, and in his eyes was something more than orders, there was trust. Quiet and firm. She gave him the smallest nod, a breath she didn’t realize she was holding slipping from her lungs as she stepped toward the car.
Bucky followed silently, and the sound of the door slamming shut beside her made her flinch. She was a bundle of nerves, twisted so tight she thought she might unravel. But she kept her face composed, her breath steady. No cracks.
The car sped through the heart of Paris, weaving past evening traffic and old stone façades. For a few minutes, there was silence, and Jane was grateful for it. She had no idea of how she could possibly hold a conversation with him. But, of course, he was the one to speak first.
“This mission matters to me.” Bucky said, voice low but clear. “I’ll do what needs to be done. Collaborate. Fight together. I want you to know that.”
Jane let out a bitter laugh, soft but scathing. “Fight together.” she echoed.
The word tasted sharp on her tongue. The very idea was absurd. Collaboration with the man who had shattered Tony’s world with bare hands? She didn’t dignify it with anything more than a harsh exhale. “Let’s just get it over with.” she muttered. “The sooner this is done, the better.”
Neither of them said another word as the car pulled up in front of the Palais Garnier.
The Opéra towered above them, radiant in golden light and architectural splendor. Its ornate columns, elaborate statues, and rich Baroque detailing made it look more like a royal palace than a theater. People milled about on the grand staircase, dressed in gowns and elegant suits, murmuring in a dozen different languages as they filed into the building for the premiere.
Jane stood still for a moment, taking it in, her fingers tightening around the clutch in her hand. She took a breath.
Then Bucky stepped beside her. Their shoulders nearly touched.
The mission had officially begun.
Jane could feel her pulse thrumming in her throat. It wasn’t the grandeur that did it, nor the way the chandeliers inside bled warm light into the night. It was him, standing beside her, dark and silent, his presence impossible to ignore.
He turned to her then, his voice low and almost gentle. “Are you ready?”
The tone was too soft, almost sympathetic. Supportive, even.
It made her blood boil.
The idea that he thought he could offer her comfort—him, of all people—was grotesque. Ridiculous. She had to swallow back the bile rising in her throat as she tightened her free hand into a fist, her nails digging into her palm. She gave a curt nod, her voice thin and cold.
“Let’s go.”
Inside, the opulence nearly swallowed them whole. Red velvet draped from the balconies, golden carvings framed the stage like a dream, and every corner of the grand hall pulsed with music, conversation, and champagne flutes glittering in the hands of Parisian elite. They scanned the crowd discreetly, eyes searching for any sign of the Vogels.
Nothing yet.
Bucky handed over the tickets Maria had given them, and they were guided to their seats—a pair of plush, private chairs nestled within one of the opera house’s elevated box sections. The palchetto offered a perfect vantage point: close enough to the stage to catch every detail, yet veiled in just enough shadow to provide discretion. Gilded molding framed the small private balcony, and heavy crimson curtains hung on either side, half-drawn for privacy.
As they stepped toward their seat, Jane’s heel caught against the edge of the plush carpet. Her ankle twisted just enough to send her forward, off balance, and before she could catch herself, Bucky moved—quick, instinctive—and caught her. One arm around her waist, the other against her back, he steadied her with effortless strength and pulled her to him.
For a fraction of a second, she was pressed against his chest. Solid, warm.
Her face tilted up, almost involuntarily, and there he was—his blue eyes locking with hers, only inches apart. She could feel the tension coiled in his muscles, the faint thrum of his breath. The closeness was unbearable. Not only for the repulsive feeling it gave her, though she wished it were that simple, but because of the contradiction. How someone who had destroyed so much could look and feel so human.
Her heart pounded in her throat.
She shoved him back with sudden force, her voice sharp and shaking.
“Don’t touch me.”
He didn’t fight her resistance, just took a quiet step back. But the touch lingered—on her skin, in her head. It made her shiver, and not from the cold.
She hated how shaken she was, how off-balance she felt, both literally and otherwise. She was supposed to be in control. She was supposed to pretend. And already, her act was cracking.
They took their seats in silence. Jane still trembling slightly, Bucky still composed.
Her thoughts were rushing too fast, tumbling over one another, too loud in her head.
After a short while, Bucky leaned in, his voice low against her ear.
“I know you hate me. Maybe it’s on principle. Maybe it’s something else. But we’re under cover, and you need to hide it better.”
She turned toward him slowly, stunned—not by the words, but by how calmly he said them. As if this were all theoretical.
“Principle?” she whispered back, eyes narrowed. “You think this is about principles?” Her voice broke just slightly. “What’s between me and you is personal.”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. Just stared at her. His gaze moved from her eyes to her cheekbone, to the way a loose strand of hair curled along her jaw. Then he looked away, back down toward the main level of the opera house.
Jane exhaled, low and unsteady. She dropped her gaze to her hands, clasped too tightly in her lap. Maybe she shouldn’t have said that. She felt like a child throwing a tantrum again. It was stupid. She was here for a mission. Just the mission.
Then Bucky’s voice came again, quiet and deliberate.
“There. Do you see them?”
She followed his gaze downward, toward the seats below. Their own balcony was high enough to offer a clear view without drawing attention, and nestled in the third row from the stage sat the couple they were here for.
Annalise Vogel was impossible to miss. She wore a sweeping silk gown in the color of sugared rose petals, complete with a massive satin bow at her lower back. Her auburn hair was gathered into a tight knot, and she smiled in her usual way that didn’t touch her eyes. Beside her, Christian Vogel cut an imposing figure in a sharply tailored midnight blue tuxedo, his expression neutral, but his eyes sharp, always scanning.
They were being greeted, recognized, by multiple patrons seated around them. Smiling, nodding, exchanging cheek kisses and subtle bows of acknowledgment. Clearly, they were well-known. Possibly revered.
Jane gave a slight nod.
“Yes,” she murmured. “That’s them. I recognize her.”
Then, just as the lights dimmed and the soft notes of Tchaikovsky’s overture filled the grand hall, the room began to hush. The curtains quivered.
And the performance began.
The elegance of the dancers, the precision of every movement, the fluidity of the choreography—it tugged at something buried deep within Jane. Once upon a time, centuries ago perhaps, she had danced too. Not professionally, not even particularly well, but with passion. She’d taken classes for discipline more than talent, needing an outlet, a way to rein in her chaotic thoughts and focus on something other than survival. Watching it now, she could almost feel her muscles remember that rhythm, that grace. Her back straightened instinctively. But the calm it brought was fleeting. Every so often, between one pirouette and the next, she felt Bucky’s gaze on her like fire against skin. It made her fingers twitch in her lap, made her stomach knot with tension. She refused to look at him. Refused to give him that power. Her hands twisted together in her lap, white-knuckled and rigid. She didn’t even blink when the first act ended and the red curtain swept down to mark the intermission.
But beside her, Bucky leaned in. “This is the moment. Let’s go.”
Jane nodded silently, rising with him as they slipped out of the private box. But in the crowd, they quickly lost sight of the Vogels.
“Maybe we should split up,” she murmured, scanning the mingling audience. “Cover more ground.”
“No.” Bucky said immediately, his voice firm. “We’re supposed to be madly in love, remember? Newlyweds don’t separate at intermission.”
Jane exhaled sharply, irritated not because he was wrong, but because he was right. Again.
“Fine.” she muttered.
He held out his arm to her with mock formality. The real one. The other was stiff, with the hand covered in a dark leather glove. “Then we should at least look* madly in love, don’t you think?”
Her gaze dropped to his outstretched arm. Her entire body recoiled. Every nerve in her screamed against it. But she reminded herself—this is your job. You’re here to infiltrate. If you want to be an Avenger, this is what it takes.
So she closed her eyes for a beat, then slipped her arm into his, her fingers resting lightly at the bend of his elbow. The touch made her skin shiver. And yet she smiled tight-lipped, polished, perfect—as they walked together through the lavish corridors of the Opéra.
They reached the bar in the grand foyer, chandeliers glittering overhead, the space teeming with the city’s elite. And there, near the far wall, stood the Vogels sipping liquor and chatting effortlessly with two women in diamonds.
Bucky leaned into the bar. “A Martini for my lady,” he said, loud enough to be heard. “And a double whiskey, neat, for me.”
Jane stole a glance at Annalise, who was laughing at something in German. She caught only fragments of the words—sharp, gossipy, unfiltered.
Then, with a movement so casual it almost seemed accidental, Bucky brushed past Christian, murmuring something in his ear.
Jane watched it happen in real time. The way Christian’s body stilled ever so slightly, the way his brows lifted, surprised. But his voice remained smooth.
He replied in fluent German, but Bucky shook his head with a charming shrug. “Sorry. American. Don’t speak it.” he said. “But I’d be glad to talk. My wife and I both would.”
Christian’s eyes flicked to Annalise, who had stopped talking mid-sentence. They exchanged a silent message between them. And then Christian smiled.
“Perhaps after the show.” he said.
Bucky returned the smile with practiced ease. “We’d love that.”
Then, without hesitation, he turned to Jane, lifted her hand, and kissed it gently. “My wife and I have been looking forward to this evening.” he added, his voice silken.
Jane blinked down at her hand, lips slightly parted in disbelief. Her fingers tingled from where his mouth had brushed them. She curled them into a tight fist as soon as he let go, forcing herself to smile.
“Oh yes,” she said, stepping closer to Bucky and curling her hand possessively around his arm. “We’ve been dreaming of this opportunity.”
Annalise finally turned toward her, giving her a long, assessing glance from head to toe. Her smile was polite, if slightly patronizing. “Then we’ll be happy to have a little chat later, mein Schatz.****” she said.
The Vogels turned and drifted away into the crowd, leaving a trail of perfume and tension behind them.
As they disappeared, Jane exhaled shakily, pulling her arm back from Bucky’s as soon as the coast was clear. He didn’t protest. They made their way back to their box in silence, the mission officially in motion—and the weight of it pressing down on both of them like a storm brewing just beneath the chandeliers.
Later, when the final notes of Swan Lake faded into applause and the audience began to gather their coats and chatter about the performance, it was the Vogels themselves who approached. They hadn’t noticed their places during the intermission, or so Jane had thought, but now, as the crowd dispersed, the couple stood waiting just outside their box, smiling like old friends.
Jane and Bucky exchanged a brief, knowing glance. First contact: achieved.
The conversation had been polite, brief. Christian had insisted that talking business at the opera would be terribly vulgar. No, much better to discuss matters over dinner the next evening. They had asked for an address, and Jane, smoothly sliding into character, had explained that she and her husband were currently staying at the Hôtel Le Meurice, enjoying their honeymoon. Christian had smiled, nodding approvingly, and assured them a car would be sent to fetch them. After a few pleasantries, the Vogels disappeared into the evening mist of Paris, leaving them alone.
Jane, still clinging lightly to Bucky’s arm to maintain appearances, loosened her hold once they were safely out of sight. As they made their way through the crowd toward the grand exit, she leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper.
“That felt way too easy. You think it’s a trap?”
Bucky gave a lazy shrug, flashing her a half-smirk that made her want to punch him. “Only one way to find out, right?”
Outside, their car was already waiting. Sliding into the back seat, Jane stared out the window, her mind racing, replaying every word, every glance exchanged with the Vogels. The ride back to the hotel passed mostly in silence, and she was grateful for it.
When they reached the Hotel, Jane finally had a chance to really see where they’d been stationed. The penthouse suite was nothing short of breathtaking—lavish to the point of surreal. High, ornate ceilings; vast windows opened out to balconies that overlooked the Jardin des Tuileries; plush, antique furniture in cream and gold tones filled the massive rooms, and the marble floors gleamed under the soft lighting of crystal chandeliers. The scent of polished wood and expensive cologne lingered in the air. Everything was immaculate, flawless…and still, Jane’s stomach twisted in discomfort the moment she stepped inside.
It only got worse when she noticed the bed.
There was only one.
For a moment, she simply stared at it, numb. Clearly, Bucky had noticed the same thing, because when she glanced sideways, she caught him looking at the bed too. Then, their eyes met.
“Don’t worry,” Bucky said with a quiet, tired smile. “I’ll take the couch.”
Jane crossed her arms tightly around her waist, hugging herself. The absurdity of it all almost made her laugh. Or cry. She wasn’t sure which.
Tony’s in New York. And I’m stuck here about to share a suite with the man who shattered his life.
The thought hit her so hard she staggered a little, physically, emotionally. But she pushed it down, as she always did, burying it deep.
Turning away, she grabbed one of the two large suitcases left at the foot of the bed—left behind from the day she had stormed out—and unzipped it, searching for something to wear for the night. Her fingers sifted through layers of luxurious fabrics until she found it: a pale cream silk pajama set and, underneath, delicate lace lingerie.
Jane blinked in disbelief, almost laughing at the absurdity. Really, Maria? Lace lingerie on a mission? Then, grimacing, she realized exactly why it had been packed. Seduction. One of the most ancient weapons in a female spy’s arsenal. She felt a flicker of disgust coil in her stomach but shoved it aside. If she wanted to survive this mission, she’d have to use every tool available—even the ones that made her skin crawl.
Scooping up the garments, she retreated into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. The bathroom was almost too perfect: gleaming marble, a massive claw-footed tub, a counter strewn with fragrant hotel soaps and bath salts. Jane turned on the taps, pouring a handful of lavender-scented salts under the stream of hot water, watching the steam curl and rise.
She stripped down slowly, peeling away the elegant dress of the evening. She moved like she was underwater, sluggish, exhausted. Then she slid into the bath, letting the water envelop her, trying to block out the ache in her chest, the anxiety knotting her stomach.
You have to focus, she told herself fiercely, squeezing her eyes shut. You have to shut that door. New York is a world away now. Tony is a world away.
The heat of the water loosened the tension in her muscles, but it didn’t silence her mind. She stayed there until the water cooled, until her fingers pruned, until her skin no longer felt like her own.
When she finally emerged, she dried herself carefully, patting her face dry last, almost tenderly. Staring at her reflection, she barely recognized the woman looking back. Hollow-eyed. Tense.
She pulled on the cream silk pajamas, the fabric whispering over her skin, cool and fragile, and took a deep breath.
Then, with a hand on the doorknob, she hesitated. Back to the battlefield, she thought bitterly.
She opened the door.
The suite was dim now, lit only by the faint glow of the city outside. Bucky was already sprawled out on the long, overstuffed couch, dressed down in sweatpants and a faded T-shirt. He was sleeping, or pretending to, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
Jane stared at him for a beat longer than necessary, unsettled.
He looked so normal like this.
Shaking herself, she turned toward the massive bed. She switched off the last lamp, plunging the suite into near darkness. The noise of Paris—car horns, distant music, the occasional laugh—filtered up from the street below, a muted reminder of the world continuing on outside this fragile little bubble.
Jane slid under the covers, curling up on her side, her body still tense, her mind racing. She hadn’t thought she’d sleep, not really. But the emotional exhaustion was overwhelming, and her eyelids grew heavier with each breath.
Within minutes, despite everything—the stress, the memories, the fear—Jane drifted into a deep, restless sleep.
Jane couldn’t say how long she’d been asleep. Six minutes? Two hours?
All she knew was that she was pulled violently from sleep by a sound—loud, raw, and impossible to ignore.
A cry. A voice—Bucky’s voice.
“No—don’t—don’t touch me!”
Her eyes flew open, the darkness of the room wrapping around her like cold water. At first, she wasn’t even sure it had been real. Then came another cry—hoarse, strangled.
“Please. I didn’t… don’t want—!”
Jane bolted upright, her breath catching in her throat. The silk sheets tangled around her legs as she twisted toward the couch.
Bucky was thrashing.
His body convulsed in erratic spasms, limbs kicking beneath the thin throw blanket that had slipped halfway to the floor. His face, a few hours before so composed and calm, was now twisted in pain. He was sweating, breathing fast, too fast, his chest rising and falling with desperate, shallow gasps. His metal hand had clenched so hard that the joints creaked, the light from the window gleaming off its tension.
“N-No” he murmured again, this time barely audible. “Don’t make me do it…”
And then louder, as if reliving it in vivid, torturous clarity—“I didn’t—stop!”
Jane sat frozen in the bed, fists clenched in the sheets, her breath trembling in her lungs. Her heart pounded as she watched him contort, utterly consumed by something she couldn’t see. Something inside him.
He’s dreaming, she realized. No—he’s remembering.
It wasn’t just a nightmare. It was something darker, deeper. A fissure in his mind, cracked wide open, leaking out the past. A memory, or maybe a hundred all at once. Jane could see it written in every twitch of his jaw, in every broken plea.
He was somewhere else—back under Hydra’s thumb, maybe. Back in that dark, cold place where they’d turned him into a weapon.
She didn’t move. Couldn’t. She’d seen men scream in their sleep before, but never like this. Not with that kind of raw, childlike fear behind it. It was disarming. Devastating.
And for a flicker of a second, something ugly twisted in her chest: not pity, no—but recognition.
She knew what it was like to be at the mercy of memories that didn’t feel like memories. That became your reality, that tore you open from the inside.
Still, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
All she could do was watch—watch as the Winter Soldier, the man who had haunted her nightmares for years, crumbled in his own.
* Good morning, I would like to order lunch, please.
** Yes, Lasagna. perfect.
*** The sun never sets for those who carry the gift of knowledge.
**** My dear.
Notes:
Here we are! We’ve officially broken a new record—this is, without a doubt, the longest chapter so far. And to be honest? I could’ve kept going. I actually wanted to keep going. But at some point, I had to stop myself because it was turning into a monstrous beast of a chapter. So yeah—better to pause here.
In this chapter, we see the undercover mission finally kick off, but more importantly… Bucky enters the scene. For now, we still know very little about him from the story’s perspective. His relationship with Jane is just barely taking shape, but I absolutely can’t wait to dive deeper—both into the mission and into whatever is going on between the two of them, because let me tell you… things are going to get interesting.
That said, I won’t ramble any further—I think the chapter kind of speaks for itself (maybe a little too much, haha). I really hope you enjoyed it, and as always, I’d love to hear what you think! Your thoughts mean the world to me.
See you soon!
Chapter 10: Stupid pretty face of yours
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sunlight slipped through the edges of the tall curtains, spilling golden light across the hotel suite. Jane stirred under the sheets, blinking against the brightness that seeped into the room. Her body protested the motion with a dull ache—not from exhaustion, but from the injuries that still hadn’t fully healed after the Sokovian attack in New York. Her side throbbed dully as she sat up, a sharp reminder that, without even realizing it, she always rolled onto that same wounded side in her sleep, putting weight on it. The gash above her eyebrow, at least, had almost closed—but the rest was still a mess of bruised nerves and tender muscle, each movement a quiet, dragging complaint.
She sat up slowly, stretching her arms over her head with a low sigh. Judging by how high the sun was, it was already late morning, maybe even pushing noon. She had overslept. Not that she felt guilty about it. After the night she’d had, sleep had been a rare and broken luxury.
Her feet touched the soft carpet as she got up, bare legs cold against the morning air. She walked toward the bathroom, rinsed her face under cool water, then ran a hand through her hair, still slightly tangled from sleep. She didn’t bother fixing it, not yet.
The suite was quiet as Jane stepped into the lounge area, and that’s when she saw it.
On the low table by the window, a breakfast cart had been wheeled in. A white linen cloth had been draped across its surface, and polished silver cloches covered the dishes beneath. At the center sat a folded note, cream-colored paper with her name written on the front in neat, masculine handwriting.
Frowning, Jane picked it up and unfolded it.
“Figured this might count as an apology for keeping you up. Good morning.”
Her brow arched. The note was undeniably from him.
She tore the note in half, then in half again, before tossing the pieces onto the table with a scoff. Still, she lifted one of the silver lids.
Wasting good food would be a crime, wouldn’t it?
A buttery aroma filled the air.
Croissants, French toast, fresh fruit neatly sliced into glistening wedges, a dish of Greek yogurt, and little pots of jam and European butter were all arranged like something out of a magazine.
It was annoyingly thoughtful.
And more annoyingly… it smelled amazing.
Jane sat down, then reached for a slice of toast and slathered it with butter and jam. Her stomach growled on cue, reminding her she hadn’t eaten properly since the day she left the tower.
As she ate, her gaze wandered across the suite, now fully illuminated by the daylight pouring through the windows. The luxury was almost overwhelming—ornate crown moldings, silk drapes, and crystal fixtures that sparkled like champagne. Everything about it screamed elegance and power.
And yet, in the heart of it, Jane felt oddly dislocated. Not because of the opulence around her, she had lived long enough, seen enough centuries, to know both the grime of true poverty and the suffocating excess of unimaginable wealth. No, it wasn’t the room that made her feel out of place. It was the circumstance. The silence. The knowledge of who she was with. The weight of what she had to become. She still hadn’t fully accepted what lay ahead, and the gilded walls and plush velvet couldn’t soften that.
She took another bite of toast and let her thoughts drift on dangerous territory.
The mission had to work. Those vials couldn’t fall into the wrong hands. That part she was sure of. She would do everything in her power to stop that from happening.
But how the hell was she supposed to live, to breathe, to function… alongside him?
Sharing a mission with Bucky Barnes was a sick cosmic joke, some kind of karmic payback. And yet, here she was. In a suite with a king sized bed. Eating a fancy breakfast alone after watching him writhe and scream in his sleep like a wounded child.
That part had shaken her more than she wanted to admit.
She hadn’t expected that. Not from him. Not from the so-called Winter Soldier. The way he’d cried out, his voice cracking, body curling in on itself—it hadn’t looked like rage. It had looked like fear. Like pain.
Like trauma.
But Jane didn’t want to think about that.
The last thing she wanted was to feel pity for him.
He was an assassin. A monster. He had murdered Howard and Maria Stark. He had torn Tony’s life apart and left him in a thousand irreparable pieces. That didn’t go away just because the man had nightmares.
Jane bit down on her toast, harder than necessary, and forced the thoughts away.
Whatever Bucky Barnes had endured in his past was not her concern.
Her job was to finish the mission. Secure the vials. Keep the world from falling into more chaos than it already lived in.
She didn’t need to feel anything else.
And yet, despite every logical thought in her head… despite the fury still simmering in her chest… she couldn’t quite shake the memory of him trembling on that couch, whispering to ghosts only he could see.
She closed her eyes, dragging in a breath. No. Not now.
She had to stay focused.
She had to be better than this.
She glanced toward the empty room, no sign of Barnes. Probably he just wanted to be away from her for a few hours.
Jane, honestly, was grateful to have some time alone.
She needed it, to gather a little strength, to clear her head, to refocus on what lay ahead. The past few days had been a blur of alcohol and regret, the kind of downward spiral she wasn’t proud of, but that had felt, in the moment, unavoidable. Now, though, she needed to be sharp. Steady. Ready.
She couldn’t afford to let herself unravel again.
Jane looked down at the remains of her breakfast and then, reluctantly, picked up another croissant.
Today would be another long day. But she was determined.
She would make this mission count.
And she wouldn’t let him, or herself, get in the way.
Once she had finished, Jane decided it was time to finally shower and change. She would’ve preferred a room with a proper walk-in shower—quick, efficient, over and done with—but this wasn’t the moment to be picky. The enormous bathtub in the marble-lined bathroom would have to do. She moved through her usual routine, keeping her motions brisk and mechanical, trying not to linger too long in her own thoughts.
Luckily, the hot water soothed some of the soreness that still pulsed faintly at her side.
When she stepped out of the bathroom again, steam trailing behind her, her damp hair clung to her shoulders in curling waves, and a thin white cotton towel was wrapped snugly around her body. She crossed the suite barefoot, intending to grab something from the open suitcase she’d left on the floor the night before, but she froze halfway through the room.
There he was.
Barnes.
Sitting on the sofa in the lounge area of their shared suite, back straight, gaze focused on the window. He hadn’t moved or made a sound, but the second she came into view, he turned to look at her.
Their eyes met.
For one long, awful moment, Jane felt completely exposed—ridiculously vulnerable, as though the towel offered no real protection at all. She wasn’t naked, not really, but it felt that way. Her entire body tensed as heat rose along the back of her neck. He didn’t look away, not at first. His gaze dipped, just slightly, and for a heartbeat she thought maybe he’d give her that courtesy, that flicker of respect.
But then his eyes came back to hers, and lingered.
He was watching her. Not in a leering, overtly suggestive way, but intently. As if studying her. As if she were a puzzle he couldn’t quite piece together. There was no shame in his stare, no apology. That bothered her even more.
She hated it.
Without a word, Jane turned away, pacing to her suitcase with clipped steps. She grabbed the first set of clothes she could reach—black high-waisted trousers that cut just above the ankle, a soft rose-pink sleeveless top, and a pair of black flats—and disappeared back into the bathroom. She changed quickly, trying to shake the unsettling feeling of having been seen. Truly seen. She didn’t like it. She wasn’t used to it anymore.
When she stepped out again, towel in hand, she was dressed but still toweling off her damp hair, letting it fall around her shoulders in heavy waves. The lack of privacy, the forced sharing of space. It was already beginning to wear on her nerves. Every moment around him felt like a fight, even when no words were exchanged. And yet, Bucky hadn’t moved. He was still sitting there, seemingly unbothered.
Jane approached, keeping several steps of distance between them, and crossed her arms loosely. She didn’t wait to be polite.
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” she said coolly. “I appreciated the peace and quiet this morning, truly. But we’re under deep cover. Wandering off alone without a trace? Not exactly the picture of a doting newlywed husband. For all we know, the Vogels could already be having us watched.”
She narrowed her eyes. “So next time, maybe don’t vanish. Because right now, the only thing stopping me from ripping your head off is this damn mission.”
Bucky’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but something close to it—half amusement, half something she couldn’t place.
He stood.
And when he did, he stepped closer. Too close.
His eyes—those pale, icy blue eyes—locked onto hers with the same unwavering intensity as before.
She could feel his gaze tracing not just her features but the space around her—like he was trying to figure out not who she was, but what she was. And Jane hated it. Hated that he could look at her that way and remain so perfectly unreadable.
She stiffened, resisting the urge to recoil. Her spine straightened on instinct, and her fingers curled just slightly at her sides. If he noticed her tension, he didn’t show it. His expression was maddeningly composed, as if her presence didn’t rattle him at all.
That, more than anything, made her want to scream.
“I didn’t go far,” Bucky said, his voice low and even. “Just needed to clear my head. Didn’t think I needed a permission slip. And in case you forgot, I have more field experience than you.”
He brushed past her, walking to the bed, crouching by his duffel. Jane turned to watch him, seething, eyes narrowed to slits.
“How could I possibly forget,” she muttered. “Your long and illustrious career as a brainwashed assassin-slash-HYDRA puppet? Don’t worry—it’s burned into my memory.”
He froze for just a second.
Then, without looking up, he said, “That’s not what I meant.”
And he continued digging through the bag, finally pulling out his mission dossier.
Jane said nothing. The words still echoed between them, heavy and cutting.
“You should get your dossier too. We don’t have much time before the Vogels’ car arrives. Best we study everything and destroy it afterward.”
Jane didn’t answer right away. The way he phrased it—like a command, like he knew best—irked her more than it should have. But the worst part was that he was right. They didn’t have much time, and whether lei liked it or not, memorizing every detail of their new identities was crucial. So, without a word, she walked over to her suitcase, unzipping the smaller compartment on the side and pulling out the slim black folder Maria had stuffed in there before the briefing.
When she turned, Bucky had already seated himself at the edge of the bed, flipping through his own file with a look of detached focus. Jane hesitated. The thought of sitting next to him made her stomach twist. But again, she forced herself to move. Her pride, her discipline, her refusal to show weakness, all of it propelled her to cross the room and perch herself at the very edge of the bed, keeping as much distance as physically possible between them.
Bucky didn’t comment. He simply continued reading. “So… Catherine and Benjamin Young,” he began, tone light, almost bored. “Brooklyn-based. He’s an art investor with private interests in weapons manufacturing. Made a few enemies along the way, so now he’s looking to fund his own paramilitary group. Because of course.”
Jane rolled her eyes before he could finish. “She’s born in Queens, raised in a modest household. Modeled a bit in the first half of her twenties. Met him at a gallery opening in Manhattan.“
“Whirlwind romance. Married a month ago.” Bucky continued.
Jane scoffed under her breath. “What a cliché.”
He smirked, clearly amused, though he tried to hide it. “They gave us rings. You didn’t put yours on?”
Jane froze for a moment. She hadn’t even checked. She recalled the small case of jewelry tucked somewhere in the depths of her issued luggage, but instead of searching for it, her gaze drifted toward the tall wardrobe in the corner of the suite.
A thought, perhaps irrational, perhaps dangerous, planted itself firmly in her chest.
Quietly, she stood and walked over to the closet, sliding open the door. Hanging neatly beside the designer garments Maria had arranged was her backpack, the one she’d refused to let go of, the one she had insisted on bringing from New York. From inside, she pulled out the small velvet box, worn soft at the corners.
She opened it.
Inside were her two rings: a simple golden wedding band and an engagement ring with a showy diamond encrusted in it.
Tony’s rings.
The ones he had given her, all those years ago.
Jane stared at them for a long, painful moment, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs. Then, slowly, she slid them both onto her ring finger.
Behind her, she could feel Bucky watching. She didn’t need to turn to know he’d noticed the difference. He looked at the box, at her hand, then at the suitcase they’d been issued.
He didn’t say anything.
But Jane could feel it, the way his mind was working, fitting puzzle pieces together. Maybe he knew those rings weren’t part of the mission gear. Maybe he didn’t. Either way, he said nothing.
She sat back down at the edge of the bed.
“I’ve been wearing mine since yesterday,” Bucky said mildly, holding up his left hand to show the gold band on his finger. “You should’ve had yours on. That can’t happen again.”
Jane’s temper flared. She shot him a sharp look. “Don’t give me orders. We have the same rank on this mission, and you are not my superior. I know how to do my job.”
Bucky raised both hands in mock surrender, then went back to reading. “Suit yourself.”
They fell into a tense silence, the only sound the rustle of pages.
“Looks like the Vogels hold an auction every couple of years,” Bucky said eventually.
“Always in a different, high-security location. Invitations are near impossible to come by. Only a few inner-circle elites get in.”
Jane scanned her own notes, eyes narrowing. “And the next one should be in a few weeks. That doesn’t give us much time to gain their trust.”
Bucky nodded. “Exactly. And we need that trust, or we don’t get close to the serum.”
Her eyes caught a line of text. “Christian Vogel has a weakness for women. Apparently, that’s how he’s been compromised in the past.”
Bucky glanced over at her. “Sure. But Annalise is no passive wife. We can’t afford to make her an enemy, not if we want to stay on their radar.”
Jane’s lips tightened.
She hated this. Hated the calm, professional tone of their conversation. Hated how normal it all sounded.
Like they were just two strangers on a mission.
Like he hadn’t nearly killed her, once.
Her fingers trembled on the edge of the dossier, and she forced herself to still them.
She was sitting next to him, speaking to him.
Pretending.
And somehow, she was holding it together.
Barely. But it was hard.
“So,” Bucky asked, turning the page on his file. “any brilliant ideas on how to gain their trust?”
Jane gave a small shrug, thoughtful. “Not yet. We need to know them better before we can figure out how to get in.”
He looked down at the pages open in his lap. “One night won’t be enough to earn anything. But it can be a start. We talk to them. Make ourselves visible. Give them a reason to remember us.”
He looked up, meeting her eyes. “Rich people get bored easily. That’s our advantage. We need to be interesting. Someone they want to see again.”
Jane gave a slight, reluctant nod. He wasn’t wrong. For all her resistance, for all the venom she carried when it came to him, she had to admit he was good at this. Calculated. Calm. Professional. It wasn’t bravado or instinct—It was the monster within.
But that was what made it unbearable.
Because Bucky Barnes hadn’t learned this precision in a classroom or on the field like an ordinary S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. He’d learned it in the most horrific way possible, through brainwashing and bloodshed.
Jane’s stomach turned at the thought. At the idea that what made him so effective was the same thing that had made him a ghost story in the intelligence community for decades. A weapon, wrapped in skin and silence.
And now that weapon was her partner.
They spent the next couple of hours poring over every page of the dossiers—names of friends and distant relatives, schools attended, the fabricated companies they were meant to own and manage. There were photographs of events they’d “attended,” digital forgeries that looked almost too real. There were also lists of shared acquaintances: people the Vogels might name-drop, wealthy insiders they were supposed to know or at least recognize. It was like learning to inhabit the skin of someone else entirely.
By the end of it, Jane felt dizzy from the layers of lies they were expected to absorb.
Finally, Bucky stood, both files in hand, and made his way to the fireplace. He pulled a box of matches from his jacket, struck one, and was about to lower the flame when Jane’s voice cut in, sharp and low.
“I’ll do it.”
Bucky paused, half-turning toward her. Jane had risen from the bed, eyes fixed on the dossiers in his hands. She reached out, not to take them, but to focus. A second passed. Then, without a single gesture, a thin tongue of flame snapped to life between her open palms, crackling softly into the still air of the suite.
It wasn’t the flickering orange of a campfire or the steady glow of a candle—it was wild, pulsing, almost alive. For a moment, it danced along her fingers like a predator tasting the air. Then, as if answering an unspoken command, the flame jumped from her hand to the pile of paper Bucky held, consuming the edges with a sudden, voracious hiss.
Bucky didn’t flinch. He just slowly left the files in the fireplace as they burned, his eyes locked on hers. His expression had shifted, subtly. Not fear, not awe, just… surprise. Like he’d seen something new. Something unexpected. The controlled calm flickered, just for an instant.
Jane held his gaze for a moment longer than she meant to. Then she blinked, lowered her hand, and the flame guttered out. What remained in the fireplace now was ash—black, curling, useless. The identities of Catherine and Benjamin Young reduced to smoke and memory.
Bucky, eyes still fixed on her, brushed the singed edge of his jacket as if to confirm it had truly happened. Jane turned away before he could say anything. She couldn’t hold his stare any longer.
Jane then glanced at the big wooden clock mounted to the wall. Less than an hour remained before the Vogels’ driver was scheduled to arrive.
“We need to get ready,” she said, her voice tight but composed. “They’ll be here soon.”
Without waiting for a reply, she strode across the room, toward her suitcase. Jane didn’t look back. Not when she heard Bucky’s quiet footsteps moving away, not when the silence stretched between them like thread pulled taut.
Focus, she reminded herself. Showtime was coming, and there was no room for mistakes.
Jane’s fingers combed through the sleekly organized layers of fabric nestled in her suitcase, finally giving proper attention to what she’d only half-registered before. And the deeper she went, the more she realized: this wardrobe had been chosen with meticulous care. Every piece was high-end, tailored to her size and silhouette, and coordinated to complement the image of Catherine Young—the polished, enviably styled newlywed she was now expected to embody. There were silks, satins, cashmere, even a pair of elbow-length gloves she hadn’t noticed until now. Every item was expensive, tasteful, and designed to make a statement.
They’d thought of everything.
That realization made something twist in her chest. How thoroughly they’d crafted her role. How deeply they expected her to slip into it.
Eventually, her fingers stopped on a particular dress. A pale pink satin short dress—strapless, with a structured bodice that narrowed at the waist and flared out into a soft, A-line skirt that brushed just above the knees. It was dainty, almost too dainty, like something out of a dream—or a lie. A small, perfectly placed bow sat just above the waistline. It looked delicate, graceful… disarming. Jane stared at it for a moment longer than she meant to, then laid it carefully on the bed. She paired it with a set of nude heels—subtle, efficient, and refined.
She gathered the dress and the heels and moved toward the bathroom, but the door was closed. Locked. She paused, letting out a small sigh. Bucky was inside.
With a faint grunt of frustration, Jane turned and walked back across the suite, setting the delicate bundle of fabric and shoes down beside her on the bed. She sat at the edge, spine stiff, fingers clenched briefly in her lap before loosening.
The bathroom door was in full view from where she sat, pale light bleeding through the thin gap beneath it. But there was no sound from within. No footsteps. No water running. Just silence.
And in that silence, Jane felt it hit her like a sudden weight pressing down on her ribs.
She had no idea what the hell she was doing.
She pretended she did, of course. She always did. The bravado, the sharp words, the cutting sarcasm, they were armor. They were survival. But the truth? If she’d been alone on this mission, maybe, maybe, she would have been fine. Because then she wouldn’t have had to constantly pretend she was in control. She wouldn’t have had to perform the role of “the unshakable one,” the one who knew what to say, what to do, how to breathe like none of this was crawling under her skin.
But she wasn’t alone. She was here. With him.
Not just a partner. Not just another Avenger or agent. Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier.
And that made everything so much harder.
Because Jane had never been good at restraint. She wasn’t made for swallowing emotions. She was made for fire and thunder and sharp edges—she exploded, she broke, she let herself burn. She didn’t bottle things up. She never had.
But now?
Now she had to carry her fury like a secret. Now she had to look him in the eye and speak in measured tones, like she didn’t want to rip his throat out. Now she had to pretend, not just to the Vogels, not just to the world, but to herself.
And it was exhausting.
The kind of exhaustion that made her want to scream. That made her want to rip off the dress she hadn’t even put on yet, curl into a ball, and disappear.
How long would she have to keep this up? How many days? How many weeks would this mission drag on before she could stop pretending to be Catherine Young, newlywed and polished, all soft smiles and controlled breathing?
Her gaze dropped to the pink satin dress in her lap. She ran a thumb over the smooth fabric. Beautiful. Delicate. A costume for a role she hadn’t asked to play.
And then, just as the pressure in her chest began to mount, just as her thoughts started to coil in on themselves, the bathroom door clicked open.
He stepped out casually, his hair a bit more tamed than earlier, still damp and curling slightly at the ends. He wore a white shirt, the top two buttons undone at the collar, no tie—just enough to suggest a more relaxed, effortless confidence. The shirt was tucked neatly into dark trousers, and over it, he wore a tailored navy-blue jacket that gave him a clean, refined silhouette. His posture was easy, but unmistakably attentive—as always—and his eyes swept the room once before briefly landing on her.
Jane caught the glance, but she didn’t hold it. Instead, she dropped her gaze instantly and clenched her jaw.
Then, without a word, she stood and walked past him into the bathroom, clutching her dress and makeup bag. She didn’t look back.
Inside, she took her time. She needed a moment, just one, to regain her balance. To remind herself of who she was pretending to be tonight… and who she actually was beneath the layers.
With another slow breath, she straightened, opened her eyes, and forced her features into stillness. Calm. Unbothered. It was just another role to play. Another mission to survive.
With unsteady hands she unzipped the small bag, then applied a light layer of makeup—just enough to smooth her complexion, brighten her eyes, define her cheekbones. A dusting of shimmer on her eyelids, a faint pink gloss. Soft, subtle, believable. The kind of beauty that didn’t ask for attention, but held it anyway.
She styled her hair loosely, sweeping it into a soft updo with the help of a brush, a few pins, and sheer determination. Some strands were left out to frame her face gently. Casual elegance. It had to match Bucky’s look—effortless, understated. They were supposed to be newlyweds, after all.
When she stepped out of the bathroom, she found him near the window, now in his full coat, his back to her. He turned as he heard the door click behind her.
“The car’s downstairs.” he said, nodding toward the street below. “Black, unmarked. I’m guessing it’s our ride.”
She gave a small nod and crossed the room to retrieve the same thigh holster and pistol she’d used for the opera—sliding the slim weapon into place beneath the folds of her dress, hidden from view but ready, just in case.
When she straightened, Bucky was by the door, holding it open, hand extended. “You ready?”
She looked at the offered hand for a moment too long, her eyes lingering on the gesture. She couldn’t quite understand why he kept trying when all she ever gave him in return was coldness and contempt.
But the thought passed as quickly as it came.
Without looking at him, she stepped past.
“Let’s go.” she just said, her voice low and finally steady.
They didn’t speak as they walked toward the elevator. And the quiet between them was not a silence of ease, but one carefully maintained.
The doors slid shut with a soft metallic sigh, sealing them momentarily in that small space, side by side. Jane’s arms were folded across her chest, eyes fixed on the floor numbers above the door. She could feel Bucky’s presence at her side, solid and unmoving, but she didn’t look at him. There was nothing to say.
Once out of the lobby, they found the black car already waiting at the curb but no one stepped out to greet them. No name was spoken. But there was no doubt: this was the Vogels’ car. The silence was intentional, the mystery deliberate. It was part of the show, a silent reminder of who held the power.
Bucky opened the car door, the leather interior catching the afternoon light. He offered her a hand.
For a moment, Jane simply stared at it. Then, carefully, she placed her hand in his, allowed him to help her in.
Their performance had just begun.
Bucky slid in beside her, and the door shut with a quiet thud. The car eased away from the curb and began to glide through the streets of Paris.
Neither of them spoke as the city passed outside the window in soft, elegant motion—iron balconies, trees still flushed with early spring, the Seine shimmering in the golden light. But Jane hardly noticed. She was too aware of the man seated beside her. Of how close they had to sit, knees nearly brushing. Of how his presence pulled at the edges of her focus, no matter how she tried to block him out.
Once, she caught him watching her. Their eyes met. She looked away almost immediately, turning her face toward the window. Less eye contact meant fewer cracks in the mask. For the sake of the mission, and for her own sanity, it was better that way.
The drive stretched on, longer than she’d expected. They left the tighter arteries of the city and entered greener territory, the streets widening, the buildings thinning. Finally, after nearly forty minutes, the car slowed and turned down a long gravel path. Trees lined the drive like sentinels, old and thick with ivy. At the end of it stood the house.
Villa was too modest a word.
The estate was massive. Four stories of pale limestone and glass, its roof crowned with sharp angles and discreet balconies. The front lawn was a work of art: manicured hedges, a wide fountain, lights hidden beneath sculpted paths. And beyond it, nestled in the trees, the quiet hum of security systems. Discreet, but unmistakable.
Bucky exited first. The driver didn’t move. Jane hesitated only a second before taking his hand and stepping out. The heels clicked against the stone steps. The air was thick with lavender and money.
And then the door opened.
A man in a crisp grey suit greeted them with the precision of someone who’d rehearsed every gesture.
“Mr. and Mrs. Young.” he said smoothly. “Please, this way.”
No mention of the hosts. The secrecy continued.
They stepped inside.
If the exterior was a performance, the interior was the climax. Everything gleamed. White marble floors with gold inlay. A sweeping staircase with carved glass railings. Art on every wall, the kind that didn’t need to be explained to command attention. Sculptures placed with the kind of care that whispered money. Real money.
Jane walked slowly, her eyes tracing the edges of the room. The design was modern but intimate. Clearly curated for moments like this, for nights designed to impress and intimidate.
They were led into the salon, a high-ceilinged room with floor-to-ceiling windows and rich velvet sofas arranged in a loose circle. The lighting was soft, golden, as if every bulb had been dipped in honey. Jane counted at least seven other guests already seated—well-dressed, laughing softly, sipping from long-stemmed flutes of champagne.
It was a collection of power. Quiet, cultivated power.
And then they saw them.
Annalise Vogel turned first, her presence magnetic even from a distance. Her champagne-colored gown shimmered as she raised her glass in a toast-like gesture toward them. Christian followed her gaze, his smile polite, controlled.
“Ah,” Annalise said, her voice slicing effortlessly through the low murmur of conversation. “Our newest guests.”
The room stilled for a moment, as though the very air recognized the significance of their arrival.
“Darlings,” she added, her tone like silk with a hint of blade. “Do come in.”
Jane tightened her grip on Bucky’s arm, a perfect mimicry of a devoted wife. And as they stepped forward into that circle of wealth and danger, she reminded herself of the stakes.
Christian stepped forward with a gracious smile, his hands clasped loosely in front of him as he addressed the room. “Everyone,” he began, his voice calm but commanding, “these are the Youngs—a fortunate acquaintance made just yesterday night at the Opéra Garnier.”
He turned slightly, gesturing toward Jane and Bucky as though presenting a fine piece of art. “Quite the striking couple, wouldn’t you agree? I had a feeling they’d prove to be… interesting.”
A soft murmur of approval rippled through the room, the kind that said everything and nothing at once.
Christian continued, tone light but unmistakably deliberate. “Tonight is simply meant to get to know one another a little better. It’s always refreshing to welcome new energy into our circle, and there’s nothing quite like a newlywed couple to do just that. Youth—it changes the air in a room.”
As if on cue, a uniformed waiter approached, holding a polished silver tray adorned with two slender champagne flutes. He stopped before them and extended the offering without a word.
Jane took one of the glasses, her smile automatic, rehearsed. Her fingers brushed the chilled crystal as she raised it slightly in acknowledgment. Beside her, Bucky did the same.
She could already feel the weight of a dozen eyes, measuring, dissecting.
Jane had just started sipping her champagne when Annalise detached herself from the crowd with feline grace, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor, the silk of her gown shimmering beneath the crystal chandelier’s light. She crossed the room toward Jane, her eyes gleaming with mischief and intent. “Come, my dear.” she said, slipping her arm around Jane’s. “I must introduce you to my dearest friends.”
Jane barely had time to reply before she was gently but firmly led away, her champagne glass still delicately balanced between her fingers. She could feel Bucky’s eyes on her back as Annalise steered her toward a plush divan nestled in a quiet alcove of the room. Three women were seated there, all dressed impeccably, their expressions a blend of curiosity and subtle appraisal.
Annalise brought Jane to a halt beside one of them first—a tall, regal woman with high cheekbones, light brown hair swept into a low chignon, and a gaze like frost behind her tortoiseshell glasses. “This,” Annalise said with a fond tone, “is the Comtesse Élise de Rochambeau. She and her husband are among our oldest and most cherished friends.”
The countess extended a hand, her fingers heavy with rings. “Charmed.” she said with a clipped, aristocratic accent. It wasn’t hostility—just a well-practiced superiority, the kind that came from generations of old money and social maneuvering. Jane smiled back and gave a polite nod, keeping her own expression neutral. She could already tell this woman was the kind who would spot the tiniest crack in someone’s mask.
Next, Annalise gestured to a woman with black hair in a sleek bun and an emerald necklace resting on her chest. Her posture was perfect, her demeanor less cold than the countess’s but no less watchful. “And this is Mrs. Strauss. She and her husband are some of our most loyal clients. We always find each other here in Paris come spring.”
“Delighted.” Mrs. Strauss said, with a warm tone that didn’t quite match the calculating way she studied Jane from head to toe.
“And finally,” Annalise turned to the last of the trio, a woman well into her seventies, her face creased with time but her eyes sharp and clear, framed by thin silver hair. “This is Miss Hannelore Weiss. She was Christian’s private tutor for many years. Taught him everything he knows, isn’t that right?”
“Christian was a delicate child.” Hannelore said matter-of-factly, her voice soft but unwavering. “Sickly, prone to long bouts of illness. You wouldn’t know it to look at him now, of course.”
Annalise laughed lightly. “Indeed. Look at him now. Strong, confident. You would never guess.”
Across the room, Christian stood speaking with Bucky, flanked by two other men in tailored suits. Jane nodded absently, eyes drifting for a second toward her so-called husband. Then Annalise leaned in, returning Jane’s attention. “Now, my dear,” she said smoothly, “tell us. Where are you from?”
Jane smiled, as naturally as she could manage. “New York,” she replied. “Brooklyn, actually. We run a small but growing business centered on art. Galleries, acquisitions, that sort of thing. Though lately, my husband has been expanding his interests into other sectors.”
As she spoke those last words, she met Annalise’s eyes deliberately. A silent message exchanged in the space of a heartbeat. Alternative interests.
Annalise’s lips curled into a smile. “Ah, we are great admirers of the arts ourselves, aren’t we?” She gestured elegantly. “Especially painting. Our collection in Berlin is extensive. Classical and contemporary both. But we’ve brought a few treasures here as well.”
She began to list a few pieces—modern, striking, names Jane recognized. And while she spoke, Jane nodded appropriately, aware of every gesture, every turn of phrase.
Then the countess raised her voice just slightly. “Ladies,” she said, rising slowly from her seat. “I do believe it’s time for some air. I need a cigarette. Who will join me?”
Annalise stood immediately, offering Jane her arm again. “Come,” she said. “You’ll love our garden.”
They moved toward the glass doors at the far end of the room, which led out onto a marble terrace. From there, a staircase of cream-colored stone descended into the garden, which was nothing short of breathtaking.
Even in the soft glow of early evening, the landscaping was exquisite. Carved hedges in labyrinthine patterns surrounded white gravel paths. Lanterns hung from archways of wrought iron wrapped in ivy, casting golden light on the rose bushes and tall, flowering trees. At the center, a grand wooden gazebo stood beneath a canopy of climbing vines in full bloom. Beneath it sat a table set with delicate china, crystal ashtrays, and a small tray of macarons.
The women settled into the cushioned chairs, and Jane, for a moment, let herself exhale. But only slightly. She knew this was no social break. This was still the game. Still the mission.
The lighter flicked softly in the dusk as the Countess brought the flame to the end of a slim, elegant cigarette. A moment later, Annalise followed suit with a fluid motion of her own, exhaling the first slow curl of smoke with practiced grace. She tilted her head toward Jane, her eyes gleaming beneath the warm light cast by the ornate lanterns hanging from the wooden beams of the gazebo. “And you and your husband,” she said, voice smooth and lilting, “how did you two meet? You seem very… attuned to each other.”
Jane offered a careful smile. “At an art exhibition, actually,” she replied, voice light, unhurried. “I was there as a visitor, and Ben was managing the event. It started as a conversation about a sculpture I found absurdly overpriced.” She let out a soft chuckle, playing the part. “Somehow, the argument turned into dinner. And the rest, as they say, is history.”
“A romantic story,” Annalise replied, her smile widening. “Adorable.” There was a musical quality to her tone, though Jane couldn’t decide if she was mocking or merely amused. “And now married, young, rich, and beautiful.” She paused, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “How lovely.”
Jane’s posture remained perfectly composed. “We’re still at the beginning,” she added. “But so far, it’s been very good between us.”
Annalise laughed bright and sharp, cutting through the cool evening air like a blade wrapped in velvet. “Ah! A wise answer, my dear. The beginning is always easy, isn’t it? Full of sweet things and long evenings and no real burdens. But time,” she continued, swirling her flute of champagne in her hand, “time tells us what love really is.”
Then, with a single motion so fluid it might’ve passed as accidental to anyone less trained than Jane, Annalise shifted slightly and the contents of her glass tilted forward—spilling in a graceful arc over Jane’s lap. The golden liquid soaked the pale fabric of her dress, spreading quickly in a wide stain.
A small gasp rose from one of the other women, perhaps the Countess, who pressed a manicured hand to her mouth. But Jane saw it. The twitch at the edge of her lips. A smile she tried to suppress but failed to fully hide.
“Oh, mon dieu, forgive me.” Annalise said, all wide eyes and concern that didn’t quite reach them. “I truly didn’t mean to. How clumsy of me. Such a shame, on such a beautiful dress. Was it silk, perhaps?”
Jane glanced down at the ruin spreading across her lap. Her instinct was rage. But what flared up in her chest, what caught fire for half a heartbeat, was smothered just as quickly. She looked up again, face serene, the perfect mask. “No harm done,” she said, rising to her feet as she folded her napkin with deliberate grace and set it beside her drink. “These things happen.”
Annalise stood as well, still cooing softly. “If you need to freshen up, ask François. He’ll show you the way, darling.”
Jane’s smile didn’t falter. “Thank you. I’ll be back in a moment.”
She turned and stepped back toward the house, heels clicking softly against the stone path. Her dress clung to her thigh unpleasantly, the champagne drying stickily as the cool night air kissed her skin. She didn’t rush, didn’t falter. She couldn’t afford to. There was something sharp and ancient in the way these people moved, in the way they played their games. Predatory elegance. But Jane had been prey before. She wasn’t anymore.
Once inside, the relative quiet of the house wrapped around her like a weighted shroud. She took a few steps forward, unsure of exactly where to go, when she saw Christian.
He was standing at the edge of the grand hallway, his back to a glass cabinet that shimmered with crystal decanters. His gaze dropped to the soaked front of her gown, and he raised his eyebrows slightly, head tilting.
“Oh no,” he said. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Jane replied, adjusting the shawl draped across her arm. “Just an unfortunate spill. I only need to find the bathroom.”
He watched her for a beat too long, his eyes not lingering anywhere inappropriate, but not indifferent either. There was something in the way he regarded her—analytical, amused, perhaps even curious. Then he nodded. “Come,” he said. “I’ll show you. I am the host, after all.”
Jane hesitated for the briefest moment. It wasn’t a question. It was an announcement. A claim. And yet, refusing him would raise more questions than following. So she inclined her head with a small smile and stepped forward, falling into stride beside him.
As they moved down the long hallway, past massive oil paintings and sculptural art pieces displayed like trophies, Jane kept her posture flawless, her senses sharpened. Whatever had just occurred outside had been a warning shot, a test. And if Annalise had set the tone, it was now Christian who would measure the response. But Jane had played roles before. Worn masks heavier than this one. And she wasn’t about to falter now.
Christian came to a smooth halt before a door on their left, his hand gesturing toward it with the same grace he applied to everything he did. “Here we are. Though, if I may say so,” he added, voice low and polished, eyes raking over her with casual appreciation, “that little spill does nothing to dull your extraordinary beauty.”
Jane held his gaze, unmoving. “Catherine,” he continued. “That is your name, isn’t it? We were just speaking of you, actually. Your husband was quite… expressive.”
Jane tilted her head slightly, curious despite herself.
“He’s a man madly in love. It’s obvious. And honestly,” Christian leaned in closer, his tone dropping an octave, “it’s not difficult to see why.”
Before she could step back, he took her hand and raised it to his lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles—not hurriedly, not politely, but deliberately. The touch of his mouth lingered just a moment too long. Jane felt it like a static charge across her skin.
Their eyes locked again. There was no mistaking it: the intensity, the invitation, the test. And yet, Jane didn’t flinch. Instead, she gave him a measured smile. The kind she’d perfected over lifetimes. She let her eyes soften just a little, as if flattered, as if intrigued.
“My husband and I have many contacts, Mr. Vogel,” she said sweetly. “Some of whom spoke very highly of you and your wife.”
Christian arched a brow, amused. “Is that so?”
“Mm-hmm,” Jane continued, stepping slightly closer, keeping the tension taut. “While his primary field is art, lately he’s developed an interest in other… investments. You know how it is. When you hold a certain kind of power, enemies tend to appear.”
Christian gave a knowing nod, lips curving into something that hovered between flirtation and curiosity. “Yes. And with enemies, comes the need for protection. Naturally.”
Jane offered another smile, calculated. “We have much to protect. And I know you’re the right person to help us with it.”
Christian’s eyes glinted. “My wife, as you may have noticed, has a sense about people. When she saw you at the opera, she said there was more to you than met the eye. That you were the interesting one. Now I see she was right. You seem like the kind of person who’s quite clear about what they want.”
Jane laughed lightly. “I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As you should.”
And suddenly, he was even closer. Their faces only inches apart. The scent of his cologne, warm and rich, wrapped around her senses. Jane didn’t step back. She didn’t blink. This was the game. She had played it before.
Pretending to be attracted, pretending to be charmed. Pretending was survival. Pretending was a language she spoke fluently.
But then—
“My love.” a voice cut in, smooth and effortless.
Jane blinked. Bucky.
She turned, and there he was, walking toward them with hands in his pockets, calm. But his eyes were sharp and fixed on her. And for a moment, her stomach flipped with irritation.
Damn it.
She had Christian. She had his attention. The beginnings of curiosity. Of trust. Of opportunity. And now it was broken.
“There you are,” Bucky said with a low chuckle. “I was wondering where you’d gone.”
Christian turned to him, smiling politely. “She had a little accident. I was just helping her find the toilet.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the stain on her dress. “As you can see.”
“So thoughtful of you.” Bucky replied, placing a hand on Jane’s waist.
Jane stiffened at the contact. His palm was warm. Steady. Too steady.
Christian’s eyes lingered a beat longer than necessary, then he nodded. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”
And just like that, he was gone.
Jane didn’t wait a second. She grabbed Bucky by the lapel and pulled him closer, her lips near his ear, as if whispering something tender. But her words were anything but.
“What the hell are you doing?” she hissed.
“I was securing our cover.” Bucky answered, voice low, eyes still on her face.
“You ruined it. He was about to open up. And you storm in like some jealous boyfriend?”
Bucky didn’t flinch. “You don’t know them yet. You don’t know what they’re capable of. Splitting up isn’t the play, not yet. And in case you forgot, this is a couple mission.”
Jane clenched her jaw. “I don’t need a chaperone.”
“No,” Bucky said, voice low and unflinching. “But you do need a partner. And like it or not, I’m what you’ve got.”
Jane froze.
For a second, one unbearable, unguarded second, she realized his arms were still around her. He hadn’t stepped back. His hands, steady and warm, rested at her waist.
And that’s when it happened.
A shiver rippled over her skin, from the point where his fingers touched her, all the way to her spine. Not just a physical reaction, it was something else. Something deeper, older. A memory, but not quite.
Her breath caught. Her eyes lifted, met his.
And in that instant, time fractured.
She saw him. The Winter Soldier. His face only inches from hers, the cold gleam of his metal arm rising like a guillotine. The air then had smelled of iron, blood, snow. She remembered the way he’d looked at her that day, expressionless and inhuman, a weapon pulled too tight on the verge of snapping. The sound of her own heart pounding as she realized she might die. That memory was real. Sharp-edged. Brutal. She had lived it.
But layered over that moment, like two reels of film not quite aligned, came another image.
Him again. Not as the Winter Soldier. But younger. Smiling. Wearing a crisp olive-green uniform from another century, another war. The cap sat slightly askew on his head, the brim casting a shadow over one brow, and a few locks of dark hair spilled out from underneath. His grin was roguish, like he was about to say something and get punched for it. His eyes sparkled with mischief. There was sunlight behind him. Warmth. Life. And yet—
She had never seen him like that. She couldn’t have.
Was it imagination? A projection of her mind?
The two images pulsed in her head: the soldier who had almost killed her, and the soldier she had never known. Her body reacted before her mind could catch up.
She pulled away like she’d touched fire.
Bucky’s hands dropped to his sides, and she didn’t dare look at him again.
Without a word, she turned and disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind her.
Once inside, she pressed her back to the wall and finally let herself breathe. Really breathe. Her eyes fluttered shut, her pulse still galloping in her throat.
Her skin still tingled where he had touched her. As if her body hadn’t caught up to her brain, as if the memory of him was still imprinted there, just under the surface.
That smile. That cap. That impossible, impossible familiarity.
What the hell was that?
Jane stared at her reflection, both palms pressed against the cool marble of the sink, fingers splayed as if anchoring herself to reality. Her breath was uneven, chest rising and falling like waves in a storm. Her hair was styled perfectly, her makeup intact, and yet, the woman in the mirror looked nothing like someone in control.
“God, what is wrong with you?” she whispered, the words barely audible, lost in the hum of the room. Her voice cracked, raw and hollow.
She dropped her gaze, unable to face herself any longer, and turned on the faucet. Cold water splashed against the porcelain basin, unforgiving and sharp. She dipped her wrists under the stream, letting the chill bite into her skin, then splashed a handful against the back of her neck. It didn’t help. Her pulse still thundered, her ribs still ached from holding her breath too long.
Reaching for the hand towel beside the sink, she dampened it slightly and dabbed at the faint stain on her skirt. She pressed the cloth into the fabric again and again, until the mark had faded to something barely visible. Still, she knew it was there. She could feel it like a bruise.
She let the towel fall to the counter and smoothed out the pleats of her dress. The motion was slow, mechanical. Her hands were still trembling. Her throat burned. Her heart was racing, unmoored. The truth was, she was losing control again. Or maybe she never really had it, not since the moment she stepped off that plane. But she couldn’t think about that. Not now. Not here.
She shoved the thought away and opened the bathroom door.
The lounge was empty. The low murmur of distant voices drifted from the other end of the villa. The soft clink of glass against silver.
François, the house butler, appeared silently.
“Madam,” he said gently. “They are waiting for you in the dining room. The dinner has just begun.”
Jane gave a small nod and followed him down the long corridor.
The dining room immersed in a soft light, amber-hued, casting everything in a flattering, expensive glow. A long table stretched the length of the room, set with gleaming silverware, thin-stemmed glasses, and centerpieces of white orchids and floating candles. Every seat was filled except one.
Jane’s eyes scanned the guests, and she found the empty chair beside Bucky. He sat with practiced ease, a glass of wine in one hand. The role of elegant husband fit him too well.
She moved toward him and sat down, drawing a few curious glances. Just as she settled, Annalise’s voice rose lightly from across the table.
“Ah, there you are, Catherine.” she said with a smile. “We were beginning to wonder what had happened to you. You were missed.”
Jane returned the smile, trying to match the warmth, to seem effortless. “I’m sorry for making you wait,” she said gently. “Truly.”
She adjusted her posture, inching closer to the table. The silence only lasted a second before the staff began to serve the first course: a delicate asparagus tartlet with a drizzle of saffron cream and shaved truffle. It was art on a plate, perfumed and perfect.
Beside her, Bucky reached for the wine. His voice was low, meant only for her. “You okay?”
Jane didn’t look at him. “Focus on the mission.” she said quietly but firm. “That’s what matters. Not me.”
He didn’t reply. But she could feel his gaze on her skin, on the edge of her jaw, like a physical thing.
The conversation rolled on around them. Christian, seated near the head of the table, leaned forward toward Bucky with curious intent.
“And tell me, Benjamin,” he said smoothly. “What kind of art do you deal in? I assume contemporary?”
Bucky smiled and nodded. “Yes. Contemporary, primarily. I represent a few collectors in New York, and we’re currently focused on emerging sculptural work. Urban materials, post-industrial influence. The kind of pieces that start a conversation.”
His confidence was seamless.
Jane remained mostly silent, nodding when appropriate, sipping from her glass but tasting nothing. Her thoughts were a blur, her body a shell. She hated herself for it—for the silence, for the numbness, for not being able to find her way back into the role.
She didn’t even realize she’d zoned out until Bucky’s fingers found her chin.
It was a barely-there touch, gentle but commanding. He tilted her face toward him, his eyes searching hers with something close to concern… or warning.
“We were thinking of traveling more,” Bucky said lightly, to the group, though his gaze was locked on her. “My wife and I. Japan, maybe. This summer. It’s a beautiful place, culturally and artistically.”
His thumb brushed against her cheek, a whisper of pressure that said: wake up.
Jane blinked.
“Yes,” she said, turning toward the table, her voice measured. “It’s always been a dream of mine, actually. And I can’t wait to visit. Though I suppose it’ll take some planning. We’ve been so busy lately… right, Ben?”
Christian chuckled. “Well, perhaps you need a little break.” He glanced toward the count and added, “Don’t you think we should invite this lovely couple with us this weekend? They seem like they could use some air. And they’d be delightful company.”
The count gave a pleased nod. “Of course, of course. A perfect idea.”
Christian turned to them with a glint in his eye. “We’re heading to Annalise’s family estate. A few days in the countryside, away from the city. The count and countess will join us. So will Mr. and Mrs. Strauss. It would be lovely to have another couple. A chance to… get to know each other better.”
His gaze landed on Jane again. There was something direct, nearly intimate in it.
She held it, subtly, but long enough to suggest intrigue. Attraction. Whatever he wanted to read there.
“We’d be delighted.” Bucky said, tone warm. “It’s such a pleasure to find friends here in Paris—a city we both love deeply. I’m sure we’ll be spending more time here, even next year.”
Annalise interjected, laughing. “Next year? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We must enjoy the now. We’ll be happy to welcome you this weekend.”
Jane nodded, her voice calm. “And we’ll be happy to come.”
There was a moment of subtle tension, eyes exchanged across the candlelight. Jane and Anneliese. Jane and Christian. Jane and Bucky. Too many mirrors. Too many lies.
The evening went on.
Dessert was served: a panna cotta glazed with berry coulis and a sugar shard. It sat untouched before Jane. Her appetite had long since vanished.
Eventually, the guests began to rise. Chairs scraped softly against polished floors. Cheeks were kissed, hands shaken, farewells whispered. Laughter floated through the hall like perfume, elegant and hollow.
Jane stood, feeling the burn of fatigue in her legs, the weight of silence in her chest. Her body moved through the rituals of goodbye, but her mind wandered elsewhere. She watched Annalise embrace one of the women from the garden, watched Christian kiss the hand of the countess, watched Bucky speak with Strauss.
And she felt… removed. As if the air had shifted and she was watching the scene from behind glass.
She smiled at the right people, nodded at the right moments, said thank you with a voice that didn’t feel like hers.
And still—somewhere beneath the surface—the tremble remained.
As Christian and Annalise approached, their smiles were warm, perfectly measured.
“We hope you enjoyed the evening,” Christian said with a gracious nod, eyes flicking between her and Bucky. “The car that brought you here will take you back to the hotel. And tomorrow, we’ll send the same one to pick you up for the weekend.”
Bucky inclined his head, polite but steady. “We can manage on our own, if you’d prefer. Just give us the address, and—”
Christian lifted a hand with a soft chuckle and shook his head. “Absolutely not. We’ll take care of everything. Don’t worry about a thing.”
“Of course,” Annalise added, her voice light, almost floating. “It’s the least we can do. See you tomorrow!”
The black car pulled up through the open gates of the property. The headlights washed across the driveway in long, pale beams, and the car glided to a stop just in front of them.
Without a word, Bucky stepped forward and opened the rear door for Jane. She slid in, smoothing the fabric of her skirt as she settled into the leather seat. Bucky joined her a moment later, closing the door behind them with a quiet click.
The silence inside the car was heavy. As the vehicle pulled away from the estate, Jane turned her gaze toward the window, watching the stone façade of the villa recede into the darkness, swallowed by trees and shadow. Her reflection blurred in the glass, showing a distant version of herself.
Beside her, Bucky studied her for a few seconds.
“Can you tell me what the hell happened back there?” He paused. “Did he do something to you?”
Jane turned her head slowly, and in the low light of the car, her eyes met his, and something shifted in her expression.
“No,” she said quietly. “Nothing happened. I’m just tired. That’s it.”
Bucky didn’t respond right away. He kept looking at her, searching her face as if trying to determine whether to push further. For a moment, a heartbeat of silence, Jane had the distinct impression he was about to say something else. But he didn’t.
Instead, he turned his gaze toward his own window, lips pressed into a thin line. And that was the end of it.
Once they returned to the hotel, Jane had gone straight to the bathroom. She didn’t speak. Didn’t look at Bucky. Didn’t even glance in his direction as she walked past him, still sitting on the armrest of one of the armchairs in the suite, silent, unreadable. The moment the door closed behind her, she undressed quickly, mechanically, and stepped into the shower. She didn’t wait for the water to heat. Cold. That was what she needed. Cold, fast, relentless. The water hit her skin in sharp needles, chasing away the residue of the evening—the conversation, the faces, the hand on her waist. She didn’t even shiver. She let it pour over her like punishment. Like penance. She stayed under until her skin was numb and her thoughts slightly clearer, if only by contrast.
When she finally stepped out, her hair was damp, clinging to her neck. She toweled off and slipped into her silk pajamas and sat down on the edge of the bed, upright, back straight, hands on her thighs. Breathing, just breathing. For a moment, she didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
And then, under her breath, she whispered to herself, “You won’t fail like this again.” A vow. A line in the sand she knew she might not keep.
This could not happen again. Lose focus so visibly. Let her emotions bleed into the mission. She was here to work. Not to feel. Not to remember.
She had built a wall after dinner. Brick by brick, word by word left unsaid. And Bucky had seen it. Felt it. And strangely… respected it. He hadn’t tried to speak to her since they entered the hotel suite. He’d even stepped outside onto the terrace once she was out of the bathroom, the soft sound of the sliding door sealing the distance between them.
Now he was there. Outside. Alone. Maybe thinking. Maybe planning the next move. Maybe just breathing away from her presence. And she was here. Inside. Stuck in her own mind, her own body, her own guilt.
She was still trying to process the chaos in her mind when a faint chime, delicate but unmistakable, interrupted her.
Her eyes widened.
That wasn’t her S.H.I.E.L.D. device. That wasn’t the phone she used for the mission. That sound—it was her personal smartphone. The one she kept hidden, tucked deep in the lining of her backpack, zipped in the back of the wardrobe. Her heart jolted.
Scrambling, she got up from the bed, crossed the room in swift silence, yanked open the closet, pulled out the backpack and shut herself in the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Her fingers fumbled with the zipper.
Unknown number. But she knew. She didn’t need a name.
She sat on the closed toilet lid, back pressed to the far wall, knees drawn up slightly. Then she answered.
“Tony.” she breathed. Just his name. A whisper. Like a prayer or a warning.
There was silence on the other end.
Then, “Hi, Jane.”
Her chest tightened. The sound of his voice—familiar, warm, a little raspy—nearly broke her.
She closed her eyes. Swallowed. Her fists clenched in her lap.
“I didn’t think you’d call,” she said quietly.
A pause.
“Well,” he said, “I didn’t think I would either. But here we are.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. The silence stretched again.
“How’s it going?” he asked. “Wherever you are.”
She laughed, but it wasn’t joyful. It cracked at the edges. If only he knew. If she told him the truth—I’m on a mission with the man who killed your parents and I don’t know if I’m going to make it through without falling apart—what would he say?
The irony of it all was almost hysterical. She bit her lip hard.
“It’s… not easy,” she said instead. “But when is anything easy with Nick Fury involved?”
A dry chuckle on the other end. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”
“Do you know when you’ll be back?” he continued.
She shook her head instinctively, then realized he couldn’t see it. “No. Honestly, I don’t. Might be a while.”
There was a long silence. So long that she thought maybe he regretted the call. Maybe he was about to hang up. Maybe he shouldn’t have dialed at all.
But then, he spoke again. Softer this time. Slower.
“I was worried about you.” he said. “I know you can take care of yourself. You’re tough. But… I don’t know. I just… needed to hear it. That you’re okay.”
Her throat tightened. Her heart kicked painfully in her chest.
He cared. Still. After everything. After the mess. After the silence. After the last time they saw each other—the last time they touched. That moment burned behind her eyes: the tenderness, the desperation, the guilt. The way he’d looked at her afterward, shame and regret colliding in his gaze.
She clenched her fists tighter, fingernails biting into her palms.
“I’m okay,” she lied. “Actually… I’m in a luxury hotel, wearing silk pajamas, and I just had dinner with some of the richest people in Europe, so… yeah. I’m holding it together.”
Tony gave a short laugh. “Then maybe our lives aren’t that different after all, at the moment.”
That made her smile, somehow. A sad little thing.
“Not so different, huh?” she echoed. “I’m not sure about that.”
There was another pause.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, hesitant now. “I don’t know if I should say this, but… I’ve been thinking about you.”
Her eyes welled. A tear slipped free.
“Me too,” she whispered. “I’ve been thinking about you.”
More tears followed, hot and soundless. She didn’t want him to hear. Didn’t want him to know. Not now. Not like this.
She needed an exit. An excuse.
“I have to go,” she said quickly, voice tight. “I think they’re calling me. Don’t want to blow my cover, right?”
“Right,” he said. “No. That’s… not what I want.”
A beat.
“Bye, Jane.”
She hesitated. “Yeah. Goodnight, Tony.”
Then, softer. “Even if it’s not night for you.”
“No,” he said gently. “But it’s night somewhere. Goodnight, Jane.”
Click.
The call ended.
Jane let the phone slip from her hand. It hit the floor with a dull thud. She stared at the opposite wall, unmoving, as tears fell freely now, without restraint. Salty, bitter, quiet.
She sat like that for minutes. Maybe more.
Then, slowly, she pushed herself up. Took the phone and hid it in the backpack again, then she wiped at her face with the back of her wrist, angry and abrupt. She looked at herself in the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back. Her eyes were red. Her face pale. Her mouth a hard line.
She leaned forward, splashed cold water on her face, scrubbing at the tears as if they were shame made visible.
And then she walked out.
She moved with purpose. Mechanical, determined. Straight to the minibar.
Inside there were rows of tiny bottles. Vodka. Whiskey. Gin. Tequila.
She grabbed one. Opened it. Drank. The burn was immediate. Necessary.
She opened another. She didn’t care what it was. She just needed to shut everything down. The voice. The memories. The ache. The guilt. The what ifs. The fact that she wanted to call him back. The fact that she still loved him. The fact that she was here, and Bucky was outside, and the world felt too small and too loud all at once.
One more bottle. And then another.
Because right now, there was only one thing she needed: silence. And alcohol was faster than grief.
When Bucky stepped back into the suite quietly, shutting the door behind him with care, it felt almost as if he were trying not to wake a sleeping animal. The room was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of a bedside lamp and the city lights bleeding faintly through the curtains.
Jane was standing near the minibar, half inside her trench coat, the creamy fabric slipping from one shoulder as she wrestled clumsily with the belt. She was muttering something to herself—too low to hear, too fast to follow—and beside her, on the desk just next to the fridge, was a tidy line of empty bottles. Tiny glass graves.
Bucky’s gaze flicked from the bottles to her face, and it was all he needed to understand.
Her cheeks were flushed, unnaturally so. Not the glow of health or excitement, this was the red of intoxication. Her eyes shimmered with the kind of brightness that didn’t come from joy, but from tears not yet shed. And her movements, usually precise and restrained, were now uneven, off-kilter. She wobbled slightly as she slipped one arm through the trench’s sleeve in a near-miss motion that made Bucky step forward instinctively.
“Where are you going?” he asked, keeping his voice level.
Jane didn’t answer at first. She just gave a vague shrug, tightening the belt around her waist like it might anchor her to something solid. “Out.” she said eventually, her voice hoarse, distracted. “Just need some air. A walk.”
“That’s a bad idea.” he pressed. “You said it yourself. We’re not supposed to draw attention to ourselves, and you’re—”
She stopped then, mid-movement, and turned her head sharply to face him. Her eyes met his with a clarity that cut straight through the fog of alcohol. For one moment, they were lucid. Hard. “And I’m what?” she snapped. “Go on. Say it. I’m what?”
Bucky didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. The words hung between them like smoke.
Jane laughed under her breath, not humorously but bitterly, and turned toward the door again. She was almost at the handle when Bucky reached her. His hand closed gently but firmly around her arm, just below the elbow, and he pulled her back toward him. Not rough. Not forceful. But undeniably firm.
“You can’t go,” he said, his voice low, taut. “Not like this. Not in this state.”
“Don’t touch me!” she burst out, louder now, her voice cracking on the edge of something jagged. “You make me insane when you do that, don’t you get it?”
“I’m not letting you leave drunk in the middle of the night, Jane.” he shot back. “I can’t. I won’t.”
Her body twisted in his grip, but he didn’t loosen it. His hand was steady, immovable, like stone. And for a moment, Jane looked at him like she didn’t know whether to scream or cry or set him on fire. She could. She wanted to. A flick of her mind and he’d be across the room. But she didn’t.
Because even drunk as she was, even with fury and heartbreak roaring through her bloodstream like a second kind of intoxication—some small, quiet part of her still knew: she shouldn’t.
So she exhaled all at once and lifted both her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay.” she slurred with a laugh that was too loud, too bright. “I give up. Jesus. Just wanted a drink.”
Bucky watched her closely, not relaxing. His eyes were dark and unreadable.
Jane stumbled a few steps back and collapsed into one of the armchairs, peeling the trench off in one graceless motion. It slid to the floor like silk, forgotten. She ran her hands through her hair, then looked up at him with something sharper than anger. Something like exhaustion.
“You need to stop being so fucking polite with me.” she said, voice cracking on the edge of her fury. “Stop pretending. I know who you are, Winter Soldier. I know exactly who you are. So why do you keep playing this part? Even when you’re not on stage. Even when it’s just us.”
He flinched a little at that. Not visibly. But something in his jaw tightened. His hands closed into loose fists at his sides.
Jane stood again, staggered, but upright, and crossed the room in three uneven steps. She reached for him, took his face between both hands and held it there, forcing him to look at her. Her grip wasn’t rough, but it was absolute.
“I know who you are,” she whispered. “And this face? This pretty stupid face of yours—” she shook her head, almost laughing, almost crying “—it doesn’t change a damn thing. You hear me?”
He didn’t answer.
“Do you hear me?” she demanded again, louder this time. “Barnes.”
And then she laughed. A wild, breathless laugh that turned into something like a sob. She let go of his face, turned, and stumbled back toward the bed. She collapsed onto the mattress with a thud, dragging the blankets over herself like a shield. She pulled the covers up to her head, hiding completely. Disappearing.
And Bucky?
He stood there for a long moment. Just watching. His hands still hanging at his sides. His throat tight. His expression lost.
There was a storm beneath his skin—of guilt, of memory, but he didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.
He just stood there in the middle of the room, alone with her silence and her drunken grief.
Notes:
Okay, so this chapter turned out to be pretty long — again — but I promise it was necessary. I really needed the space to finally set the mission in motion, but also to start laying the foundation for Jane and Bucky’s dynamic… which, as you can probably tell, is anything but simple.
Jane is in deep crisis right now. Emotionally, she’s never been very stable, in fact, she’s defined by extremes: fits of rage, depressive spirals, moments of recklessness. And as you’ve probably noticed, she has a certain way of coping when things get bad. She drowns her pain, her doubts, her guil… in alcohol, in numbing herself until she doesn’t have to feel anymore. It’s a pattern. And I’m really trying to explore this side of her without romanticizing it, to show you just how complex and contradictory she is. Jane often says one thing and does another. She breaks her own rules. She’s not steady, but that’s what makes her so human.
And then there’s Bucky.
I’ll be honest with you: writing Bucky is hard. Way harder than writing Tony. Tony is my comfort zone. I know his voice, his rhythm, his sarcasm, and the vulnerability underneath all of that. But Bucky? Bucky is quiet, closed off, full of shadows. I’ve never written much from his perspective before, and it’s a challenge, but an exciting one. He’s enigmatic, and sometimes I struggle to pin down exactly how he’d react, but that also makes him fascinating. So thank you for bearing with me as I try to do him justice.
As for Tony’s phone call… yeah. That was the emotional breaking point for Jane. The final push. She’s at the edge of herself, and hearing his voice, hearing that he still cares, shattered something inside her. She’s not even trying to deny how she feels anymore. And meanwhile, Bucky’s presence pulls her in a totally different direction. There’s hatred there. Resentment. But also pity. Confusion. And then that weird déjà vu… but I won’t say more on that for now.
I really hope you enjoyed the chapter. Please let me know what you think! Your thoughts and comments mean the world to me. Honestly, they’re what keeps me going. I also really value constructive feedback, so don’t hold back if you have suggestions or critiques. I want to grow and improve, and your input helps more than you know.
See you soon and thank you, truly, for reading.
xx
Chapter 11: Bonding
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The world tilted violently as Jane’s body lurched awake.
It wasn’t the kind of waking that came gradually, pulled gently from sleep by a shift in light or sound. This was sharp, primal, and immediate. A jolt that ripped her from unconsciousness like a knife to the ribs. Her eyes flew open in the blue-black murk of early morning, chest heaving, breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she didn’t even know what was happening. The room spun, her stomach clenched, and a burning coil twisted through her abdomen like wire tightening around her insides.
She was going to throw up.
She barely registered the soft light filtering through the curtains—that strange bluish haze that came just before sunrise, when everything felt suspended in time. The shadows in the room were long and blurred, the kind that made edges indistinct and gave objects a strange, unearthly quality. Her breath came in shallow gasps. Cold sweat clung to her skin. The silk pajamas felt suddenly suffocating, like heat was trapped inside the fabric and she couldn’t escape it.
And then she moved.
A stumble, a thud as one bare foot hit the ground, then another. Her limbs were sluggish, uncoordinated, but driven by instinct. She barely made it across the room. The bathroom door creaked open, and within seconds, she was on her knees on the cool tiled floor, hands clutching either side of the porcelain toilet bowl as her stomach gave in to the inevitable.
She retched violently, her whole body convulsing with each heave. There was almost nothing left to bring up, just bitter acid, the remnants of whatever she had drowned the night in. Her throat burned. Her eyes watered. The room around her pulsed like it was breathing. Her head throbbed with a dull, punishing rhythm that seemed to echo off the tiles.
And then, somewhere in the haze, footsteps.
She heard the sound before she registered the presence. And by the time she did, there were hands gently sweeping her hair away from her face, collecting the damp strands and tucking them behind her ears with a precision that felt almost reverent.
She flinched, not from fear, but from shock.
She was too sick to process anything clearly, too far gone to formulate words. She didn’t look up. Couldn’t. But she knew who it was. The touch was careful, deliberate.
Barnes.
He knelt beside her, not saying anything at first. Just steady. Solid. One hand held her hair, the other moved to her forehead, resting there—not firm, just enough pressure to offer support. His fingers felt impossibly cool against her burning skin. She wanted to recoil, to yell at him to go away, to not see her like this. But her body betrayed her. She stayed still. Let him help.
Let him see.
A few more convulsions tore through her, and he didn’t flinch. Didn’t move away. He kept holding her up, murmuring something she couldn’t quite hear. Not words, not really, but a presence, a steadiness, like a lighthouse through fog.
When it was over, when her body was too wrung out to fight anymore, she slumped to the side. Her arms trembled visibly now, the adrenaline fading and leaving nothing but fatigue and the aftershock of humiliation. She sat there on the cold floor, blinking against the watery sting in her eyes, struggling to breathe properly.
Then he moved again.
One arm slid beneath her, supporting her under her shoulders as he helped her upright. His other hand found hers: not forcing, not gripping, just there. Steady. He lifted her with surprising ease, guiding her gently toward the sink.
“Come on,” he said quietly. “Wash your face.”
It wasn’t until she heard his voice—quiet, gravelly, laced with something dangerously close to concern—that she seemed to fully see him. Fully realize what was happening. He was touching her. Helping her. And she was letting him.
That clarity hit her like a second wave of nausea.
She jerked back, abruptly, violently, wrenching herself from his grasp and nearly stumbling in the process.
“I can do it myself.” she spat, louder than necessary. Her voice cracked. It wasn’t anger so much as desperation, as if saying it out loud could undo what had just happened. Could take back the image of her, weak and sick, with him witnessing every second of it.
Bucky didn’t move right away. He stood there, a shadow in the mirror’s edge, watching her. She could feel his hesitation. The way his weight shifted slightly, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or walk out. For a brief second, she thought he might argue. Might push again.
But he didn’t.
He stepped back. And left. The door closed with a soft click behind him.
And then Jane was alone.
She gripped the edges of the sink, willing her legs to hold her upright. The cold porcelain steadied her, but barely. She lifted her gaze, slowly, cautiously, until her reflection met her.
It was worse than she’d feared.
Her hair was matted to her forehead, half-damp with sweat. Her lips had lost all color, faded to a grayish pink that made her look ten years older. Her eyes were rimmed with red, lashes stuck together in little damp clumps. There was something raw in her expression, not just exhaustion, but something close to shame. Something she hated.
This was the price of last night. This was what she had turned herself into.
She stared at her reflection for a long time, too long. The longer she looked, the more the nausea crept back up. It wasn’t physical, this time. It was something deeper. Sicker.
Pathetic. That’s what she was.
Pathetic, for drinking herself into oblivion. Pathetic, for letting her emotions spiral so far out of control that her body had to break just to process them. Pathetic, for needing him, for letting Bucky Barnes, of all people, see her at her weakest.
She hated herself for it.
Her hands shook as she turned on the faucet. Cold water spilled into the basin, and she splashed it on her face in quick, frantic motions. Trying to scrub the night away. Trying to erase what had happened. But her skin still felt raw. Her throat still burned. Her heart still beat too fast.
She wanted to scream. Or cry. Or disappear entirely.
Instead, she leaned over the sink, breathing hard, her palms planted on either side of the basin, and whispered, almost too quietly to hear.
“Get it together.”
Jane approached the tub in silence, her bare feet brushing against the cool marble tiles with hesitant steps. She let the water pour in with a low rush, steam began to rise, soft and ghostly, curling into the cold air, and she watched it for a long moment, watched the warmth invade the space she still felt frozen in. Her fingers trembled slightly as she tested the temperature. Not too hot. Just enough to feel something. She didn’t undress with ceremony. There was no grace in her movements, only weariness.
When she finally sank into the bath, a quiet sigh escaped her lips, half relief, half surrender. The water lapped at her skin, gentle and forgiving, unlike everything else. Her body felt weightless and heavy all at once, like it might dissolve completely if she let it. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the edge of the tub, letting the silence swallow her whole. Her head still hurt but she was desperately trying to ignore it.
This mission was supposed to be her trial by fire. Her proving ground. The step forward she had needed, the one that would finally cement her as a real Avenger, not just a name on a file, not just a ghost from some forgotten timeline with a tragic past and too many secrets. She had told herself she was ready. That she could handle it. That she could bury everything beneath the armor of professionalism and focus. That she could be someone Fury could count on.
And yet… here she was. Hungover. Ashamed. Drenched in the aftermath of her own collapse.
A fucking disaster.
She felt like a joke. A walking contradiction. A parody of what she wanted to become. The water didn’t cleanse the shame—if anything, it magnified it, turning the memory of last night into something sticky and lingering. It was ridiculous, really. How hard she tried, how badly she wanted to move forward. And yet every time she did, she ended up back at the same place. The same version of herself that had broken down on a filthy curb in New York, limbs trembling, clutching a bottle she’d bought with the last of her cash. The same girl Fury had found almost a year ago. Wrecked. Defeated.
She hadn’t changed. Not really.
She bit the inside of her cheek until the sting replaced the thickness in her throat. Her nails dug into her own palms underwater. She hated this. Hated the loop she was caught in. The years passed, but she stayed still—stunted, like a tree growing in the dark, twisting in on itself instead of reaching toward light.
She wanted to believe she’d grown. But the truth was, her growth came in flashes, in promises she never quite kept. And her coping mechanisms, if they could even be called that, were just cycles in disguise. Pain. Drink. Guilt. Repeat. Her failures weren’t new. They just wore different clothes.
Still… she couldn’t give up.
Too much depended on her getting this right.
She sat forward, wrapping her arms around her knees. The water sloshed gently, breaking the stillness. She couldn’t crumble, not again. She had to stay sharp. Had to pull herself together. She owed that much. To the mission, to herself. To Tony.
And there it was. The name she’d been trying not to think.
Hearing his voice the night before had undone her. One conversation, and she had unraveled like a ribbon, like a seam tearing open beneath a single touch. He had sounded like him . Familiar. Warm. And just like that, she was back in the wreckage of her own memories. Back in the ashes of what they’d had and what she had destroyed. No matter how far she went, Tony was the tether she couldn’t cut.
He made her remember who she used to be.
And who she still was, beneath all the training, all the resolve.
The thought made her stomach turn again—not with nausea this time, but something deeper. Regret, maybe. Or grief. Or both. She didn’t want to look at that too closely. Not now.
The water had cooled slightly. Her skin was wrinkling. Her limbs felt heavier. She sat for another long minute, staring at the wall in front of her, before finally pulling the plug. The sound of the water draining was a quiet, spiraling hiss, like something disappearing.
She rose slowly, careful not to slip, and wrapped herself in a towel, securing it tight across her chest. The bathroom mirror was fogged over. Thank God. She didn’t want to see herself. Not again.
When she stepped out into the suite, she found Bucky already up. Dressed. Awake. He stood by the small table near the window, the soft light of the morning casting long shadows across the room. The television was on, volume low, and he was watching the news. A French reporter, sharp and efficient, was talking over footage of Spider-Man flipping through the air above a cluster of panicked pedestrians.
Jane didn’t speak. Didn’t care. She walked past him, opened her suitcase, and started packing a bag. Her movements were quiet, focused. She didn’t want to give him a reason to talk. She just wanted to move. Do something. Anything.
But then something caught her attention.
The word Spider-Man.
She paused, turned, barefoot on the carpet, and moved closer to the screen.
Footage showed Peter in his suit, swinging between buildings in Manhattan, stopping a man in a homemade winged suit from dropping explosives onto a crowd. The reporter called him “le petit prodige de Queens.” Jane watched, arms crossed over her chest, and for the first time in hours, something close to a smile touched her lips.
Peter.
God, he was such a force. So young. So bright. So stubbornly heroic.
Watching him like that—so alive, so full of instinct and courage—it made something squeeze tight in her chest. He was getting stronger, more confident. And yet to her, he would always feel like… t he little brother she’d lost hundreds of years ago. Leonardo. The memory stung.
Peter reminded her of him. That same recklessness. That same need to protect.
She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath until Bucky’s voice cut into the silence.
“He’s good.” he said without looking at her. “When that mess happened at Lipsia… everyone noticed. He’s got something.”
Jane turned slightly toward him but didn’t reply. She wasn’t ready for conversation. Especially not with him. Not after this morning. The shame was still fresh, still simmering under her skin.
The report ended. The screen shifted to another story. She moved back to the bed, continued packing.
“You feeling better?” Bucky asked.
She hesitated. For a moment. Just a breath. Then continued folding a shirt into the duffel.
“I’m fine,” she said curtly. “Like I told you—worry about the mission. Not me. I can take care of myself.”
Bucky nodded once. Barely. Then turned back to his own bag and started packing as well. The silence between them was tense but functional.
“I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t,” he said after a beat. “I just wanted to know how you were. We’re going to be working together for… who knows how long. Do we really want to keep doing this?”
Jane froze for half a second.
Then she turned to him, expression neutral, voice colder now. “Doing what, exactly?”
Bucky sighed and threw his hands up in that way that always managed to irritate her more than anything he actually said. “This. Whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely between them, like the very air was complicit in their dysfunction. “This weird thing we’re doing. I really want us to—.”
Jane raised an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest with an exaggerated tilt of her hip. “You really want to… what? Become friends?”
She laughed, then. An honest, bitter, barking laugh that filled the room like shattering glass. “Is that what this is? You think we’re supposed to bond now? Maybe swap trauma stories over wine? Tell me, Barnes, what do you want from me, exactly?”
He opened his mouth, hesitated, then said, “I don’t want anything. I just—” But the words didn’t land the way he wanted them to. He sounded tired. Defensive. “I just want this to work. We’re stuck together, and I don’t want to spend the next God-knows-how-many weeks wanting to punch a wall every time we talk.”
“Then don’t talk.” Jane said, voice low, measured. Her gaze was a razor. “It’s worked fine for me so far.”
She was about to turn back to her bag when she realized he was closer than she had realized, too distracted by her own words. Somehow, without warning or sound, Bucky had stepped into her space, not quite touching, not threatening, but near enough to draw her breath short. The air between them thickened. She blinked, uncertain why she hadn’t noticed the shift until now.
And then he did it.
He lifted one hand. Slowly. Cautiously. His fingers hovered near her face, and for a split second, she thought he might actually touch her, just like that . It was the kind of gesture that would have made her flinch if she’d had the presence of mind to react. But she didn’t. She just remained perfectly still.
His fingers brushed her skin, featherlight, near her temple. “Jane,” he murmured. “Your eyebrow. It’s bleeding.”
The gentleness in his voice caught her off guard.
Startled, she turned away from him and rushed to the mirror above the boudoir. Leaned in close. And there it was. The scar from the attack in New York—small, almost healed—had split open again, a thin line of red cutting through the pale skin just above her brow. She must have hit it on something earlier—in the bathroom, maybe—too drunk to even notice.
Behind her, Bucky had already crossed the room and returned with a clean handkerchief. A small one, white with simple stitched edges. She saw it reflected in the mirror, his hand holding it out without comment.
Jane stared at it. For a long second, she wanted to slap it away. Tell him to keep it. That she wasn’t a child. That she didn’t need him. That she didn’t want anything from him. But she didn’t.
She was tired. Still trembling. And this, this wasn’t the hill she wanted to die on today.
So she took it. Silently.
She pressed it to her brow, dabbing carefully, watching the crimson blot slowly bloom against the white. Her fingers were steadier than she expected.
Bucky didn’t say anything. He just stood there behind her, gaze unreadable. Then, as if deciding something internally, he turned and walked away.
The rest of the morning passed in silence.
Jane didn’t try to speak. She didn’t need to. Every few minutes, she felt his eyes on her, just barely, just for a moment, but she never looked up. Never gave him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. She packed her bag carefully, precisely, folding each item like it might hold her together. It was easier to focus on tasks, on things she could control. Fabric. Zippers. Ziploc bags. The rituals of pretending everything was fine.
And yet, something about the way he moved, quiet but ever-present, kept brushing against the edges of her awareness. Like static in the back of her mind. It was exasperating. Even in silence, he filled too much space.
When the appointed time arrived, the same black car from the night before was already waiting outside the hotel. Jane caught a glimpse of it through the sheer curtain of the bedroom. Exactly the kind of vehicle you’d expect from people like Christian and Annalise. People who trafficked in appearances the way others trafficked in diamonds.
Jane didn’t say a word as she slung her duffel over her shoulder and stepped into her heels. Her reflection in the mirror looked composed now—sharp eyeliner, hair curled, lips tinted rosewood. All armor. All artifice. She straightened her posture, glanced at her wrist to check the time (though she already knew it), and walked toward the door without waiting for him.
Bucky followed. Of course he did. Dressed in charcoal slacks and a dark button-down rolled at the sleeves, hair loose, expression focused.
They descended the elevator in silence.
At the lobby, the doorman greeted them politely. The driver opened the back door of the car without a word. Jane slid in first, smoothing the fabric of her coat as she crossed her legs and looked out the window. Bucky got in a moment later and closed the door behind them.
The engine purred. The car moved. The ride began. And still, they didn’t speak.
Jane kept her gaze fixed outside, on the passing city. Paris was waking up, slowly, wrapped in fog and traffic. She watched bakeries open, lights flicker on in apartments, early joggers pass by. All of it distant. All of it irrelevant. Her thoughts were fractured, circling back to her hungover, to the mirror, to his hand, to the look in his eyes when he realized she was bleeding.
She crossed her arms tighter.
Beside her, Bucky shifted. Just slightly. Like he could feel the distance stretch between them and had decided not to fight it.
Good. That was better. More comfortable.
She didn’t remember falling asleep, but somehow the car became the cradle of unconsciousness she hadn’t granted herself in days. One moment she was leaning her temple against the cool glass of the window, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, and the next she was drifting, deep and dark, into a place her mind had kept locked.
The dream came in fragments. Blurred edges. Flashes like old film stock. She saw a corridor—cold, metal-lined, humming with danger. She was younger in the dream, or maybe just more afraid. Running. Her breath echoed too loudly in her ears. And then—
Him. The Winter Soldier.
The mechanical arm gleamed in the low light, and then it struck. She was pinned to a wall. The weight of him, the fury in his eyes, the absolute void of empathy. His fingers around her throat. Her body frozen, mouth gasping. His face close. Too close. Her heart jackhammering inside her chest as she stared into a stranger’s fury. She had tried to fight. To scream. But the memory cut away before she could.
The scene shifted. Another flash.
Same man, different time. He stood before her in a U.S. Army uniform. That same face but warm, charming, human. For a second, the two versions of him overlapped: killer and soldier. And Jane couldn’t tell which one was real.
She jolted awake when Bucky’s voice cut through the dream like a knife.
“Hey.” A hand on her shoulder. Steady. “Wake up. We’re here.”
Her body flinched involuntarily. She blinked hard, throat dry, hands clutching at the seatbelt she didn’t remember fastening. The world outside was soft and golden now, painted with the gentleness of a late morning sun.
“Bad dream?” he asked, quieter now, watching her with that carefully neutral expression of his.
“I’m fine.” she muttered, voice hoarse. She sat up straighter, brushing her damp palms down the front of her coat. “Let’s just get out.”
Bucky opened his door without a word.
She followed a beat later, stepping out onto the crushed gravel driveway. Her heels clicked lightly against the stone, grounding her in the present, but she was still shaking off the remnants of the dream.
And then—there it was.
The villa rose before them like something out of a curated fantasy. Stone walls worn by sun and age, a terracotta roof sloping elegantly beneath the clear blue sky. The shutters were painted a soft powder blue, some thrown open to the breeze, others tilted just enough to suggest discretion. Ivy crept along the façade, green and alive, curling around wrought-iron balconies and over antique lanterns that had probably burned real fire a hundred years ago.
A rectangular pool glistened in the courtyard, framed by cream-colored tiles and surrounded by lounge chairs positioned with intentional ease. Every detail of the place screamed wealth—but the kind that didn’t need to prove itself. Old money. French countryside. Danger disguised as hospitality.
Jane tilted her chin slightly, surveying it with restrained curiosity.
Bucky let out a quiet breath beside her. “Well,” he said, “at least the accommodations are nice.”
She didn’t answer.
He glanced sideways, perhaps expecting some snide remark, but Jane kept her expression unreadable. The air between them buzzed with the kind of static that comes after an argument never finished. He tried to keep it light; she wasn’t interested. Not yet. Not after the dream. Not after waking to him.
They were met at the front steps by a woman in her sixties, impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal-gray dress with a crisp white collar. Her hair was pinned in a perfect bun, her posture straight as a ruler.
“Bonjour Madame, Monsieur,” she said with a slight bow of the head. Her French was accented with years of refinement. “My name is Colette. I am the housekeeper. Welcome to the Domaine de Saint-Arnaud. You must be Madame Catherine and Monsieur Benjamin?”
“That’s us.” Bucky said before Jane could respond.
Colette offered a polite smile. “The masters of the house will greet you formally this afternoon. For now, I will escort you to your rooms so you may rest and refresh yourselves after the journey.”
Jane nodded faintly, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. “Merci.”
They followed her through tall double doors into a cool, shaded entryway. The interior was even more beautiful than the exterior: limestone floors, vaulted ceilings with exposed beams, and antique furniture that looked museum-worthy but lived-in. A scent of lavender and beeswax polish floated faintly in the air.
As they moved down a long corridor, Jane’s eyes caught on something to her left—a wide, sunlit music room with floor-to-ceiling windows and an open view of the garden.
And in the center of it stood a black grand piano. She paused without realizing.
Her steps slowed, and for a moment, she felt the brush of another life. A different Jane. A younger one. Sitting at an old upright harpsichord in a dusty room, fingers dancing clumsily over the keys, her sister’s soft voice humming something ethereal beside her. That had been centuries ago. Before the fire, before the escape, before the Tower. The last time she had played seriously, really played, had been during the quiet years with Tony. Back when music had been her sanctuary. Back when she believed in permanence.
She hadn’t touched a piano since the day she walked away.
“Something wrong?” Bucky’s voice behind her.
She blinked. The spell broke.
“No,” she said quickly, turning back to Colette, who had paused ahead, waiting politely. “It’s nothing.”
But her throat ached a little more than before.
They resumed walking. Bucky fell into step beside her without speaking, but she could feel him watching her. Measuring the change in her posture. Reading her as if he could decode every crack in her armor.
And she hated that he might be right.
They reached a pair of adjacent rooms, both spacious and immaculate, with doors opening onto private balconies. Colette gestured with a soft hand.
“If you need anything, there is a bell in each room. Lunch will be served at one. The hosts will receive you in the garden shortly before that. Please take your time.”
She offered a slight bow again and withdrew down the hall with practiced grace.
Jane stepped into her room, letting the door swing shut behind her. She didn’t even pause to admire the view. She dropped her bag on the bed and walked to the nearest window, pushing it open to let in the air. The scent of lemon trees and warm stone drifted in.
Jane took a deep breath, slow and measured, trying to still the flutter of nerves under her skin. The kind of breath one takes not to calm the body, but to keep the mask in place. Then, wordlessly, she turned and took in the room around her.
The bedroom was bathed in warm, filtered sunlight. The walls were painted a honeyed cream, soft and aged, and ornate tiles patterned the floor, worn in places from use but still beautiful, their terracotta hues rich with character. The bed stood against one wall, dressed in crisp white linens, pillows stacked high with perfect symmetry. The wooden ceiling above was dark and rustic, held by thick beams that made the whole space feel ancient and steady.
There was a lived-in elegance to it. Like someone had taken the idea of luxury and stripped it of all arrogance.
She moved quietly through the space, her footsteps muffled by a faded Persian rug. To the side of the bedroom, an open doorway led into a smaller room—something between a private study and a sitting room. And there, in the filtered golden light of late morning, stood Barnes.
He hadn’t heard her enter. His back was to her, posture relaxed but attentive, as he browsed a shelf of aged books. One hand trailed along the leather spines, the other held a hardback already opened. She stopped just at the threshold, leaning against the wall soundlessly, watching him.
He looked almost too at ease, like this wasn’t foreign territory. Like, given a different life, he might have belonged in a quiet library with a book in hand and peace within reach.
Then she saw the title of the novel.
Persuasion, by Jane Austen. Of all books.
The story of a woman who had loved deeply, lost her lover, and then found him again—after everything. After too much. A story of restraint and ache, of promises broken and time finally folding back in on itself to give something fragile and beautiful.
And seeing him holding it now—him—was more than jarring.
She hadn’t expected Bucky Barnes to pick that book.
As if sensing her, he turned his head slightly.
“No knock?” he asked, closing the book but not returning it to the shelf.
“It’s not your house,” Jane said flatly, stepping inside. “Didn’t think you’d mind. And we’ve just arrived.”
He half-smiled, something dry and sharp. “Touché.”
She moved past him to the window seat, letting her fingertips trail across the stone sill. The sitting room, like the bedroom, was warm and thoughtful in its design. Books lined every wall. A fireplace sat unlit, but the scent of smoke lingered faintly in the air. A large armchair faced the window. There was a softness here. A domesticity she didn’t trust.
“It’s strange,” Bucky said after a moment. “That no one’s greeted us yet. Not even a drink offer.”
Jane shook her head slowly. “No. It’s intentional.”
He frowned slightly. “How so?”
She turned toward him, arms crossed loosely, voice edged with a knowing smirk. “They want us to look around first. Absorb the wealth. Let it seep into us. All without saying a word. It’s psychological. A power game.”
“You sound like you’ve seen it before.”
“I have.” Her lips curved, just barely. “It’s old aristocracy behavior. Passive intimidation dressed up as hospitality.”
Bucky chuckled under his breath, impressed despite himself. “Remind me not to play poker with you.”
Jane walked to the bookshelf, her eyes flickering over the titles, though she wasn’t really reading them. “We should head down soon,” he added after a moment. “It’s almost one.”
Jane didn’t turn to him right away. Instead, she looked at the ornate clock ticking softly on the mantle, then tilted her head slightly.
“No,” she said. “Let’s keep them waiting a little longer.”
Bucky arched a brow. “Really?”
She shrugged. “Builds curiosity.”
He didn’t argue. Just smiled. Small, slow, and satisfied. And for a moment, something passed between them. Not warmth. Not ease. But the faintest recognition. Of something beginning. Or maybe unraveling.
But Jane broke the moment first.
She straightened her posture, brushing invisible dust from her skirt. “I’m going to freshen up.”
Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked back into the bedroom, disappearing behind the door that led to the private bathroom. It was small but elegant—stone-tiled, with a walk-in shower and gold fixtures that gleamed in the light. She didn’t linger. Didn’t indulge.
She checked her reflection. The makeup hadn’t smudged. Good.
Her outfit for the day was already laid out on the edge of the bed—a sage green midi dress with small mother-of-pearl buttons down the front, cinched at the waist with a soft tie. She got changed, adjusting the skirt over her hips and fastening a light silk scarf into her hair, retro-style. The look was simple, deceptively delicate. But it worked. It masked the storm inside.
She stared at herself for a moment longer than necessary.
Then, silently, the thoughts came.
Barnes was… disorienting.
Not because of who he had been. She’d prepared for that, had braced herself to hate the assassin, the killer, the Winter Soldier. But he wasn’t that. At least not outwardly. He was calm. Measured. Polite, even. There wasn’t a day so far where he hadn’t seemed composed, controlled, like every word and breath was weighed with precision.
And yet at night… at night it was a different story. She’d heard the gasps. The groans. The rustling sheets and muffled curses. The nights where his mind betrayed him and his past roared back.
She had expected volatility. Fury. Something she could push against. But what she got was restraint. And that was worse, because she didn’t know how to respond to that.
She shook her head, frustrated with her own wandering thoughts, and turned on the faucet. Cold water. She cupped it in her palms and pressed it to her wrists, cooling the pulse points.
Focus.
Focus on the mission.
She dried her hands quickly and stepped back into the bedroom. Only then did she notice the note on the nightstand.
A small, cream-colored envelope, sealed with a delicate wax crest. Her name, Catherine, was written in perfect script.
She opened it. The note was from Annalise.
Dear Catherine and Benjamin,
Christian and I are truly honored by your presence in our home. We hope you find your stay both comfortable and invigorating. In the wardrobe, you’ll find swimwear for both of you. They’re perfect for the long, warm days we’ll enjoy together. A few small house rules: Christian prefers complete silence after 11 p.m., and we kindly ask you not to wander the east wing of the estate unaccompanied. Some doors are locked for good reason.
We look forward to seeing you shortly.
Annalise
Jane blinked at the last lines then she passed him the note the moment Bucky returned from the sitting room.
She held the cream envelope between two fingers, brows raised without speaking.
“What’s this?” he asked, taking it.
“From Annalise.” she said simply.
He unfolded it and read in silence. His eyes didn’t widen, but something in his expression shifted slightly, like a tiny click of discomfort beneath the surface.
“Well, that’s not ominous at all.” he muttered. “‘Silence after 11 p.m.’ and ‘doors are locked for a reason’? What are they hiding back there, ears and fingers in a jar? A torture chamber?”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t answer.
In the end, just as Jane had suggested, they made their way down to the garden with a touch of deliberate delay. Their steps were unhurried, their demeanor composed, the kind of arrival that spoke of quiet confidence rather than apology. Outside, the day had reached its full bloom. Sunlight spilled golden across the flagstones, a gentle breeze rustled the leaves around the poolside. The patio had been transformed into an open-air dining space: a long wooden table set with crystal glasses, porcelain plates, and fresh floral arrangements. Everything about it whispered curated perfection.
The count and countess were already seated, alongside Christian and Annalise. The four of them stood as Jane and Bucky approached. Annalise’s greeting was all bright eyes and dramatic gestures, her arms extended as if she were welcoming long-lost friends rather than guests she’d met once in a glittering foyer.
“There you are.” she cooed. “We were beginning to wonder if you’d gotten lost on the way to the garden!”
Soft laughter followed from the table, polite and musical. Jane smiled with practiced ease, letting the comment roll off her like water. But before she could respond, Bucky turned to her.
And did something unexpected.
He took her hand in his, lifted it with unhurried grace, and pressed a light kiss to her knuckles.
It was the kind of gesture that should have felt performative, part of the act, the married couple charade. But the contact sparked something too sudden, too electric. Her first instinct was to flinch, to pull back. But instead, she smiled—slowly, carefully—and met his gaze with one of false adoration. She could do this. She could pretend.
“We’re sorry for the delay,” Bucky said smoothly, releasing her hand but keeping his voice intimate. “But you forget, dear friends… we’re still newlyweds. Sometimes we simply need some time alone.”
A ripple of laughter followed. Christian raised his glass and poured a generous amount of wine into Bucky’s.
“Then the delay is entirely justified.” he grinned.
They all toasted. Jane raised her glass and drank in silence, her mind still half-caught on the warmth of Bucky’s lips against her skin. She forced the thought away.
Lunch was served, light but refined. A starter of cold courgette soup with mint and goat cheese, followed by grilled fish on a bed of lentils and citrus-roasted carrots.
The conversation flowed easily. Christian spoke about the merits of French art, the count shared a brief anecdote about an Italian sculptor he once hosted. No one mentioned business. No one asked questions. Not about Catherine and Benjamin, not about what they did, not about why they were here.
It wasn’t just politeness. It was a test.
Everything, Jane realized, was a test. The silence, the absence, the smiles. The rules scribbled in elegant cursive. They were being observed. Measured.
Annalise leaned forward slightly. “And? What do you think of the house?”
Before Jane could answer, the countess chimed in with a laugh. “Oh, darling. What is there to think? This estate is heaven. Every time I’m invited I can’t bring myself to leave. It’s a true oasis to escape the chaos of Paris.”
Jane nodded, sipping slowly from her wine glass before answering. “I couldn’t agree more. It’s beautiful. Ben and I love the countryside. And… to find ourselves here after such a short time—well. We’re honestly honored.”
At that, she turned to Bucky, and for the first time in hours, their eyes locked. Not in annoyance. Not in challenge. But in something else. Something almost soft. They didn’t smile, but the look was enough. They were getting better at this—at pretending. At adjusting to one another, even in the silence between their words.
The meal wrapped up with fresh strawberries, served with a touch of balsamic. Conversation began to lull as wine glasses emptied and sunlight grew more golden over the tiles.
Then Annalise stood.
“Well,” she announced, brushing some crumbs from her linen skirt. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us—it’s time we ladies indulged in a bit of well-earned relaxation. Don’t you agree, Countess?”
The older woman rose as well, her demeanor still glowing from the wine. “Yes, a little luxury never hurt anyone.”
Annalise turned her gaze toward Jane. “Catherine, darling, will you join us?”
Everything in Jane tensed. The memory of champagne spilled ruinously on her dress was still fresh. She didn’t want to be alone with Annalise again, but her smile was impeccable.
“Of course.”
She rose with poised ease, setting her napkin gently on the table. Her hand lingered a half-second longer than necessary, smoothing the linen over the polished wood, more out of habit than grace. Then she turned—ready to follow Annalise and disappear from the patio, from the pretense, from him .
But before she could take a full step, Bucky reached for her wrist.
“Wait.”
His voice wasn’t loud but it halted her mid-motion, and she turned slightly, brows knitting in confusion.
He stood up too, more slowly, and something in his posture shifted. There was a weight in his gaze—fixed, determined. And then, without ceremony, he stepped closer.
Too close.
The garden blurred at the edges of her vision. She registered the warmth of the sun, the clink of glassware at the table, the faint splash of the pool beyond the hedge. But none of it mattered. Because he was in her space. Right there.
Then his hand came up. She flinched, barely, but he didn’t hesitate.
He cradled her jaw with one hand, the pads of his fingers callused but gentle, and let the other slide just behind her neck, as if grounding her. Anchoring her to that exact moment. And before she could breathe, before she could even think, he kissed her.
Not deeply. But slowly. Carefully.
And she could’ve pulled away.
His hands weren’t forcing her. His touch was steady, but not controlling. There was nothing forceful in the kiss. No rush. No greed. Just… presence. Just him.
She could’ve stepped back, said something, ended it.
But she didn’t. She stood there, letting it happen.
All she could process was the warmth of his lips against hers and the faint, lingering scent of citrus clinging to his hair.
Every muscle locked. Her arms stayed at her sides, stiff and useless. Her mind screamed pull away, do something, say something, but her body wouldn’t move. She was suspended in the space between reaction and paralysis, her heart hammering like a warning bell, her skin humming with alarm.
Why was he doing this? Why now?
They didn’t need to kiss. No one had questioned their cover. No one had shown the slightest doubt in their story. So why the performance?
Her mind scrambled for justification, for logic.
Why are you making this harder than it already is?
You know how hard it is for me to be near you—why are you making it worse?
And yet… she didn’t pull back.
When he finally pulled back, it was only by inches. His breath mingled with hers. His hands remained where they were, cradling her like she was something fragile—something sacred. He didn’t break eye contact. His gaze held hers in a quiet gravity, and he smiled. Not smug. Not teasing.
“See you later, my love.” he whispered.
Jane blinked up at him. She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Her throat had gone dry. Her lips—still tingling from the kiss—parted slightly, as if searching for words that wouldn’t come.
She hated this.
She hated him .
No, not exactly hate. She—
Then a voice pulled her back.
“Darling, are you coming?” Annalise, syrupy sweet and expectant.
Jane blinked again, swallowing hard.
She forced a breath through her nose, nodded once, mechanical, and stepped away. Bucky’s hands slid off her skin and she followed Annalise down the garden path.
Behind her, the count’s voice rang out with a booming laugh. “Ah! Young love! Isn’t it just glorious?”
Jane didn’t look back.
She focused instead on the ground ahead. On keeping her gait even, on not tripping over her own feet.
Annalise led the women through a quiet interior hallway, one Jane hadn’t noticed before. It curved gently, the walls paneled in pale wood with a polished sheen, the floor smooth stone that radiated a subtle warmth, likely heated beneath. It felt less like a corridor and more like a passageway into another world, detached from the rest of the house.
Jane followed in silence, still half-trapped inside her head. She barely registered the way Annalise walked ahead, graceful and assured, or how the Countess trailed behind with a whisper of silk.
They stepped through a wide archway into a room that took Jane by surprise, despite herself.
It was beautiful.
A private indoor spa, as opulent as it was intimidating. The pool took center stage. Rectangular, long, and lined with iridescent tiles that caught the filtered light from the glass wall that looked out over the garden. That entire side of the spa was made of seamless glass panels, allowing sunlight to pour in and cast moving reflections on the water. Just beyond, Jane could see trimmed hedges, flowering bushes, and a corner of the stone path that wound through the estate’s grounds.
The air smelled faintly of eucalyptus and orange blossom. The humidity clung softly to her skin, not suffocating, but warm, cocooning. Soft instrumental music played in the background, blending with the gentle bubbling of a nearby jacuzzi.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Annalise’s voice cut through the calm. “I thought this might be the perfect way for us women to enjoy some proper rest, and maybe a little intimacy. A chance to really bond.”
She smiled at them both, hands gently clasped at her waist.
“You’ll find changing rooms just over there.” she gestured toward a row of discreet, polished wooden doors. “Inside, you’ll see two options prepared for you. Feel free to choose whichever suit you like. Then come join us by the pool. It’s heated. There’s a steam bath as well, if either of you are interested.”
Inside the private dressing room, everything was tastefully arranged: a bench, a standing mirror, a woven basket with towels and sandals, and on a velvet hanger, two swimsuits. One was a deep emerald bikini, minimal and bold. The other, an elegant black one-piece with a plunging neckline and a low back.
She didn’t hesitate and took the one-piece, the only one with enough fabric to cover the scar along her side.
With steady movements, she undressed, folded her clothes neatly, and slipped into the swimsuit.
Next to the basket, a pair of soft spa slippers waited. She slid them on, then noticed a row of neatly lined claw clips on a small tray beside the mirror. She picked one, dark tortoiseshell, and gathered her hair up, securing it in a loose twist.
When she stepped out of the room, the others were already emerging from their own.
The Countess had wrapped a white towel around her waist, her hair pinned elegantly at the nape of her neck. Annalise wore a robe loosely tied, one shoulder artfully bare, and turned to Jane with that same charming, calculated smile.
“There are robes just there.” she said with a gesture. “Best to keep warm between swims.”
Jane took one without a word and pulled it around herself, tying it tight. Together, they moved toward the edge of the pool, their footsteps softened by the tiled floor. The water shimmered invitingly under the ceiling’s recessed lighting.
They entered the pool slowly, one by one. The warmth enveloped Jane as soon as she stepped in, rising past her knees, her waist, her collarbones. It felt good, comforting, but not quite enough. Not enough to unwind her spine or soften the tight coil in her chest.
Conversation came easily to the other two women. They spoke of spas in Monaco, the ridiculousness of a certain art dealer’s new wife, and the failings of a recent fashion gala. Jane mostly listened, floating near the edge, her gaze occasionally drifting toward the garden through the glass wall.
“So,” Annalise said after a lull, her tone playfully suggestive. “Your room is quite close to ours, Jane. Try not to keep us up too late, hmm? I imagine newlyweds can get a little… enthusiastic.”
Jane blinked.
The words pulled her violently back to the present. But then, quickly, she let out a soft, practiced laugh. “Oh, don’t worry.” she replied smoothly. “We’re far more discreet than you’d expect. Ben and I prefer… quiet moments.”
The Countess laughed lightly and tilted her head. “Ah, but isn’t discretion a little overrated? There’s something delicious about being just barely improper.”
The two women laughed again, their tones varying in sharpness and ease. Jane smiled. But something inside her had stiffened.
Moments later, Colette appeared silently with a silver tray, on which sat three elegant glasses and a pair of champagne bottles chilling in ice. She placed them delicately on a low table near the edge of the pool, bowed slightly, and left the room without a word.
Annalise clapped her hands together gently. “Perfect timing.”
She rose out of the water with catlike grace, reaching for the tray and pouring the champagne herself. The glass flutes caught the light, bubbles rising like tiny sparks.
She handed one to Jane, another to the Countess, and raised hers.
“To new friendships.” she said, eyes glittering.
“To new friendships.” echoed the Countess, clinking her glass.
Jane hesitated for a heartbeat, then lifted hers and met their eyes.
“To new friendships.” she repeated.
They drank.
Jane didn’t close her eyes. She didn’t let herself drift or unwind. She watched them, both of them, over the rim of her glass. The way Annalise’s fingers curled perfectly around the flute, the way the Countess laughed just a second too late, as if waiting to see how Jane would respond first. There was calculation behind their charm. Layers beneath the silk and perfume.
She sipped slowly, carefully. She was in a lion’s den, even if it smelled like champagne and eucalyptus.
Out in the garden, just beyond the pool house, Christian and Bucky stood beneath a shaded pergola draped in climbing vines. On a low side table sat a tray with two crystal tumblers, half-filled with amber liquid, and an ornate box of hand-rolled cigars.
Christian had offered him one. It would’ve been suspicious to refuse.
Now they both smoked in companionable silence, the thick smoke curled lazily in the air, drifting up toward the wooden beams above them. From their vantage point, they had a perfect view of the pool through the glass wall. Annalise, the Countess, and Jane floated in the steaming water like water nymphs in a dream.
Christian exhaled a ribbon of smoke, narrowed his eyes.
“You’ve done well for yourself, Benjamin.” he said, voice low, easy. “Catherine… she’s something.”
Bucky didn’t look at him. He took another drag of the cigar, letting the ember flare orange.
“She is, that’s why I married her.” he replied, carefully neutral.
Christian tilted his head slightly, watching the way Jane leaned against the edge of the pool, her arms resting on the rim, her skin glistening from the heat and mist. Her hair was pinned up, a few strands damp and curling against her neck. She didn’t laugh as much as the others. She was more reserved, but not in a cold way—there was intelligence in the way she moved, a certain tension that made her presence more pronounced.
“She’s not just beautiful,” Christian added after a pause. “There’s something sharp about her. You can tell she’s paying attention. Most pretty things don’t bother.”
Bucky flicked ash from the end of his cigar. “She was hard to decipher, that’s what attracted me first.” he said simply. “The body came after. Though, yeah, she’s got a temper. Keeps things interesting.”
Christian let out a chuckle, slow and low. “Well, a fiery woman’s a good match for a man who knows how to handle heat.”
Then his voice shifted. Lower, slicker.
“But that body… that helps, doesn’t it? Makes it easier to forgive her when she starts acting up.”
As he said it, he leered, not overtly, but enough. His eyes lingered just a little too long on Jane, and he licked his lower lip in a way that made Bucky’s body stiffen.
Bucky turned toward him, slowly.
His jaw flexed, just once. Barely noticeable, but there.
He could’ve said something.
He didn’t.
Instead, he took another long draw from the cigar and blew the smoke out slowly, keeping his expression calm.
“She doesn’t care to be forgiven,” he said evenly. “She’d rather be understood. And between the two, understanding her takes a hell of a lot more.”
Christian gave a low laugh, tilting his head as he exhaled. “Sounds like a full-time job.”
Then he smirked, cocking a brow. “Hope the payoff’s worth the effort.”
Bucky let the corner of his mouth lift, but it wasn’t quite a smile.
He then took a sip from his glass as his eyes flicked back toward Jane, not as something to possess, but as something to study. To learn.
She was adjusting the tie of her robe now, stepping out of the water momentarily to reach the chilled bottle of champagne resting in its ice bucket. With unhurried movements, she refilled all three glasses, her fingers steady, precise. She moved with the kind of grace that wasn’t taught, it was instinctive, unconscious. Even the way she leaned slightly over the table, the light catching on her damp skin, held a quiet defiance. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone.
But Bucky noticed everything.
The slight flush on her cheeks from the heat. The way her fingers curled around the glass. The flicker of her eyes as she listened to Annalise without fully engaging. Her mouth curved into a smile now and then, but her attention… it wandered. She was present, but not at ease.
“You’ve been quiet.” Christian noted.
Bucky didn’t answer right away. He let the smoke linger on his tongue.
“I’m just enjoying the view.” he said finally, tone unreadable.
And that was true, in a way.
After all, not everything he had just said was part of the act.
Back inside, among the women, the Countess was the first to excuse herself.
“I think I’ll head back to our room,” she murmured with a soft yawn, stretching languidly in the thick warmth of the spa. “Friedrich will already be complaining I’ve abandoned him.”
Her smile was gracious, but something in her eyes flickered—fatigue, maybe, or the weight of pretending. She rose from the water with practiced grace, dabbing her face with a towel before slipping on her robe. “This has been lovely.” she added, then nodded to both Annalise and Jane before disappearing through the frosted glass doors.
Jane watched her go in silence, eyes fixed on the door for a moment too long.
The water hummed faintly around her, steam curling like silk. She was about to lean back again when Annalise spoke.
“Now that we’re alone,” she said, her voice lower, less performative than usual. “We can talk about more… intimate things, can’t we?”
Jane turned her head slowly, wary. She didn’t respond, just waited.
Annalise didn’t hesitate. “So… have you and Benjamin started trying for a baby yet?”
It wasn’t just the question, it was the way she said it. Light, as if they were sharing secrets over tea. But Jane felt the weight of it immediately. Heavy, invasive. Not because it came from Annalise, but because it struck too close to something buried.
She hesitated. The silence stretched.
And then, for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, the truth began to slip out.
“Honestly,” Jane said, voice softer than she meant it to be, “I don’t think I can have children.”
Annalise’s expression didn’t change. But she didn’t speak either.
Jane looked away, watching the ripples move across the surface of the water.
“I mean—I haven’t really tried,” she added quickly, “not seriously. The idea terrifies me. I was pregnant once. Years ago. But then…”
She swallowed hard.
“I lost it.”
Her voice cracked just slightly.
“And I don’t know if it was a fluke or if something inside me just doesn’t work the way it should. But I haven’t been brave enough to try again.”
It was too much. Far too much to be telling someone like Annalise all of that. She could have lied. Could have laughed it off, said “Oh, we’re planning a whole army of babies,” and no one would have questioned her.
But she didn’t. She told the truth, or part of it.
Not that there was any truth to her marriage with “Benjamin.” But the pain—that was real. That belonged to her.
Annalise stayed quiet for a long moment, then she drained her champagne in one smooth motion.
“I’m sterile.” she said flatly. “Christian wants children. Always has. But I can’t give him any.”
Her voice was calm. Too calm.
“We found out a few months ago,” she continued, eyes fixed on the mist rising off the pool. “And since then… we haven’t spoken of it. Not once. But I know he resents it. I can feel it. And he knows I know.”
She looked at Jane then—really looked at her—and in that moment, something cracked behind her eyes. The perfectly poised mask slipped just enough for Jane to glimpse the woman underneath: brittle, weary, real.
And Jane saw it. Not just the vulnerability.
The opening.
It was small, but it was there—raw and unguarded. A seam in the porcelain.
And Jane, ever the survivor, ever the operative, knew better than to ignore it.
So she moved closer, slowly, like someone answering pain with pain, but her mind was already working. She didn’t need to lie, not really. She just needed to shape the truth like a key.
She laid a gentle hand on Annalise’s shoulder, the contact just enough to feel sincere.
“I understand,” she murmured. “Benjamin talks about kids sometimes too. He has names in his head. These little fantasies about who they’ll be.”
Her voice grew quieter, and she let her eyes dim just slightly, enough to match the moment.
“But the thought of trying again terrifies me. I keep thinking… what if it ends the same way? What if I see that look in his eyes—the one that says I failed him?”
There. Just enough.
Not a performance. But not unintentional.
Annalise met her gaze again. And this time, the walls didn’t come back up.
This time, something passed between them. A grief-shaped understanding. And Jane let it settle in the air like a hand resting lightly on a chessboard.
She didn’t need to press. Not yet.
The most dangerous truths were the ones you offered freely, because they felt earned.
“Well,” Annalise said, reaching for the ice bucket. “Sounds like it’s time for round three.”
Jane laughed softly and nodded.
The flutes were refilled. One glass became two. Then three. Laughter slipped out too easily. Annalise leaned her head back against the stone, her cheeks flushed, and Jane realized, she was drunk. Far more than she was.
Jane was lightheaded, yes. But still in control.
Time blurred a little after that. Maybe it was an hour. Maybe more. When they finally left the pool, they were giggling like schoolgirls, wrapped in oversized robes and damp curls. They walked back through the spa with steps that wavered ever so slightly, whispering things they would not remember.
Jane felt something shift. A hinge loosened. A door cracked open.
She had seen Annalise’s pain, and in return, Annalise had seen hers. That was a currency no performance could match. A shared weakness. A silent pact.
They reached the edge of the corridor where their paths would split.
Annalise touched Jane’s arm.
“All right,” she said with a grin. “Time to return to our husbands. You remember where your room is?”
Jane smirked, a little crooked. “I’ll wander around until I find the right one. Sooner or later, I’ll get lucky.”
Annalise let out a loud, unfiltered laugh—truly delighted. “You’re impossible.” she said. “Utterly impossible.”
Then, after a slightly clumsy hug, they parted without further words.
Jane walked slowly back through the villa, recognizing the hallway now, retracing her steps until she reached the familiar wooden door. She opened it quietly.
Inside, Bucky was lying on the bed.
Still dressed. Still calm. And in his hands— Persuasion.
He didn’t look up right away. He was reading.
And Jane, still damp and faintly flushed from champagne, lingered in the doorway for a few seconds longer than necessary. There was something about him—something about the disordered mess of his hair tousled against the pillow, his brow furrowed in concentration, and now and then his mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly, at a line in the book.
It annoyed her.
Something deep and wordless stirred beneath her ribs—irritation, maybe. Or frustration.
She walked into the room, untied her robe with a brisk tug, and let it fall from her shoulders in one fluid motion. Her swimsuit clung to her body, water still glistening on her collarbones. She crossed to her bag and began to fumble with it, dragging out her toiletries with sharp, jerky movements. Everything about her posture spoke of distraction—of too much champagne, too many emotions clawing beneath her skin.
Bucky finally glanced up. He didn’t say anything, but the look on his face shifted. Surprise, mostly. At how casually she was undressing in front of him. At how she seemed entirely unaware, or uncaring, of his presence.
But he noticed the rest too.
The slight sway in her movements. The pink flush in her cheeks. The way she squinted at the bottles in her hands, unfocused.
She’d had more to drink since earlier.
“Jane,” he said finally, voice low. “We need to talk.”
She paused mid-movement, still hunched slightly over her bag. Slowly, she straightened and turned toward him, one eyebrow arched.
“Oh?” Her voice was flat, dry. “What is it now? Thought you’d done enough today with your little improv show.”
He didn’t flinch. Just exhaled once through his nose. “You need to stop drinking. Not like this. Not while we’re on a mission.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“I’m not trying to lecture you,” he added quickly. “God knows I’ve done worse trying to shut my own head up. I’m not your father, Jane. I’m not here to judge you.”
He stood now, his movements deliberate, careful. “But you’ve got to stay clear. I need you clear. I need you in this with me. Lucid.”
Something in her snapped at that.
She stepped toward him, fast, her jaw tight. The air between them was sharp.
“Exactly,” she hissed. “You’re not my father. You’re not anyone to tell me what the hell I should or shouldn’t do.”
“We drank together, by the way.” she added, voice rising. “Annalise and I were bonding. I’m sorry if that doesn’t align with your sense of tactical timing, Sergeant.”
Her sarcasm was biting. And then, even sharper: “If you want to know, it worked. She likes me now. We’re getting closer, me and that sociopath.”
Her tone was cutting, but her eyes flickered.
“And for the record,” she continued, “I’m not drunk. And even if I were, I wouldn’t give a damn what you thought about it.”
She turned as if to walk away, but he stepped in and caught her wrist. Not harshly, not painfully, but with enough pressure to stop her.
“Jane,” he said, firmer now. “We’re not done. I’m not trying to fight you. This mission is too important. And you—you keep pushing me away like I’m your enemy. Can you stop that, just for a second?”
She pulled back against his hold, staring at him, chest heaving.
“You think I’m trying to fight you?” she barked. “If I really wanted to fight you, Barnes, believe me, you wouldn’t be standing on your own damn legs right now.”
She yanked her arm free and turned, but he followed.
“Goddamn it, Jane.” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “Don’t you see I’m saying this because it’s not good for you?”
She stopped cold. Turned slowly. And then jabbed a finger hard into his chest.
“Not good for me?” she repeated, voice trembling now—not with fear, but with fury. “Really?”
Her eyes were wild, wounded. “Tell me, how the hell can you stand there and pretend you give a damn about me when you know, you know, how much I hate you?”
Her voice was hoarse. “Doesn’t it get to you? Doesn’t it burn when I look at you and see the man who—”
She cut herself off, jaw tight.
“Why do you do this?” she whispered. “Why pretend you care?”
For a moment, he said nothing. Just looked at her.
Then he smiled. Not cruelly or mockingly, just bitterly.
“Because I probably deserve it.” he said.
His voice was quiet now, grounded.
“When you say I’m a monster, you’re not wrong. I was. Maybe I still am. And I don’t know what I did to make you hate me so much. But I know you’re not stupid, Jane. So there’s probably a good reason.”
He shook his head slowly. “But I have no reason to hate you back. Not one.”
The words hit like a slap.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her hand dropped to her side. Her pulse roared in her ears. The anger didn’t disappear, but it shifted. Muted into something she didn’t know how to name.
Surprise maybe, or just a feeling of uneasiness.
She couldn’t meet his eyes anymore.
She bent, grabbed the edge of her robe with quick, fumbling fingers, and walked straight out of the room.
She walked fast. Down the hallway. Past the carved columns and gilded mirrors. Past the soft lamplight flickering on the old stone walls.
She didn’t stop until she hit the door to the garden.
The evening was falling. The sky stretched wide above her, streaked in fading indigo and gold. She stepped barefoot onto the stone patio and pulled the robe tighter around her frame.
The air was colder now, but she welcomed the chill. Anything to drown the heat still burning in her chest.
She couldn’t have stayed in that room a second longer. Not with him.
She didn’t know how long she stood there, staring at the horizon and trying to breathe through the storm inside her, but the footsteps behind her snapped her back with a jolt.
She turned sharply, ready to fire another verbal round, because of course it had to be Bucky, still chasing her down, still prying. Still—
But it wasn’t him.
“Mr. Vogel.” she said, blinking once, caught off guard.
Christian stood there, a few paces away, dressed exactly as he’d been at lunch. Still impeccable in his cream trousers and the pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to be casual, not careless. His smile was a crescent.
He stepped closer without hesitation.
“I was beginning to think you and your husband had snuck off again,” he said smoothly. “But here you are. Alone this time.”
Jane didn’t answer. Her stomach twisted in ways that had nothing to do with the champagne.
Christian leaned in slightly, and his voice dropped low and oily near her ear. “The first fights are always the most passionate. But it’s the making up afterward that makes them worth it, isn’t it?”
The words crawled across her skin. Jane forced a smile, something slight, sarcastic. Like the echo of amusement without any real mirth. She couldn’t afford to flinch. Not now.
“I’ll take your word for it.” she said, stepping sideways just enough to put a bit more space between them.
But he chuckled, “Most women who come to this house—pretty things, high maintenance and empty-minded. But you…” He tilted his head. “There’s something sharp about you, Catherine. And sharp women, well, they’re either dangerous or useful.”
She tilted her chin up slightly, eyes cool. “Hopefully, I’ll prove to be both.”
That seemed to amuse him more. He grinned, wide and wolfish. “I look forward to seeing that.”
Then, casually, like it was nothing, she asked, “Annalise’s already gone up. You haven’t joined her?”
“She needed rest,” Vogel replied. “I needed air.”
She nodded like that answer pleased her. “So did I. And I must say, I feel very lucky tonight.”
“Last time we talked,” she continued carefully, “we were interrupted.”
Christian raised a brow. “By your husband, no less.”
“Mm.” She smiled again, this time smaller, quieter. “Maybe now’s a better time.”
He looked at her long enough to register the shift in tone. That was good.
But instead of answering directly, he said, “There will be plenty of time for business. Right now, I’d rather talk about you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, Catherine. A beautiful, fascinating woman, married to a man I still can’t quite read. I want to know more.”
Jane didn’t reply.
She just sipped her breath like poison and kept smiling.
Upstairs, the room was still bathed in the soft orange glow of the bedside lamp, shadows long against the walls. Persuasion lay half-closed beside Bucky on the bed, forgotten now. He wasn’t reading. Hadn’t been for a while.
The burner phone buzzed against the nightstand. No name flashed on the screen. Just the number. One of those numbers.
Bucky answered on the second ring.
“Barnes.” came Clint’s voice, low and clipped.
Bucky rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Didn’t expect to hear from you tonight.”
“Yeah, well. I was expecting an update this morning and didn’t get one. Figured I’d check in.” A pause. “How’s the mission?”
Bucky hesitated. His eyes drifted toward the door Jane had slammed behind her less than half an hour earlier, the echo of it still reverberating in his bones.
“It’s going.” he said eventually. “We’ve made contact with the targets. Spending time with them. Getting closer.”
“And Jane?”
Bucky closed his eyes for a second, leaned his elbows on his knees. “She’s… adjusting.”
“You sound unsure.”
“She’s handling it.” he replied, more forcefully than he felt. “Look, it’s a tough mission. Tense dynamic. She’s under pressure, same as me.”
Clint didn’t speak immediately, but when he did, the tone had sharpened. “Is she stable, Bucky? Because we both know she’s not a conventional asset. And I need you to be honest about it.”
“She’s doing her part.” Bucky said. “She’s making progress with Annalise. That’s more than either of us expected this early on.”
“And you two? How’s the teamwork?”
Clint’s tone sounded almost ironic.
Bucky looked down at his hands. The scarred knuckles. The faint tremble he hadn’t managed to shake all day.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, quietly. “We’re trying. That’s the most I can give you.”
Another long pause. Barton probably wanted to say more, but he had spared him this time.
“Alright,” Clint said. “You’ve got a week. Then we need something real. Anything. Understood?”
“Yeah,” Bucky replied. “Understood.”
The line went dead.
Bucky stared at the silent phone for a beat longer, then slipped it back into his bag, beneath the folded edge of a shirt he probably wasn’t going to wear. He leaned back against the headboard and dragged a hand down his face, his jaw clenched tight.
It wasn’t the mission that terrified him, nor the risk of being caught. It wasn’t even the threat of death. That part, honestly, would’ve been easy.
What paralyzed him, what kept him awake at night and made his gut twist like rusted metal, was the idea of failure. Because failure didn’t mean just losing. It meant unleashing hell on earth.
It meant those vials, those cursed, blue-lit vials, falling into the wrong hands. Creating more monsters. More versions of him.
And Bucky didn’t think the world could survive another one.
Hell, he didn’t think he could survive knowing he’d let it happen.
He still couldn’t forgive himself for what he already was. What he had been. The blood on his hands wasn’t metaphorical—it had weight, it had names, it had faces. And every time he closed his eyes, they came back. Not in dreams, but in memories. In nightmares that didn’t fade with daylight.
Jane’s fury from earlier echoed back in his mind. The way she’d spit those words at him like they were fire. Don’t you see how much I hate you?
She had every reason to. Every reason to flinch at his touch. To recoil from the way his voice sounded in the dark.
Because he had been everything she hated.
And the worst part was… he couldn’t even argue with her.
Because when she looked at him with all that rage and grief, when she pushed him away or challenged him with trembling hands and burning eyes, all he could think was: She’s right.
He had no business standing next to her, judging her, much less protecting her.
Even if she was broken in ways he recognized too well. Drinking to feel less. Running to feel free. Hurting to remind herself she was still alive.
God, he knew that language. He’d spoken it for years.
And maybe that’s why they kept crashing into each other, because they suffered in the same way.
But the mission didn’t care.
The mission didn’t wait for personal growth or catharsis. They were inside now. Inside the lion’s den. Christian Vogel might’ve smiled like a polished aristocrat, but there was venom in that grin. And Annlise… she was more than she seemed. Clever, poised, watchful.
This was a game of proximity, and they had no margin for error.
Bucky exhaled and rubbed at his temples. He didn’t know how this would end. But he knew what failure would cost. And he wasn’t going to be the man who let it happen. Not again.
He’d walk through fire if it meant those vials never made it into the wrong hands.
He’d already created enough ghosts to last a hundred lifetimes.
He wasn’t going to be the reason for more.
Notes:
This chapter was particularly challenging to write, for two main reasons. First of all, this has been a wildly intense week, and honestly, it took me way longer than I wanted to get it done. Life got in the way (as it tends to do), and I really had to carve out the time, word by word, moment by moment.
Secondly… well, this is technically the first kiss between Bucky and Jane. Sure, it’s a kiss “for show,” a kiss “in character,” a kiss to sell their story—but… are we really so sure that’s all it was? Or is something starting to shift? That, I’ll leave to you to decide. For now.
In any case, I’d truly love to know what you think—about the chapter, the pacing, the tension, the turning point this might represent. Your thoughts and reactions always mean the world to me and keep me motivated to keep digging into these characters.
I hope you enjoyed the read!
OH, by the way! If you want to catch little sneak peeks, random thoughts, future chapter hints, or just yell about the story with me, come hang out on X: @rhaeneryss_
I’ll be posting updates there, and I’m planning to do a few polls soon too (because who doesn’t love a little chaos?)
Would love to see you there!Sending a big hug to all of you, and I’ll see you in the next chapter!
xx
Chapter 12: Lily. New York. 1943.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Under the pergola, surrounded by ivy-covered beams and strings of antique glass lanterns, the air felt lighter, cleaner. A few moths drifted lazily toward the flame of the nearest candle. The vines overhead swayed gently in the breeze.
The table was set for leisure, its felt surface edged in polished mahogany, surrounded by tall wicker chairs cushioned in deep velvet. Colorful stacks of chips shimmered gently under the lantern light, waiting in quiet invitation, while half-empty glasses of wine and brandy glinted in the candlelight.
Christian Vogel was very much in his element.
Reclined in his chair with a cigar smoldering between two fingers, shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest comfort. He leaned back after every win with a lazy confidence, tossing a few more chips into the pot like it was nothing. His smirk had been a permanent fixture since they began. And for good reason.
He was winning. Consistently.
Across from him the Count, a man of admirable taste and absolutely no poker face, was in the process of losing his fifth hand in a row. His brows furrowed with good-natured frustration as he pushed his dwindling stack of chips forward and muttered something about cursed luck and dishonorable cards.
“My poor Count,” Annalise murmured, draped with feline elegance across the arm of Christian’s chair. Her chin rested lightly against his shoulder as she watched the game, wine glass delicately poised in her hand. “Always the first to fold and the last to learn. What can we say to justify him? Oh, and Benjamin, too! Perhaps you, Catherine, haven’t been a convincing enough lucky charm tonight.”
She glanced over her shoulder at Jane, mischief dancing behind her lashes.
Jane sat beside Bucky, one leg crossed neatly over the other, a fresh glass of wine resting between her fingers. Her expression was smooth, her smile calculated—cool, dry, unbothered.
“A man doesn’t need luck,” she said with a shrug, tilting the rim of her glass toward the candlelight. “He makes his own.”
“Spoken like a true queen of hearts.” Annalise purred, swirling her wine.
Jane’s eyes flicked toward the Count. “And besides,” she added with a faint smirk, “unlucky in cards, lucky in love. Isn’t that how the saying goes?”
Bucky turned his head toward her.
His movement was calm, almost absent-minded, but his gaze was deliberate. Steady. A corner of his mouth lifted in the faintest of smiles.
“On that,” he said, “we agree.”
And before she could react, he took her free hand, easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and brought it to his lips.
His mouth brushed the back of her hand, light and lingering. Gentlemanly. Practiced.
Jane didn’t even flinch, but inside her pulse jumped like a wire sparked. The heat of his skin against hers left a phantom impression that spread through her arm and lodged somewhere behind her ribs. She held herself still with effort, every muscle perfectly arranged to feign ease, while her thoughts clawed for composure.
She wasn’t used to it. That kind of touch. Not anymore. Especially not from him. And especially not in front of this audience.
Her fingers itched to pull away, but she didn’t. Not until he released her, as smoothly and effortlessly as he’d taken her hand.
She forced her gaze to remain neutral, lifting her wine to her lips to cover the half-second of imbalance that followed. The wine tasted sharper than she remembered. Colder.
Across the table, Christian was already reshuffling the deck.
“You’ve been particularly quiet even by your standards, Benjamin.” he said to Bucky, cutting the cards with a flick of his wrist. “Calculating, I assume?”
“Trying to learn from the best.” Bucky replied smoothly.
“And yet,” Christian said, tapping the stack of chips in front of him, “I seem to be the one walking away richer.”
“For now,” Bucky said. “It’s a long game.”
Jane watched the exchange, the careful threading of challenge and charm. This was Christian at his most dangerous: charming, indulgent, entirely in control. He was the type of man who liked to keep people comfortable just long enough to pull the rug out from under them.
And Bucky, for all his quiet restraint, was watching him like a hawk behind glass.
The Count groaned at his hand again and Annalise patted his knee with the amused affection of a woman who’d given up on rescuing him from himself.
Jane felt the breeze shift again, colder now. It slipped beneath the hem of her dress and ran along her spine like a whisper. She swallowed and placed her glass down on the table.
Bucky, beside her, glanced over. Just a flick of his eyes. He didn’t say anything. But his gaze lingered a moment longer than it needed to.
She straightened her spine, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and flashed the table a smile sharp enough to cut glass.
Jane cursed herself inwardly for having chosen that dress. It had seemed like a good idea hours ago, something that would glimmer just right beneath the garden lanterns, that would draw a certain kind of attention. A silk slip dress in pale amethyst, its straps thin and shimmering, the fabric catching the light in a way that made it look almost liquid. It was a beautiful dress, but she was freezing now, and the discomfort was seeping into her nerves, making every breath shorter than the one before.
Still, she didn’t leave. They were watching her, all of them. And if she got up, if she excused herself, it would look like weakness. Like she couldn’t hold her own in a simple card game, let alone a room full of manipulators. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
But someone else had noticed. Bucky’s movements were quiet, he placed his cards face-down on the table, slow and easy. Then, in a fluid gesture that drew no attention but hers, he slipped out of his tailored gray blazer and stood just long enough to drape it over her shoulders.
The warmth hit her instantly. And so did the scent. Not strong, but always the same. Citrus and something minty.
She hated how easily she could recognize it.
“Should’ve worn something warmer,” he murmured near her ear. “It’s cold at night here.”
Jane stiffened. Not because he was wrong, he wasn’t, but because it wasn’t the comment that unsettled her. It was lack of performance. The fact that his voice was low enough to be heard by her only.
Still, she didn’t shake the jacket off.
She couldn’t. Not here. Not in front of them.
Instead, she drew it tighter around her, her fingers gripping the lapels, pretending that smell didn’t begin to press against the walls of her composure.
“Ah,” Annalise chimed with a syrupy drawl. “So that’s why Benjamin keeps losing. It’s you, Catherine. You’re the reason he can’t focus. He’s watching you more than his cards.”
Bucky looked down briefly at his cards, and gave a small smile.
Jane clenched her jaw. Something hot and irrational flickered in her stomach. She couldn’t explain it, why that amused little dig had set her off, but it did. She turned her head slowly and raised her glass to her lips.
“Benjamin only seems more romantic than he is,” she said lightly. “He plays the part well.”
“A sharp-tongued one, your wife,” the Count chimed in, chuckling. “But then again, all women are sharp. Beautiful and compelling like no other, yes, but sharp nonetheless. That’s why every woman needs a man. To balance all that delightful volatility.”
Jane froze mid-sip. Her blood simmered under her skin.
She had lived five centuries. She had fought in wars, witnessed rebellions, crossed oceans, and buried people she loved. She had died, in some ways. She had outlived tyrants, survived the Inquisition, lived through plagues and revolutions. She had saved Tony Stark from his own darkness and buried a child whose heartbeat she still dreamed of. And this man, this fossil in designer loafers, was reducing her gender to charming instability?
She wanted to laugh. Or slap him. Or both.
But instead, she smiled. A small, diplomatic thing. Then she downed what was left in her wine glass in one clean movement.
“Balance is overrated.” she murmured, placing her empty flute back on the table with a gentle clink.
Jane didn’t look at Bucky, but she felt him glance sideways. She could sense it, like the press of air against her cheek. He didn’t say anything, but he had heard her.
She lifted her hand for another pour, and the wine went down sharper this time. The cold was still there, nestled deep in her bones, but now it mixed with something else. A different kind of heat. Tension. Fatigue.
She was tired. Of the show. Of the layers. Of pretending to laugh at Christian’s remarks and smile at Annalise’s veiled barbs. Of pretending not to notice the way Bucky looked at her in a way she still couldn’t quite decipher.
She was tired of the weight of everything she couldn’t say. But she still played her part.
Because that’s what this was. A game. A mission. A performance. And if she let herself forget that for even a second, she’d lose the strength to keep going.
So she pulled Bucky’s jacket tighter and smiled her sharpest smile.
“You know, Benjamin,” he said casually, “I asked a few friends of mine back in New York about you. Art patrons, mostly. Deep pockets. And yet none of them had heard your name.”
He let the words hang, sipping from his glass. His tone was light, but there was steel underneath it.
“A real shame,” he added with a smile. “Perhaps I should correct that. Recommend you to them, maybe—if you wouldn’t mind.”
Bucky and Jane exchanged the briefest of glances. A flicker of tension. Christian was probing. His curiosity could’ve been playful… or dangerous. If suspicion was creeping in, that would complicate everything.
But Bucky, ever collected, showed the same confident smile he’d worn since the first day.
“I’d appreciate that,” he said smoothly. “Though I tend to work quietly. I usually take on one or two private clients a year. High commitment, long term. No gallery buzz, no press. That might explain the lack of familiarity. But if they’re friends of yours…” he paused, leaning subtly toward Jane, “then they’re friends of mine.”
His arm moved toward the inside of her jacket, his jacket, and for a split second, his hand brushed her shoulder. Lightweight but still there.
She didn’t react but her body went still, spine straightening as if by instinct.
Bucky’s hand slipped into the inner pocket of the jacket, and he retrieved a business card with the kind of effortless grace that made the gesture look practiced. But as Jane watched his hand move, her gaze lingered, not on the card, but on the glove.
Always the glove.
It was the right hand this time. His real one. But still covered, like the other. Bucky had worn gloves every day since they’d arrived, every time they were in public. He never took them off. Not at meals, not during the long walks through the gardens, not even once while lounging under the sun with a drink in hand. It was subtle, almost forgettable. Almost.
Except Christian had noticed.
Jane had seen it in his eyes once or twice—a flicker, a flash, a faint curiosity when his gaze dipped briefly to Bucky’s hands. Maybe it was coincidence. Or maybe it wasn’t. But no one had asked. Not yet.
They had a story prepared, of course. If anyone had inquired, they would’ve said that Benjamin had suffered a terrible accident as a child, some kind of fire. Severe burns that left scars down both arms and across his hands. Painful, disfiguring, deeply personal. The kind of thing no one would pry into out of politeness.
But still, she was relieved no one had forced them to use it.
Because she had seen the way Bucky stiffened, just barely, whenever she brushed near his exposed arm by accident. She’d seen the way he would instinctively draw it back, hide it beneath a sleeve or fold it tight to his body, even when it was just the two of them. It wasn’t just about secrecy.
He didn’t want it seen.
Because no matter how much time passed, no matter how much redemption he carved out of every breath he took, that was the arm of the killer. The arm of the weapon. The Winter Soldier’s arm. The monster’s limb.
And whatever else Bucky Barnes might be pretending to be—an art dealer, a husband, a man without history—he couldn’t forget that. And neither could she.
Christian took the card, inspecting it for a moment before tucking it into the breast pocket of his blazer. “Good to know,” he said. “I value discretion.”
And then the Count, who had been remarkably quiet, piped up.
“And speaking of New York and discretion,” the Count said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass with a languid motion, “did you catch Stark’s latest press conference? That man simply can’t help himself. Brilliant, yes, undeniably, but so desperate to remind the world of it. There’s a kind of vulgarity in that level of self-congratulation, don’t you think?”
Jane couldn’t move.
Not visibly. Not to them. But inside, everything stopped.
Her heartbeat faltered. Her breath stalled in her throat. Her knuckles tightened around the stem of her wine glass so hard her fingers turned white.
Bucky noticed. His eyes darted toward her, quietly assessing. He didn’t say a word, but he was watching.
Christian’s eyes gleamed with something darker now, his tone more amused than before. “It’s incredible, isn’t it? A mind like his—and yet the ideals of a child.”
Annalise laughed softly, the sound low and mocking. “What a waste,” she said. “So much potential. Such brilliance, squandered on this… juvenile fantasy of protection and peace. These so-called heroes. These quaint little vigilantes.”
Jane didn’t move.
Annalise continued, her voice velvet-lined venom. “They honestly believe they can change the world. That they’re saviors. When the truth is, the world doesn’t need saving. It needs order. Hierarchy. There are those made to rule, and those made to serve. Giving the masses the illusion of choice, of freedom, is not only foolish—it’s cruel.”
The words rang like poison in Jane’s ears. And she said nothing.
She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted iron, her mouth full of bitterness and blood. She couldn’t speak. Not when they were talking about him. Not when they were desecrating his name with that effortless cruelty, as if he were some fool.
Annalise turned toward her with a feline smile.
“And you, Catherine?” she asked sweetly. “Surely you agree, don’t you?”
Jane looked at her, and for a moment, just a beat,!her mask slipped.
Her eyes were colder than the wine, her lips pressed tight, her breath low and shallow.
Then, she smiled.
Warm. Honest. Effortlessly natural.
It was a lie, but it looked perfect.
“In truth?” she said, lifting her glass with a small shrug. “That kind of naiveté works in our favor. Let the masses believe they’re protected, let the dreamers preach freedom. It makes it all the easier for men like you to pull the strings unnoticed.”
Christian let out a laugh. A sharp, delighted sound.
“To that.” he said, raising his glass.
Jane clinked hers against his and drank, even as her stomach curled inward.
Her pulse was racing. Her skin was cold. The warmth of Bucky’s jacket was no longer comforting—it was suffocating. The taste of wine had turned metallic on her tongue.
She had spent the entire evening performing, carefully, deliberately. Laughing when she was supposed to, smiling when required, playing the elegant, composed wife with just the right amount of wit and mystery. She had done her best to be charming, attentive, unbothered. To sell the image.
But as Tony’s name had left the Count’s mouth, something inside her had shifted. Something too raw. Too unguarded. She hadn’t expected that to happen, not after all this time. Not after years of burying him beneath layers of detachment and discipline and duty.
She had thought she was stronger than this. And maybe that’s what stung the most.
That she wasn’t. Not when it came to Tony .
Just the echo of his name, spoken casually, almost mockingly, had been enough to knock the breath from her lungs and make her blood run cold. It shouldn’t have. She knew that. She knew better. And yet here she was, fingers trembling around the stem of her glass, trying to keep her breathing even.
It felt childish. Weak. Embarrassing.
She should’ve outgrown this kind of emotional instability long ago. And yet it clung to her, unshakable.
So yes, even if she’d told herself she wouldn’t, she was ready to leave.
Better that than risk revealing the crack in her composure. Better that than letting any of them see the truth: that one man, one memory, still had the power to pull her under.
She would surrender the round, just this once. Because losing the moment was safer than losing control.
She stood, slowly.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, her voice gracious, controlled. “I think I’ll follow the countess’s example. It’s been a long day, and I’m truly exhausted.”
Annalise pouted, feigning disappointment. “Oh no, my dear. You leave me here all alone? Well, not for long. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Sleep well, Catherine.” the Count added, lifting his glass lazily.
Christian simply looked at her, eyes gleaming with something unreadable, and gave her a slight nod. She returned it with a smile
Then she turned, and trying not to overthink it, stepped closer to Bucky.
She couldn’t keep letting him carry all the weight of the performance. If they were going to pull this off, she had to start playing her part better . She had to be believable. Effortless. Devoted.
So she leaned down, pressed a kiss to his temple, and whispered just loudly enough, “Goodnight, Benjamin. Don’t stay up too late.”
He looked up at her, surprised, but he nodded.
Then she left.
And the moment she stepped into the house, away from their eyes, she exhaled, shaky but deep, like someone surfacing from underwater.
But she didn’t head to bed. She had one more task tonight.
The servants were long asleep. The others were still outside. The countess, she assumed, had already gone to bed. Which meant, for the first time all day, the east wing was unwatched.
The forbidden wing.
The one Annalise had marked off in her letter.
She and Bucky had discussed it before. It was time.
If they were going to uncover what was really happening in this estate, who these people truly were, they needed proof. Not smiles. Not wine. Not conversation.
Proof.
As she moved through the corridors, Jane tried to map out the inside of the house in her head. She had paid attention during their previous walks, memorizing which rooms were open to guests and which were not. There were places they hadn’t been shown, rooms behind locked doors, hallways too dim to be welcoming. That was where she needed to go.
S.A.S.S.I. would be useful right now , she thought bitterly. One quick scan and I’d know exactly where everything is. But no. If I use it, Tony might be able to trace the signal.
She shook the thought away and kept walking.
She passed a pair of small salons, one decorated in soft blue and white, the other lined wall-to-wall with aged books. Then came a music room, dark now, the glossy surface of the piano reflecting the moonlight through the tall windows. None of these were what she needed.
Finally, at the end of a narrow corridor, she found the door.
Solid oak. Heavier than the rest. No gilded handle, but locked, naturally.
She checked both directions, ensuring no one was watching, then knelt by the keyhole.
Her breath steadied. Her fingers hovered.
With a subtle wave of her hand, she summoned the familiar pull of her telekinetic ability and twisted the lock from the inside. A faint click answered her. Jane slipped in.
The air inside was stale and smelled faintly of brandy and dust. After a quick look, she understood that was definitely Christian’s study. A large desk dominated the room, littered with documents, open folders, scattered pens. To the side, a heavy leather armchair sat beside a small end table where a crystal glass rested, a finger’s worth of amber liquid still clinging to the bottom.
She approached carefully. The silence pressed against her ears.
Her eyes scanned the papers quickly: shipment manifests, lists of art dealers, receipts from auctions in Zurich, Berlin, Seoul. Financial documents, but the accounts were strange. Payments coming in from shell companies, no clear origins. She picked up one sheet and studied it under the light. Numbers. Transfer dates. Nothing useful.
Then, while running her fingers beneath the edge of a drawer, she felt it, a ridge. A false bottom.
She worked it open, heart hammering. Inside was a single, folded sheet. Cream stationery. Handwritten.
She read it once. Then again.
Soon, I’ll tell you exactly where the exchange will take place. The vials will be in good hands—don’t worry. They’ll be yours soon. Just keep your word.
The vials.
Jane’s blood ran cold.
She knew. She knew exactly what that meant. And yet, something didn’t sit right.
Why leave this here? In a drawer, barely hidden? And why tell them not to enter this wing if they didn’t want them looking?
Unless…
Unless they wanted them to find this.
The thought made her dizzy.
She shoved the letter aside and kept looking. She was reaching toward another drawer when—
Footsteps. She froze.
Someone was close. Right outside the door.
She didn’t have time to hide. She barely had time to think.
The doorknob turned.
With a sudden burst of instinct, she grabbed the half-empty glass of brandy and hoisted herself up onto the desk, settling into a relaxed pose. Her legs crossed, her posture tilted—just enough to look like she belonged there.
The door creaked open.
Christian.
He stood in the doorway for a second too long, clearly surprised.
Jane raised the glass to her lips, drank the rest in one long, unbothered sip, and looked at him with a lazy smile.
“I was starting to think you didn’t understand I wanted you to follow me.” she said, voice velveted with mischief.
Christian blinked. Then his lips curled into a grin.
“I wasn’t sure,” he said, closing the door behind him. “But curiosity got the better of me.”
He walked toward her, slow.
“Or you just came here to snoop, didn’t you?” he added, his tone casual but knowing.
She smirked, saying nothing.
Christian took the glass from her fingers and set it down with a soft clink. Then he stepped closer. His thigh pressed gently against her leg. Not an accident.
She kept her expression soft, vaguely amused, but inside every muscle in her body screamed
His hand came up. Two fingers under her chin. Tilted her face up.
“Or maybe you’re just as curious as I am.” he murmured. “Doesn’t matter how much time I spend with you. Everytime you leave, I have a feeling there’s something you haven’t said.”
Jane held his gaze. “I thought I’d made myself clear.”
“Not quite.”
She smiled, but her hand was already behind her, telekinetically nudging the drawer closed, hiding the letter once more.
Christian leaned in.
Then—
“Cat?”
The voice came sharp, insistent.
“Catherine, where are you?”
Bucky. Relief flooded her, masked by annoyance.
She turned her head sharply. Slid off the desk.
“I should go. He’s probably mad I’m not where I was supposed to.” she said, brushing past Christian.
He smiled, composed. Like nothing happened. “Of course.”
She didn’t look back.
Jane shut the door behind her and leaned against it, eyes closed. Her pulse was out of control.
Then she heard footsteps again—this time Bucky’s.
“He was in there with you, wasn’t he?” he said as soon as he found her, voice low.
Jane nodded.
Without another word, he grabbed her hand and pulled her down the hallway, back toward their room, toward safety.
Once inside, Bucky shut the door behind him and turned the lock with a quiet, definitive click. The sound was subtle—but the look he gave Jane wasn’t. His features were drawn, sharp with something between confusion and frustration, his jaw visibly tight.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going there?” he asked, voice low but unmistakably tense. “Why were you even there in the first place?”
Jane exhaled, tired and more irritated than she had the energy to show. “We talked about it, didn’t we?” she replied, taking off her heels. “We said we’d explore the east wing as soon as we had a chance.”
“Yeah,” Bucky shot back, “we said that. But we didn’t say tonight. You said you weren’t going to move until things had settled. This kind of things—this is exactly why we’re supposed to work as a team.”
“And I did work as a team,” she said, turning to face him. “Just… solo.”
He scoffed. “That’s not how teams work, Jane.”
Jane’s eyes narrowed. “So what, you’re upset because I didn’t wait for permission?”
“I’m upset because Christian was there,” Bucky snapped. “What the hell was he doing there?”
“I don’t know,” Jane admitted. “Maybe he followed me, maybe it was coincidence. I didn’t plan on being caught.”
“That’s the point.” Bucky muttered. “If I’d known, I would’ve kept him busy, I could’ve bought you more time—”
“I thought you’d be busy playing cards.” she bit back. “And for the record, nothing happened. He didn’t find anything out of place.”
“But he found you , didn’t he?”
Jane’s jaw clenched.
Bucky stepped closer, eyes dark, voice low. “Did he touch you?”
She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “You really think I’d let him?”
“That’s not the question.” he growled. “And you couldn’t use your powers. Not without exposing yourself. That’s the part you don’t seem to get.”
Jane’s tone sharpened. “I know exactly what’s at stake.”
“Then act like it.” Bucky said, now just inches from her. “You think I like being the one who has to keep this together? You think I don’t see how reckless you’re being?”
She stepped closer too, her breath sharp. “I’m not some fragile doll, Barnes. I was there working—for us . And if you don’t trust me, that’s not my problem.”
Bucky stared at her, then backed off, shaking his head slowly. “You’re impossible.”
He turned away from her, tugging off his jacket with a sharp movement and flinging it onto a chair. Then he unbuttoned his shirt, jaw still tight, body tense with unspoken frustration.
Jane lowered her gaze, suddenly very aware of the intimacy of the moment. He wasn’t doing anything inappropriate, just undressing like anyone would before bed, but still, something about it made her skin prickle.
She turned away too, pulled her pajamas from the drawer, and disappeared into the bathroom without another word.
When she returned from the bathroom—hair tied back, her skin still faintly warm from the water—Jane found Bucky stretched out on the couch, arms folded behind his head, staring up at the dark ceiling.
She stood in the doorway for a moment. The air between them was still thick with everything they had said.
“Why are you there?” she asked, her voice quieter than she meant it to be.
Bucky turned his head slightly, his brow creasing. “What?”
She took a shallow breath. “The couch.”
He sat up slowly, bracing his elbows on one knee. “I figured you wouldn’t want me in the bed.”
“I don’t,” she answered too fast, and then winced. “I mean—”
He waited.
Jane looked down, clutching the hem of her shirt for a second before speaking again. “I don’t… want to, but I think we have to. We’re not in a hotel anymore. This is their home. If someone comes in and sees us sleeping apart…”
He nodded, catching on quickly. “It wouldn’t look good.”
“No,” she said. “It wouldn’t.”
There was a pause. He stood. Not suddenly, not to intimidate her, but slowly, cautiously, like he was approaching a ledge. He crossed the space between them until only inches remained. His voice, when it came, was low and careful.
“Are you sure?”
Jane’s breath caught. His proximity made everything harder to think through. She felt the heat of his body, the steadiness of his presence, and all it did was make her feel more out of place.
“I’m sure.” she whispered.
He studied her for a moment longer, as if searching her face for the tiniest crack. As if giving her one last chance to change her mind. But she didn’t. So he nodded once, the motion barely perceptible, and turned without a word, walking to the bed.
Jane followed a beat later, not looking at him as she pulled back the sheets. Her heart was drumming too loudly in her ears to hear anything else. She slid beneath the covers with mechanical precision, every movement stiff.
The mattress dipped with his weight as he lay beside her, and the silence that settled was more uncomfortable than relieving.
She turned her back to him automatically, her shoulders tensing, trying to create space that didn’t exist.
She focused on anything else. The weave of the linen sheets beneath her palm, the distant rustle of wind brushing the windowpane, the faintest creak of old wood in the beams above. She latched onto those sounds, those textures, as if they could distract her.
But they didn’t. She was too aware of everything.
Of the way his presence warmed the space between them. Of the sound of his steady breath just inches away.
He didn’t touch her. Of course he didn’t. He kept his distance, just as he always had.
But that didn’t make it easier.
Eventually, sleep came.
Not gently, but slowly, like a reluctant wave dragging her under.
And even then, her last waking thought wasn’t of safety or strategy, but of something far more unsettling.
The fury, that pure, burning anger she had once felt in Bucky’s presence, was no longer as sharp as it had been. Not vanished, but shifted. Yes, the resentment was still there. The memory of everything he’d done. The pain his presence evoked. That hadn’t changed.
But looking at him no longer made her recoil, not like it had that first night in Paris, when she’d faced him for the first time and had seen, with blinding clarity, the man who had shattered Tony’s life.
And that shift terrified her more than any violence ever could.
Because Bucky Barnes had always represented the absolute. The immovable. The unredeemable.
The one her mind had labeled as the embodiment of everything she hated, everything she had sworn to stand against. And now… now he was something else.
And that something else, that sliver of humanity, of weakness, unnerved her in ways she didn’t know how to process.
She didn’t want it. But it was there, unwelcome and undeniable.
And that’s what made her close her eyes tight against the dark. Because whatever was happening between them… it wasn’t simple hate anymore. And she didn’t know if that was a sign of progress, or a very slow kind of collapse.
Jane shot up in bed, breath snagging in her throat.
The scream had cut through the darkness like a blade—raw, guttural, and too real to ignore. For a moment, she couldn’t even tell where it had come from. Her eyes adjusted to the dim room just in time to see Bucky thrashing, tangled in the sheets, murmuring something in a language she didn’t recognize. His chest rose and fell in rapid bursts.
Her breath stuttered. This was bad.
If someone heard him… one of the staff, or worse, Christian or Annalise.
“Barnes—” she hissed, crawling across the mattress to him. “Hey, wake up. You have to wake up.”
He didn’t respond. His face was contorted, damp with sweat, caught in a place she couldn’t reach. His breathing turned jagged, shallow. Jane could see his lips moving, but the words were lost to panic.
She grabbed his shoulders. Shook him.
“It’s just a dream. It’s not—It’s not real. You’re not there.”
Still nothing.
Something inside her twisted. This wasn’t like watching someone sleep. This was like watching someone drown.
“It’s a dream.” she said again, louder now, her voice cracking. “You’re not alone. I’m here. You’re safe. You’re not alone.”
She cupped his face without thinking—hands bracketing his jaw, her thumbs brushing his clammy cheekbones. She moved before she could even register the action, before her mind had time to catch up with her body. It wasn’t planned, It was instinct.
He stilled slightly under her touch. His eyes opened, wild and unseeing at first. Then they found hers.
And then his vibranium hand reached up. He rested it, barely, over one of hers. No pressure. No force. Just contact. Like he needed to feel something real. Something solid. Her.
The moment stretched impossibly long. Then Bucky blinked. His chest stuttered on a breath, and he pulled his hand away like it had been burned. His eyes dropped.
“I—” he started, voice low, gravelled. “I didn’t mean to touch you with that. I didn’t mean to—”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. Jane already knew what he meant.
She drew her hands back slowly. Her fingertips tingled from the heat of his skin, and her mind raced with the memory of the panic in his voice.
Neither of them spoke. She didn’t know what to say.
Instead, she stood up, crossed the room, and opened the liquor cabinet. Her hand hovered for a moment over the collection of bottles, her fingers brushing the glass. She hesitated.
Bucky’s voice echoed in her mind—low but steady. You need to stop drinking like this.
He wasn’t wrong, she had been drinking too much. Not just here. Not just now. Long before this mission had even started, she’d been using the burn of alcohol to smooth the jagged edges of her thoughts. It was the only thing that dulled the constant noise in her head, that numbed her long enough to breathe without shaking. The only thing that gave her the illusion of stillness.
And tonight… she didn’t have the strength to resist it.
Her fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle, something amber and sharp, and she pulled it free. Poured two glasses with slow, deliberate movements. Her hands weren’t steady, but they didn’t spill.
Then, without meeting his gaze, she crossed the room again and handed him one.
He accepted it, curling his fingers around the glass, then gave a dry laugh. “This stuff doesn’t work on me. Not anymore. Since they put that poison in me… alcohol might as well be water.”
Jane lifted her own glass. “Then I guess I won’t envy you for that.”
She downed it in one burning swallow. It scorched her throat, but it gave her something—something to focus on that wasn’t the silence. That wasn’t him.
They sat there, both of them perched on the edge of the bed, not touching. Not speaking. It felt like hours passed. In truth, maybe it was only a minute. Maybe less.
Then Bucky broke the silence.
“Barton told me.”
Jane frowned, turning her head. “Told you what?”
“About you. About what you can do.” He looked at her, unreadable. “That you can travel through time.”
She froze.
He didn’t say it like a question. More like a fact he’d already made peace with. Still, it made her feel exposed, and it was totally unexpected. Why did Clint tell him?
“I thought it was something crazy,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “Something impossible, at first.”
His eyes stayed fixed ahead, not quite meeting hers.
“But then again…” He gave a dry, humorless huff. “How many impossible things have we already seen turn out to be real?”
He lifted his left hand slightly, just enough to glance down at the shiny metallic surface of it. The fingers curled loosely around the glass. “Look at me. This arm. These years. I’ve lived through too much not to know that the rules don’t mean much anymore. Reality’s… bendable. And the more I thought about it, the more it started to make a twisted sort of sense.”
He glanced sideways at her then, not with accusation, but with something quieter. More cautious.
“I started noticing things, details. The way you react to certain names. To certain things. I wasn’t trying to spy on you, Jane. I wasn’t. But some things just… stood out. And once I saw them, I couldn’t unsee them.”
Jane stiffened but couldn’t find the words to say anything. Not yet. Not until she was sure about what he was trying to say.
“You left your ring on the nightstand last night,” he continued. “And I shouldn’t have touched it. I know that. But… I noticed it didn’t come from the bags Hill gave you. It was yours. Something you brought.”
Her stomach dropped.
Her hands, resting on her thighs, curled into fists so tightly her nails bit into her palms. She didn’t notice the sting—only the way it anchored her. This had stopped being a conversation she liked a while ago.
“I looked inside,” Bucky said, quietly. “And there’s an inscription. Tony. July 20th, 1993.”
His voice didn’t falter. But something inside it cracked, a slight tremor that cut beneath the surface. His eyes lifted to meet hers, shadowed and searching. “Stark. Was he… was he your husband?”
Jane’s breath left her in a rush. The words struck like a slap—unnecessary and invasive. She stood slowly, almost mechanically. “That’s not a question you have the right to ask,” she said, her voice low. “And it’s not one I intend to answer.”
Bucky nodded. “I know. I shouldn’t have asked. I just…” He hesitated. “Does he know you’re…?”
Jane’s reaction was immediate. “No. He doesn’t know who I am, if that’s what you’re asking.” she snapped. “He doesn’t remember. And that’s how it has to stay.”
“Why?” Bucky asked, more gently this time, taking a small step forward. “Why can’t he know?”
“Because,” she said, her voice growing louder, more strained. “Because he doesn’t need to. Because that part of his life was taken away for a reason. He’s not supposed to remember. I made sure of it.”
Her voice came out raw and shaky. Then she turned away, arms folding around herself like a shield, as if trying to hold herself together. “Now,” she added, quieter now. “Just stop talking about him.”
And for a moment, Bucky did. The room fell into a silence so dense it felt suffocating. Jane didn’t look at him—couldn’t. Her arms tightened around herself, her shoulders hunched slightly as if from cold, or memory, or both.
Then, softly, Bucky spoke again. “It’s because of him, isn’t it? That you hate me so much.”
She stayed still.
“You said it once. In Paris. But I didn’t really listen—not the way I should have.”
Jane’s fingers tightened so hard around the glass in her hand that it trembled. Her throat burned. She felt the weight of years pressing down on her lungs, on her chest, on her soul.
“How could I not hate you?” she whispered, voice rough with held-back grief.
She turned slowly to face him again. Her eyes were wet now, her expression contorted by the pain she didn’t want to show. “I loved him. He was… he is…”
And saying it aloud nearly broke her, even if she wasn’t able to finish the sentence.
She was trembling, and it made her feel like a child. Small. Weak. Ridiculous. But she didn’t look away.
“You don’t get to ask about him.” she continued, her voice firmer now, but just as raw. “You don’t get to pry into the one thing that meant something to me. No after what you did.”
Bucky didn’t move. His shoulders were tense, his hands clenched at his sides.
“I know.” Bucky said finally, and his voice was no longer calm. It cracked, open and hollow. “But Jane, it wasn’t something I chose. I never got to choose. They took everything. My name, my mind, my will. I-I was a ghost in my own skin for decades… Doing things that keep me up every night—Things I hate myself for.”
He stepped forward again. Just one step. His eyes begged more than his words ever could. “I don’t expect forgiveness. I’ll never ask for it. How could I? But I need you to know that I never wanted to hurt anyone.”
Jane shook her head violently, taking another step back. Her palms lifted, a wall between them.
“You think that changes anything?” she asked, her voice rising, breaking at the edges. “You think knowing you didn’t want to do it makes it easier? Or that it could erase all the blood on your hands?”
She was pacing now, like she couldn’t contain the storm building inside her chest anymore. Her hand gestured wide, glass still in her fingers, catching the dim light. “It wasn’t just what you did to him. You left a trail of death and broken lives everywhere you went. Every mission. Every name. Every scream you don’t remember.”
Her voice cracked again, high and sharp. “That’s what monsters do.”
And then came the words that seemed to rupture the air between them entirely.
“And monsters don’t get to change.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Bucky stood there, not moving, not speaking, his breath shallow. And Jane—Jane felt her own words echo back into her, like shards of glass turned inward.
A beat. Maybe two.
And then something inside her recoiled. Not from him. From herself.
Because even as she stood there, fists clenched, fury and grief bleeding out in uneven waves, another part of her—quieter, harder to silence—winced at what she’d just said.
Not because it was the first time. It wasn’t.
She had called him a monster before. Had thrown it at him like a knife, more than once. But this time was different.
Maybe it was the way his eyes didn’t darken in anger, but instead widened slightly, as if he’d been expecting it. As if he’d braced for it and still couldn’t stop it from landing.
Or maybe it was his hands. Trembling slightly at his sides.
Or the fact that he didn’t say a word in his defense. He just stood there and took it.
And that, somehow, made it worse.
Because for a fleeting second, Jane almost regretted the words. Or at least, the venom in them. She felt it like a burn against her ribs, something that flared too late to take back.
But it was too late.
And even if she could have undone the moment, softened the blow, said something else… what would she have said? She hadn’t lied.
That was the truth of it. He was a monster. Or had been.
Maybe not by choice. Maybe not fully. But the damage was done. To Tony. To countless others. And no matter how many times he said I didn’t want to , or I didn’t choose it , those truths didn’t stitch the world back together.
Jane’s jaw clenched.
The truth was, she didn’t want to feel this conflict. She didn’t want to wonder if there was a version of Bucky Barnes worth saving.
She wanted to hate him. Completely. Cleanly.
Because the alternative, the possibility that he wasn’t just the death machine she has imagined for years and blamed for everything that had hurt her, was far too dangerous. Too painful. Too complicated.
So no, she didn’t apologize. She didn’t reach out. She didn’t take the words back.
She just stood there, staring at the man she couldn’t forgive, and tried to hold herself together while her own reflection cracked behind her eyes.
Bucky reached out, slowly, almost timidly, trying to touch her arm. A gesture of regret. Of connection. But Jane moved rapidly.
“No,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Don’t touch me.”
Bucky flinched at the words, pulling his hand back like he’d been burned. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. His eyes, for a brief moment, showed something close to disappointment.
But Jane didn’t care. Or couldn’t afford to care. Was there a difference, after all?
She turned away, unable to hold his gaze a moment longer. She needed space—needed to stay alone—so before she could stop herself, she stumbled toward the bathroom, shut the door behind her, and locked it with trembling fingers.
Jane sank to the floor, the cool tile biting against her legs. She buried her face in her knees and let the tears come.
Not graceful tears. Not silent ones. Ugly, broken sobs that she tried to smother in the fabric of her sleeves. Her shoulders shook with the force of it, with the years of it. She didn’t even know who she was crying for anymore.
For Tony. For herself. For everything she’d lost. For everything she’d buried and thought she could live without.
And she hated herself for it. For falling apart now. For being once more the weak link in a mission that demanded strength.
And as she sat on the cold floor, her back to Bucky, the only sound in the room was the quiet collapse of everything she’d tried to hold inside.
_____
The morning light filtered in cold and slanted through the narrow bathroom window, catching the pale tile in a watery glow. Jane blinked against the brightness, her neck stiff, her back twisted uncomfortably against the wall where she had fallen asleep. Her body ached,!every joint protesting as she shifted, slowly disentangling her limbs from the unnatural shape in which she’d curled.
She sat still for a long moment, just breathing. The events of the night before came rushing back, like a tide she couldn’t keep out. Bucky’s voice, his hands, her own rage, the lock turning behind her, the tears she’d choked on in silence. The shame. The fury. The unbearable weight of it all.
Eventually, she pushed herself up, her palms pressing against cold tile as she rose unsteadily to her feet. She splashed cold water on her face from the sink and stared at herself in the mirror. The woman looking back was pale and tired, lips pressed in a thin line, eyes darkened by the makeup she didn’t wash away properly.
When she stepped out into the bedroom, the bed was still made. The sheets hadn’t been touched.
So he hadn’t slept either.
Her eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. 6:19 a.m.
She heard movement from the adjoining sitting room. A moment later, Bucky walked in through the open door.
His expression seemed blank, not out of ease, but as if carefully constructed to reveal nothing. There was a stiffness in his movements, a mechanical quality that suggested tension coiled beneath the surface. He was already dressed in a dark olive hunting jacket with reinforced shoulders, paired with fitted earth-toned trousers and a pair of sturdy boots. The gloves in his hand hung loose, but his grip on them was too tight to be casual.
Christian’s invitation for a hunting excursion had been issued the day before, a men-only affair wrapped in performative masculinity and bourbon-flavored tradition. Bucky had accepted, of course. He always played his part.
Just like she would play hers today.
Annalise had arranged an indulgent spa day for the women—massages, facials, hot stones. The usual distractions. Jane was expected to smile, sip champagne, let herself be pampered.
There was a heavy silence between them now, thick and brittle. They didn’t speak.
Bucky didn’t look at her as he crossed the room. Jane pretended to busy herself with her travel case, unzipping compartments and tugging at the edges of fabric in search of the swimsuit Annalise had given her. She remembered taking it out of the closet the day before and moving it somewhere else—presumptuously thinking she’d remember where. Of course, she was wrong.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him pause by the door.
He stood there a second too long, one hand grazing the frame, the other still holding his gloves. Jane’s breath caught.
He turned slightly, just enough to glance back at her. Not fully. Not directly. Just enough.
Jane turned too, instinctively. Their eyes met for a breath of a moment. It wasn’t sharp or loaded with meaning. It was just… hollow. Quiet. But there was something there. A hesitation. A question unsaid.
She didn’t speak. Neither did he.
Then, as if something inside him closed off again, Bucky dropped his gaze, adjusted his stance, and walked out without a word. The door closed gently behind him.
Jane remained still.
Her fingers stayed resting against the drawer, but she didn’t move. Couldn’t. Something between them had shifted last night, fractured. And the silence he’d left in his wake was almost deafening.
And the worst part? She’d once thought their first meeting in Paris would mark the lowest point of their dynamic. But this? This was somehow worse. They couldn’t even speak to each other anymore. Not without it hurting. Not without bleeding.
Eventually, Jane blinked and forced her body into motion again.
She opened the drawer in front of her, willing her hands to stop trembling, willing herself to focus. She rummaged through a mess of folded clothes, brushed past a sweater she didn’t remember packing, then moved a stack of bath towels out of the way.
Nothing.
She huffed under her breath, dragging open another drawer with more force than necessary.
Still nothing.
Then, tucked beneath a forgotten shirt in the bottom drawer, something else. A small, weathered notebook. The edges were frayed, the corners bent. The cover bore no title.
She pulled it out slowly, uncertain, and flipped it open.
The handwriting inside was tight, slanted. Male. Ink that had bled slightly with time or pressure. Some pages were filled with quiet reflections, fragments of thought that didn’t seem to belong to anyone in particular:
I thought I could sleep again. I can’t.
Then, a couple pages later Don’t remember her voice. Just the way she looked at me. Like she was studying some kind of exotic experiment. Her eyes were gray as smoke. And that little crease between her brows when she smiled… I remember that too. Like her face didn’t quite know how to hold joy, but tried anyway.
The breath caught in Jane’s chest.
She turned another page. And then another.
Sketches. Rough, shaded. The curve of a cheekbone, eyes that hadn’t been finished. A smudge where a mouth might’ve been. Again. And again.
The drawings weren’t exact. Not refined. But she recognized something in them—herself. The tilt of her chin. The curve of her nose. It wasn’t conclusive. But it was familiar enough that her stomach gave a subtle twist.
He had drawn her. Or at least… tried to. As if he’d been trying to remember her and failing.
There were several attempts. Some faint. Some darker, with angry pencil lines carved deep into the page, as if frustration had taken over halfway through.
She didn’t know how long she stood there, staring.
She turned a page. Another line of text.
I wish I remembered her properly. I wish I didn’t remember at all.
She blinked. The words struck something deep and sour in her chest. But just below it, nestled among the scribbles and heavier strokes, another passage stood out—longer, less neat.
I shouldn’t have gone out that night. I could’ve come up with some excuse, a headache, exhaustion, a fake cold. Steve would’ve believed me. He always did. But it was my last night before leaving for England. For the war.
You can’t fall for someone in a single night. That kind of thing only happens in movies, in storybooks, in fairy tales for kids. So I don’t know why she stuck with me. But she did. That girl I danced with in 1943… She stayed. I dreamed about her almost every night on the front. Sometimes I still do, even now, after all these years.
Maybe it was her beauty. Strange and striking, unlike anyone I’d ever met. Or maybe it was the way she moved, like she didn’t belong there, like she’d stepped in from another world. I can’t say exactly. But she stayed.
The funny thing, is that fate brought her back to me. After all this time. Only now, she doesn’t remember that night. Or at least, she doesn’t remember that version of me.
She remembers the monster. And she hates him. Hates me. With everything she has.
Jane’s breath caught. A cold weight settled in her chest. Her fingertips tensed on the edge of the page.
And just like that, uninvited and jarring, a memory broke through…
It was the winter of 1943, and New York buzzed with a strange mixture of optimism and fear. The war had stretched on, but the city clung to its glamour. The ballroom was carved from soft gold and velvet, chandeliers humming with light, jazz rippling like silk across the dance floor.
Jane—no, Lily , that was the name she had chosen for that life—stood alone near a marble column, one hand wrapped around a flute of champagne she hadn’t touched yet. The dress was deep red satin, gathered at the waist, with thin straps that kept sliding off her shoulder. Her hair had been curled into a careful wave, pinned just right. She had done her best to fit in.
She scanned the room, watching women laugh loudly and men in uniform boasting about deployments. It all felt too noisy. Too bright. She wasn’t even sure why she had come.
“Care to dance?”
The voice came from behind. Lily turned, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor, and found herself face-to-face with a tall man in a wrinkled Navy jacket, the buttons half-done as if he couldn’t be bothered to wear it properly. His dark hair was slicked back in a style that had long since given in to sweat and alcohol, and his tie hung crooked at his collarbone. The smile he gave her was the kind men wore when they thought the answer didn’t matter.
She hesitated. A part of her had actually been hoping someone would ask. She’d felt stupid standing there alone, half invisible, surrounded by spinning skirts and glittering heels, couples laughing in the dim light of the ballroom. She wanted to dance. She missed dancing.
But not like this. Not with him.
Something about the way he leaned in too close, the way his eyes scanned her body as if she were already his, killed the little flicker of anticipation that had started to rise. She studied him for a second longer, just to be sure, then shook her head, offering a polite smile.
“No, thank you.” she said, her voice even and gracious.
But he didn’t move. He simply stepped forward, as if her refusal hadn’t registered at all. His hand reached out and brushed her hip, too familiar, too fast.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, grin widening. “One song won’t kill you.”
“I said no.” Lily repeated, more firmly this time, pushing his hand away.
That should have been the end of it. It wasn’t.
His fingers closed around her wrist before she could step back, gripping her like he had every right. His touch burned, not for its heat but for the audacity of it, for how carelessly he ignored her clear refusal.
“Don’t be like that,” he muttered, drawing her closer. “You’re not here to be a wallflower, are you?”
She pulled harder, twisting in his grasp. “Let go of me.”
His other hand came up then, suddenly and uninvited, landing with unmistakable pressure against her backside. Jane froze for a beat, stunned, and then shoved him with both palms.
“I said let go!”
But he laughed, drunkenly, the kind of laugh that never reached the eyes. “Stop pretending you don’t want it.” he said, grabbing her again, this time at the waist, fingers digging so tightly into her ribs that pain sparked down her side.
“Ah—stop,” she snapped, the breath catching in her throat. “You’re hurting me!”
Her voice cracked, not with fear, not yet, but with fury.
She tried to wrench herself free again, but he didn’t budge. If anything, his grip tightened, fingers bruising. She opened her mouth to shout, already gathering the words, already considering whether to throw him across the floor if she really had to—when she heard the scrape of a chair behind her.
“Hey.”
The word cut through the music, clear and calm. A new voice.
Male. Steady.
Lily turned, grateful and wary in the same breath, and saw a figure stepping out from the shadows between two pillars. He moved with quiet, confident purpose. A young man in an army uniform, sleeves rolled to the elbows, cap slightly askew like he’d been in a rush to get there. His bright blue eyes locked on the drunk with unflinching focus.
“I believe the lady said she isn’t interested.”
The man turned, slow and dismissive, with a half-smirk on his face.
“And who the hell are you?” He slurred. “Why don’t you mind your own business, huh? Go polish your boots or whatever it is you boys do when you’re not pretending to be brave.”
The soldier’s voice dropped a notch, almost too low to hear. “You know,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly, “I was really hoping you wouldn’t make me do this.”
Then the punch came. Fast. Clean. No hesitation.
The drunk’s head snapped sideways, a spray of spit and curse words flying from his mouth as he stumbled back into the nearby chairs.
“Goddamn it—!” he snarled, charging.
Lily gasped, stepping aside just as the man lunged.
The soldier caught him easily. Another hit to the gut, a twist of the wrist, and the guy was half-bent over, coughing. He tried to swing again, but missed entirely, catching only air. Then, finally, he staggered backward, throwing his hands up.
“Okay, okay! Christ,” he spat. “Fine. I get it.”
But the young man didn’t relax. His chest was rising and falling slightly faster, but his voice stayed calm. “You should apologize.”
“What?”
“Not to me,” He continued, chin jerking in Lily’s direction. “To her.”
The man’s lip was bleeding. One of his eyes was already swelling, red and angry. But after a moment of hesitation, he turned toward her and mumbled, “I’m… sorry, miss.”
His voice cracked at the end. Without waiting for a response, he turned and shuffled off into the crowd.
And just like that, the music returned. The soft notes of the swing band picked up again as if nothing had happened, and the clinking of glasses and laughter resumed around them.
The soldier turned to her, brushing a spot of blood from the corner of his own mouth with his thumb.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“I’m fine.” Lily said. Her voice felt foreign in her throat—tight, surprised, full of things she didn’t have the space to feel yet. “You didn’t have to—”
“Sorry about the scene,” Bucky said with a wince. “Didn’t mean to turn it into a whole spectacle. Guess I’ve never been great at subtle.”
She blinked, then let out a breath that came dangerously close to a laugh. “Well… it was effective.”
He grinned, despite himself. “You don’t think I ruined your night, do you?”
“I think I could’ve handled it.” Lily replied, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh, no doubt.” he said quickly. “I just figured I’d spare you the trouble. You know—save the dress.” He gave her a once-over, not in a leering way, but appreciative. “Looks good on you.”
She smiled, surprised by how easily the expression came to her. “Thanks.”
“I’m James,” he added, extending a hand, palm still a little scraped from the scuffle.
She hesitated a moment before taking it. His grip was warm and solid. “Nice to meet you… James.”
He looked genuinely pleased. “Most folks call me Barnes. Bucky’s for friends.”
“Then I guess I’ll stick to Bucky.”
“I’m here with a friend,” he added, glancing vaguely around. “Steve. But I’ve completely lost him. Probably wandered off to talk politics with the bandleader.”
Lily smirked. “That sounds quite boring.”
He laughed. “You’re not wrong.”
Then he looked at her again, this time more sincerely.
“Would you like to dance?”
She glanced toward the floor. The crowd had thinned slightly since the incident, but the music was still flowing, couples spinning in a lazy loop under golden light.
She could’ve said no. Could’ve slipped away quietly, thanked him for his help and disappeared into the crowd.
But something in his eyes—earnest, a little bruised, still half-lit with adrenaline—stopped her.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I’d like that.”
They stepped out together, weaving around tables until they reached the dance floor. He placed a hand on her waist, gentle now, and took her right hand in his. Jane rested her left on his shoulder, her fingers grazing the edge of his collar.
The music rose. A slow swing number with a smooth brass section and a lazy beat.
He moved well. Not polished, not formal, but instinctive. Natural.
“You’re not half-bad.” she said as he spun her once, gently, just enough to make her skirt ripple around her knees.
“I grew up with four sisters,” he said with a crooked grin. “They didn’t give me much choice.”
She laughed again. “And I thought I was the one full of surprises.”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty,” Bucky said, eyes glinting. “But maybe I’ll save those for the second dance.”
And for the rest of that song, just a few quiet minutes under the soft lights, Ginevra, Lily, or whatever name she was wearing at that moment—she let herself forget. She didn’t think about different timelines, about pasts or futures. She didn’t think what tomorrow would bring. She just let the moment happen.
They danced for nearly an hour, then left together in a flurry of laughter and cold wind, skipping the final waltz and ducking into a late-night diner still glowing with life. They shared coffee spiked with cheap whiskey and a slice of cherry pie. He told her stories about Steve, about Brooklyn, about how proud he was to be going overseas, and how scared.
“Don’t tell anyone I said that.” he murmured, elbows on the table, voice low.
“I won’t.”
He glanced at her, then smiled faintly. “You’ve got a strange look, Lily. Like you’re not really from here.”
Her heart stuttered. “Maybe I’m not.”
They laughed, and it echoed like a lullaby.
When the hour grew late and they stood on the steps of her borrowed apartment, she kissed him.
Gently. With both hands on his face, as if she were memorizing the shape of him, his jaw, the curve of his cheek, the small scar near his temple. Her fingers trembled just slightly, but her lips didn’t. They were sure. Warm. Soft.
He froze at first, surprised, but then he melted into her, slow and deep, as if he’d been waiting for permission all night. His hands found her waist, tentative, almost reverent, like he didn’t want to push his luck. She felt the hesitation in his fingertips, the quiet longing that made her chest ache.
He wanted to stay. She knew that. She could feel it in the way his body leaned into hers, the way his breath hitched when the kiss broke.
For a moment, she wanted it too. The pull of him was magnetic. Comforting. Human.
But instead, she shook her head, gently, her hands still on his face.
“One night,” she whispered. “One kiss.”
His brows drew together. “That’s all?”
“That’s all.” she repeated, softer now, like a promise or a mercy.
He nodded. Eventually. Though she could see it in his eyes—he didn’t mean it. Not really. But he was a good man. He wouldn’t push.
He turned, lingering for a moment, and gave her one last, reluctant look.
“Good night, Lily.”
She stood there for a while after he was gone, arms crossed over her chest, the night breeze tugging at the hem of her skirt. Her lips still tingled.
Maybe, in another life, she would’ve let him in. Would’ve let the night turn into something more. But tonight, it had to end there.
Because there was something impossibly romantic about kissing a soldier before he went off to war. One kiss, just enough to be remembered. Just enough to be the ghost of something beautiful.
But a woman you spent the night with?
She would become one of the many. A blurred face in a fading story. A spicy adventure whispered in the barracks.
She didn’t want to be forgotten.
And so, she kissed him once. And let him go.
Back in the present, Jane slammed the diary shut, the pages whispering together with a soft, accusing sound. Her hands were trembling. How had she not remembered?
The red dress. The ballroom. The name Lily. All of it had been buried, crumpled by decades of time, different lives and time travel—but it had happened. And Bucky… Bucky had carried that night with him through hell.
She shoved the notebook back into the drawer. Closed it hastily. Her breath came hard.
This doesn’t change anything, she told herself.
It had been just one night. One kiss. One soldier.
The boy who had kissed her on a dusty stoop, who had touched her with the tenderness one reserves for something precious—he was gone.
And the man he was now?
He was marked—by every life he’d taken, by every massacre he’d left behind. An assassin.
No diary could rewrite that truth.
But still, when she finally found the swimsuit and went to shower, her hands lingered just a second too long against her own cheek.
Almost as if remembering what it had once felt like to be touched gently.
By him.
_____
The dining room glowed in soft amber light, filtered through chandeliers of smoky glass and sconces shaped like twisted branches, as if the very walls of the villa were mimicking the forest outside. Shadows danced gently on the tablecloth, flickering with the movement of candles sunk into small crystal bowls of floating orchids and dried blood-orange slices. A string quartet played from the far end of the hall, their notes subdued, tasteful, mere brushstrokes in the air.
Jane sat between Annalise and Bucky, her posture impeccable, her dress a cool silver that shimmered faintly with each breath. The scent of truffle oil and citrus foam hung in the air as the waitstaff served the first course.
The guests murmured appreciatively. Conversation flowed like the wine—elegant, performative, and not always sincere.
Christian was in the middle of a discussion with the Count, their voices a touch too loud now, and edged with that particular blend of arrogance and frustration that came with too much money and too many opinions.
“I’m simply saying,” Christian declared, slicing through a fig with aggressive precision, “you can’t expect the same return margins in a world where loyalty is more fluid than ever.”
The Count chuckled, low and smooth, swirling his wine. “Ah, but that’s exactly why you must invest in people, not systems. Systems fail. People can be… persuaded.”
Annalise rolled her eyes discreetly and leaned toward Jane. “And here we go again,” she whispered. “Two men fighting over whose gold-plated philosophy is shinier.”
Jane gave a small, polite smile, her thoughts elsewhere. She had been quiet for most of the evening. Distant, distracted. And when she felt Bucky shift slightly beside her, leaning in just a touch, she instinctively stiffened.
“I didn’t want to bring this up here,” he murmured under his breath, his voice so low it barely reached her ear. “I would’ve preferred we were alone… but I’m worried.”
She turned her head just slightly, not enough to draw attention, but enough for him to catch the flicker in her eyes.
“What is it?” she whispered.
He hesitated, jaw tightening. “I think someone’s been in our room.”
Her fingers stilled on the edge of her napkin.
“I noticed it when I came back from the hunt with Christian.” he continued, voice barely above the clinking of silverware and murmured conversation. “I thought I’d have time to talk to you after, but when I got back, you were already down here. You never came back to the room.”
There was something measured in his tone, but underneath it—tension. Like he was trying to keep it together. Like pretending was becoming more difficult.
That caught her attention. Her fingers paused on the stem of her water glass.
“What makes you think that?”
“I made a mistake,” he said, jaw tight. “A stupid one. I brought something with me—something that could blow our cover if it were found. And the drawer I kept it in… it was open.”
Jane froze. Just for a heartbeat.
Then she knew.
Her eyes flicked to his face, searching it. He looked strained, tense beneath his polished exterior. She dropped her gaze, reached for her water glass, and took a slow sip.
“I found it.” she whispered. “The notebook.”
His body stilled. The reaction was subtle, but not to her. His shoulders locked, and when he turned to look at her, the surprise was there, but no relief.
She met his eyes. “You should be glad I found it, and not them. Bring it here was a stupid move. ”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for his wine glass—full, untouched until now—and downed it in one swift, practiced motion.
“You read it?” he asked, voice hoarse.
She nodded once, almost imperceptibly. Then she took a bite from her plate, slowly, forcing herself to chew and swallow as if everything were normal. As if her chest wasn’t tightening with each breath.
The taste of the venison was rich and gamey, but she barely noticed. All she could think of was the feel of those pages, the rough pencil lines, the sketch that looked so much like her it had stopped her cold.
She looked up at him again.
“What I read… doesn’t change anything between us.”
Bucky gave a sharp, bitter smile. “Didn’t expect it to.”
The words hit heavier than they should have. But before she could respond, Annalise leaned across her and said something to the Count about the color of the wine, drawing attention back to the table.
Bucky recovered first. He joined the exchange, throwing in a comment about a vineyard in Oregon he’d “visited” during a past business trip. Jane let herself nod along to something Annalise said about cabernet aging, then turned her eyes to Christian, who was still locked in conversation with the Count. She couldn’t do this. Not tonight. Not with all these eyes and candle flames and polished silver watching.
She leaned back toward Bucky. Her voice was almost inaudible.
“When you asked me about Tony… about time travel,” she said, “you weren’t interested in him, were you? You just wanted to know if I was really her.”
His eyes slid to hers, but only for a moment. As if he were contemplating whether to answer or not.
“I wasn’t sure at first. It’s been a long time. And you didn’t seem to remember. Or if you did, it didn’t seem to matter to you.”
Jane swallowed. Her chest ached.
“I didn’t remember,” she whispered. “Not until I read those pages.”
He didn’t speak. Just looked at her. Like he was trying not to say something.
But before he could even try, Christian turned toward him.
“Benjamin,” he said smoothly. “What’s your take on the Croatian bid? They’re undercutting by nearly thirty percent, but VogelTech has prior stakes in the patent family. You think they’ll fight dirty or fold?”
Bucky blinked. Jane saw him falter. He looked at Christian, but there was a blankness in his eyes. Like he was two steps behind and trying to catch up.
“I—” he began, then cleared his throat. “If they’re smart, they’ll test the waters first. Push the legal boundaries before committing to anything direct.”
Christian narrowed his eyes slightly, studying him, then nodded. “Hmm. Not as confident as usual, Ben.”
Bucky offered a half-smile. “Long day.”
But Jane saw it. The shift. The ripple beneath the surface.
He was rattled.
She watched him as he poured himself another glass of wine, his fingers steady now only by habit. Whatever their quiet conversation had just unearthed, it was still echoing inside him.
The dinner had dragged on with the graceful fatigue of an evening that had lasted just a little too long. What had once been a vibrant conversation filled with polite jabs and carefully measured wit had begun to crumble into disconnected remarks and lingering silences. Jane sat upright, posture perfect, her glass of syrupy fruit liqueur catching the golden light as she swirled it gently between her fingers. She smiled occasionally, nodded when required—but her thoughts were elsewhere.
Specifically, on the man to her left.
Bucky hadn’t said a word in nearly ten minutes. His shoulders were tense, his gaze locked not on anyone at the table but on the far wall, unfocused and unmoving. It wasn’t just silence, it was detachment. As if he were somewhere else entirely.
For the first time since the start of the mission… Jane was the one keeping her composure better than him.
She sipped slowly, watching the Countess make a comment about the floral notes in the digestif, and offered a soft, appropriate laugh. Annalise said something about pear brandy and French sommeliers. Christian and the Count were still arguing in good spirits, now about the ethics of vertical integration. Their voices had grown louder again, like boys showing off at the end of a long, tiring game.
Jane’s attention, however, flicked back to Bucky, who hadn’t even moved to join them when Christian stood and offered the Count a cigar.
What is he doing? She thought, watching Bucky remain seated, his eyes still distant. Why isn’t he going with them?
And in that moment, she knew. If he wasn’t going to maintain their cover, she would. If he was slipping, she’d pull them both back.
She set her glass down delicately, leaned toward Annalise and the Countess with a polite smile. “Excuse me a moment,” she said, rising gracefully. “I need to use the restroom.”
She had barely taken a step when Bucky’s hand shot out and gently but firmly wrapped around her wrist, stopping her. “Where are you going?” he asked under his breath, eyes finally snapping into focus.
She looked at him and for a second she almost pitied the tension behind his gaze.
“I’m doing what you should be doing.”
His grip released immediately, and she didn’t look back.
Instead of turning toward the grand hallway that led to the bathrooms, Jane pivoted subtly and made her way through the open glass doors leading to the garden. She followed the trail of laughter and cigar smoke that drifted through the chilled air.
The garden was vast and beautifully lit, lanterns swaying in the soft breeze from iron posts shaped like vines. Christian and the Count stood beneath an archway of bare grapevines, deep in conversation, each with a cigar between their fingers. The smell was earthy and rich, curling through the air like whispered secrets.
When Christian spotted her, his smile curved before his words did. The Count turned too, and lifted an amused eyebrow.
“My dear,” the Count said smoothly, “have the feminine whispers bored you already?”
Jane offered a smile. “Not bored, just in need of some fresh air.”
Christian and the Count exchanged a glance of male understanding, then the Count let out a breath, removing his cigar with two fingers.
“For me, the air is a little too fresh.” he said. “Besides, I suspect my wife will be growing tired soon. I believe it’s time we retire.”
Jane inclined her head politely. “Good night, Count.”
He gave her a charming little bow and disappeared into the house with the last of the smoke curling behind him.
That left her alone with Christian.
He turned to her slowly, the cigar still burning between his fingers, and studied her with that ever-present smirk. “You’re becoming quite bold, you know that?” he murmured. “Aren’t you worried your husband might see you? Or worse—my wife? She isn’t that naive.”
Jane held his gaze without blinking. “I’m not doing anything wrong.” she said calmly. “Just enjoying the night air. And taking advantage of a quiet moment.”
Christian arched a brow. “Since we seem to keep getting interrupted?”
She gave a small shrug, her expression unreadable. “It’s becoming a habit.”
Christian chuckled, stepping a little closer. The orange glow of his cigar briefly illuminated the side of his face. “This weekend’s been delightful, I won’t deny that. But we all seem to be forgetting something, don’t we?” Her voice dropped lower. “My husband and I came here to talk business. And somehow, that keeps getting… deferred.”
Her tone was playful, but something darker lingered beneath the surface.
“I wish a knew why.”
Christian tilted his head, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Because, my dear, before we discuss certain things, we need to know if you’re truly interested.”
And with that, he reached out and gently tilted her chin up with two fingers, forcing her to look him in the eyes.
“Truth be told,” he added, voice silk and danger, “business isn’t really what I’m thinking about right now.”
Jane’s skin prickled. His touch was light, but it turned her stomach. She fought not to flinch.
“And what is on your mind, then?” she asked, though the words tasted like poison.
Christian’s gaze dropped to her lips. “You.”
Before she could step back, he leaned in—and kissed her.
There was no tenderness in his touch. His hands found her waist, her back, his grip firm. Jane’s body tensed instantly. She didn’t kiss him back. She couldn’t. Instead, her fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his jacket. Her knees nearly gave way beneath her, and she clung to him only to keep herself upright.
She needed to endure this. For the mission. For the vials. For the lives at stake if they failed.
But every second of it made her skin crawl. Her throat burned with revulsion. His mouth on hers felt invasive, wrong.
She told herself to breathe. Just breathe. I’ll be done soon.
Somewhere behind her, a floorboard creaked.
Unseen, just a few meters away, Bucky had stopped at the edge of the patio. He hadn’t meant to intrude—he had simply wanted to make sure she was safe. That Christian wasn’t pressing too far. That Jane wasn’t in danger. But then he saw them. Locked in that embrace.
His fists curled at his sides, the knuckles bone-white.
He watched Christian’s hands move across Jane’s back. Watched her fingers grip his jacket like she was drowning. And even from where he stood, Bucky could tell it wasn’t desire. It was survival.
He looked away. Let his gaze fall, as if the stones beneath his feet had suddenly become more interesting. Then he forced himself to turn.
There was nothing for him to do. No move to make.
Jane was handling it—exactly as she was meant to.
So he steadied his breath, swallowing the weight in his chest, and slipped back into the house.
Later that same night, the villa had grown quiet—the kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but heavy, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. A distant wind rustled through the trees outside, soft and rhythmic, like an old song played slowly. Jane sat on the edge of the bed, the comforter slightly ruffled beneath her, the soft light from the bedside lamp casting a golden hue over her bare shoulders. Her fingers moved absently as she removed the long silver earrings she had worn to dinner, one at a time. The metal clicked gently against the wood as she placed them on the nightstand, beside a half-full glass of water and a folded chiffon scarf. Then she reached up and pulled the pins from her hair, letting it fall in slow waves over her back. The movement was practiced, almost ceremonial. A gesture meant more for herself than anyone else. Something solid to hold onto after a day spent pretending.
Behind her, Bucky stood still, unmoving. He had changed into the sleepwear provided in their suite, though he hadn’t sat down, hadn’t approached the bed. Instead, he stood near the window, eyes fixed on the mattress, as if unsure whether he belonged in it.
Jane noticed, as it was impossible not to. So, without turning, she raised an eyebrow, then glanced over her shoulder, voice edged with exhausted sarcasm.
“What the hell are you doing over there? You’re making me nervous standing like that.”
She turned more fully toward him now, one hand resting on her hip.
“Just—come to bed. It’s been a long day. Tomorrow’s the last one, and God only knows what’s waiting for us. Don’t make me beg. I’m not your mother.”
That earned her a small, reluctant smile.
He finally obeyed, crossing the room in silence and slipping under the covers. But the discomfort didn’t vanish. Not really. If anything, it settled deeper into his bones.
Lying beside her now, after everything, felt heavier than it ever had before. She had read the diary. She knew. That sketch, that night from decades ago, the words he’d written when the war still felt like the beginning of something instead of the end of everything. She had seen it. And worse: she hadn’t said much at all.
The silence had returned between them. They both lay stiff under the covers, neither turning toward the other, neither daring to breathe too loud or shift too much.
Jane reached over and turned off the light. The room darkened, with only a thin stripe of moonlight slicing across the floor. They stared up at the ceiling. Not touching. Not looking. Not even by accident.
And still, the tension simmered. Until Bucky, against all better judgment, broke it.
“You and Christian,” he said, his voice low, unsure, “seem to be getting along better.”
Jane didn’t turn to look at him. But her exhale was immediate—sharp, disbelieving.
“Are you serious?”
He regretted it the moment the words left his mouth. He hadn’t meant for it to sound like that.
“I just meant… you’re making progress with him. For the mission. You two seem—intimate… by the way he looks at you.”
There was a pause. Uncomfortable silence.
And then her voice cut through it like a blade.
“The way he looks at me?” she said. “You mean the way you should’ve been looking at Annalise?”
This time she did turn to face him, her eyes narrowed, glittering faintly in the dark.
He didn’t answer.
“I was doing what I had to do. I was there because you weren’t. I kept the momentum going while you sat there like you’d forgotten how to speak.” And she wasn’t done. “What, did you hide behind a bush to spy on us in the garden?”
“I was doing my part,” he muttered. “I’ve been building trust with Annalise.”
“Have you?” Jane snapped. “Because from where I’m sitting, she keeps trying to engage with you and you keep ignoring her. She looks at you. I’ve seen it. You? I’m not even sure you noticed. Probably too caught up in your own head.”
“You think I didn’t notice?” he said, biting the words. “I noticed everything. Including how Christian can’t keep his eyes off you long enough for me to get a damn word in.”
Jane’s laugh was cold.
“That’s not my fault. Maybe if you showed some initiative, we’d be getting somewhere with her. Instead, you’re too busy sulking.” she continued, quieter now, but the edge in her voice sharpened with something closer to shame than anger. “I did what had to be done. So yes, I leaned in. I smiled. I let him think what he wanted to think. That’s the job. Don’t sit there and judge me like I crossed some line, when all I did was cover for you.”
Silence.
Bucky didn’t answer. He shifted slightly on the mattress, turning his body away from her, the muscles in his back tight beneath the fabric of his shirt. When his voice came, it was low and flat.
“I’m not sulking.”
“No?” Jane said, the corner of her mouth twitching in a humorless smile. “Then what exactly was that during dinner?”
“Thinking. I was focused.” he replied, still not facing her.
“You should’ve been working.” she replied, the words more tired than cruel.
There was a pause, one long beat, then another. The air between them was too quiet, too charged. She sighed, her shoulders folding inward slightly.
“I didn’t like it,” she said, softer now. “Being touched by him. I hated every second of it.” Her gaze stayed on the ceiling, but her voice was more fragile, like she was admitting something she didn’t want to name. “But that’s what we’re here for, right? That’s the mission. And I’m trying, I really am.”
Bucky turned his head, just slightly. His eyes found hers in the dim light, and for a moment, something shifted. There was a flicker of regret in his expression, like he knew he’d gone too far just by bringing it up . But the words didn’t come. They hovered there, unspoken, like so many things between them.
And Jane saw it. She saw it and for a moment wanted to explain. To say that she had done it for both of them, because their cover was slipping and because she couldn’t risk failure. But she didn’t say any of it.
She didn’t owe him that.
She didn’t owe him a damn thing.
So she looked back at him, at the way his mouth opened and closed without sound, at the flicker of something she didn’t know how to name in his eyes.
And she didn’t speak. Neither did he.
Eventually, Jane breathed in deeply. “I’m tired.” she said, almost like a confession.
Bucky nodded once, faintly, and turned again, this time fully, giving her his back.
Jane lay down too, but kept her eyes open for a long time, locked on the ceiling where faint cracks spread like thin rivers across old plaster. They reminded her of fault lines—fractures trying to hold together. Like her. Like him. Like whatever it was they were doing.
The silence in the room grew dense, like fog seeping into the corners. Every breath she took felt heavier than the last. She could still hear Bucky breathing, slow and quiet, but not quite steady. She tried to focus on that instead of the aching tension wrapping around her ribcage.
It wasn’t immediate, but eventually her breathing shifted—deeper, slower. She had fallen asleep, or at least something close to it. Her hand, which had been clenched in the sheets, relaxed slightly. Her lips, parted in a soft line, no longer trembled.
Bucky stayed where he was, staring into the dark for what felt like an hour, maybe more. His mind wouldn’t stop. It churned, caught between the memory of their earlier argument and the memory of something far older. Her words had cut deep. Monsters don’t get to change. Maybe she hadn’t meant it like that. Maybe she had. But either way, it was nothing he hadn’t told himself a thousand times.
He shifted slightly, careful not to make noise. Jane didn’t move. Her face was turned toward the wall now, her breath steady, caught in the dim shaft of moonlight that filtered through the slit in the heavy curtains. She looked peaceful.
He turned onto his back and looked up at the ceiling for a while, watching the faint shadows dance across it. But it wasn’t the room that held his focus.
It was her.
Without quite realizing it, his head turned again. His gaze drifted toward her. His body followed, just slightly, a shift in weight on the mattress that she didn’t notice. Bucky propped himself up on one elbow, holding his breath. And there she was. Just like in the sketches. Just like in the memory.
Her face hadn’t changed. It was disarming, uncanny, even. The same curve of her mouth. The same little crease between her brows that had appeared when she laughed. It had haunted him through warzones and bunkers and cryogenic chambers. It had been there long before the serum, before the blood and the frost.
She shifted in her sleep, the sheets rustling. Her arm moved up, curled slightly toward her chest, her fingers twitching like she was dreaming. Something stirred in him then.
He should’ve looked away. He didn’t.
Instead, like a fool, he reached out. One hand—his real hand, not the cold one—hovered above her face, just a breath away from touching. He didn’t even know why. Maybe it was the pull of something half-remembered. Maybe it was just the need to feel if she felt the same as he remembered. The warmth of her skin. The softness he had drawn a thousand times and still couldn’t replicate.
He was so close. Too close.
And then— what the hell are you doing?
The voice in his head came sharp and clear.
Bucky froze. His fingers trembled. Shame hit him hard and fast, washing through him like icewater.
Idiot.
He pulled his hand back slowly, like he’d touched a flame. He turned over again, putting distance between them, and stared back at the ceiling.
He didn’t see her eyes open behind him.
Jane lay still, unmoving, but she was awake.
She had been the moment the sheets shifted. And Jane had felt the warmth of his gaze like a hand pressed to her skin. And when his fingers hovered so close, just inches from her cheek, something in her chest had tightened.
She felt the need to move, an instinctive urge to shift, to reposition herself, as if the weight of the silence between them had settled too heavily on her spine. Slowly, she rolled onto her side, turning her back to him under the guise of sleep. But the more she tried to remain still, to sell the illusion of calm, the harder her heart pounded against her ribs.
She didn’t speak. And he didn’t know she’d seen. Didn’t know she’d felt it too.
Notes:
First of all… I’m so sorry for the delay. I’ve never posted a chapter this late before, but I hope you’ll forgive me—especially because this one turned out to be a bit of a monster. I know I’ve said that before, but this one really is the longest chapter so far. A little beast of a chapter, but a necessary one.
It was needed to push Jane and Bucky’s relationship forward. As you’ve probably noticed, this chapter focused much more on them than on anything else. Bucky learned some things about Jane. Jane learned some things about Bucky. They both walked away a little bruised, emotionally speaking.
This was a very intense chapter for me to write, and I’m dying to know what you think—especially about the fact that Jane and Bucky actually met before. She just didn’t remember. And now maybe all those strange flashbacks she’s had around him make a bit more sense.
This also sheds some light on Bucky’s patience and gentleness with her. Of course, he would’ve never hated her for calling him a monster, he has enough self-loathing and guilt to understand her point of view. But now we know there’s more to it than just that. There’s a history. And that makes everything a little more complicated… and hopefully a lot more interesting.
Next chapter is going to bring back a character I know many of you have been missing, at least partially. So stay tuned, and please, please let me know what you thought of this one. Your comments mean everything to me and give me so much motivation to keep going! ❤️
Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I can’t wait to share the next one with you soon!
xx
Chapter 13: Mint and citrus
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning sun spilled golden light across the long garden table set beneath the pergola, the air was heavy with the scent of citrus blossoms and toasted bread.
It was warm, warmer than it had been the day before. Spring was slowly waning into summer. Birds chirped in the distance, and somewhere a fountain gurgled steadily, out of view.
Jane sat between Bucky and Christian this time, her chair cast in half-shadow. A breeze tugged at the white linen cloth that covered the table, making the edges flutter like restless hands. Bowls of apricots, sliced peaches, cheeses too soft to hold their shape in the heat, and thin ribbons of prosciutto lay half-touched before them. The light glinted off glasses filled with orange juice and coffee, it the lazy kind of breakfast meant to slow everything down. And yet, Jane’s muscles had never felt tighter.
Christian’s hand brushed her leg beneath the table—barely a touch, really. A single movement, light as silk, but it made her spine straighten almost imperceptibly. Her smile didn’t falter. She tilted her head at something the Count was saying, nodded slowly, even let out a soft, agreeable sound. But inside, her stomach flipped. That touch hadn’t been an accident. It hadn’t been the first, either.
She hated it. Hated the feeling of being trapped in her own body, of having to let that contact go unanswered. Because she couldn’t push his hand away, not here. Not without risking to being noticed.
She shifted slightly in her seat, enough to gently move her leg away without making it obvious. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Bucky’s hand around his coffee cup—knuckles white, the porcelain trembling just a little. It wasn’t much. Not enough to make a scene. But it was enough for her to wonder if he’d seen.
Or rather, how much he had seen.
He hadn’t looked at her once since they’d sat down. His gaze remained fixed on his plate, or occasionally lifted to address the Count or one of the maids moving silently through the garden. Jane couldn’t tell whether the tension she sensed in him was because of what had happened with Christian, or simply the strain of spending yet another day in the lions’ den.
Annalise was watching. That much was clear. She sat across the table, poised and radiant in a pale green wrap dress that caught the light like water. Her hair was swept up in a loose knot, and she held her glass with the relaxed precision of someone who knew exactly how she looked. But her eyes, they were fixed on Jane.
Not in open accusation. Not in jealousy.
Something colder.
It was a smile without affection, without warmth. Like a woman who had seen this pattern play out before and already knew the ending. Jane met her gaze briefly, then looked away, the skin at the back of her neck prickling.
She didn’t know how much Annalise had guessed. But it was enough. And that was dangerous.
Jane picked up her fork, then set it down again. She could feel the weight of every movement, every breath. Something had shifted, subtle but unmistakable. They’d spent three days weaving their roles, drawing themselves into the fabric of the Vogels’ world. And yet now, with the weekend nearly over, it felt as though the thread had frayed. The tension at the table wasn’t a surface crack. It ran deeper.
She glanced at Bucky again, quickly. His jaw was tight. He reached for the bread, the butter knife clicked against the plate with a little too much force. Jane wondered if he blamed her.
She wondered if, in some way, this was her fault.
Maybe she had gone too far with Christian. Maybe in trying to earn his trust, she had distanced herself too much from Annalise. And if that woman—calculating, sharp, and clearly more dangerous than she first appeared—if Annalise truly believed there was something between Jane and her husband, then things would get way more complicated. The whole mission could be at risk.
And maybe… maybe Bucky thought so too.
He had probably been right all along. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for this masquerade, this subtle war of words and smiles and hidden meanings.
Maybe she wasn’t made for teams, for partnerships. And maybe it didn’t matter who her partner was. If it hadn’t been Bucky, if it had been someone else entirely, it would’ve all led here anyway. As if every choice she’d made so far, every bold move, every instinctive decision, had really just been noise.
There had never been a real plan. Just impulse. A sense of urgency dressed up as purpose. She’d followed whatever felt right in the moment, mistaking movement for direction, confusing stubbornness for strength.
Her thoughts were cut by Annalise’s voice.
“My dear friend,” the woman said sweetly,“Benjamin must’ve kept you awake late into the night. You don’t look like you’ve slept very well. A little less graceful than usual this morning.”
Jane turned her head slowly, the corners of her lips lifting just barely.
Her insinuation was far from the truth, but she wasn’t entirely wrong either. Jane hadn’t slept well the night before.
In the brief second that followed, she saw again it, as if replayed in real time. The way Bucky had leaned over her in the dark, believing she was asleep. The way his hand had hovered near her face, the barest suggestion of a touch never made.
She would be lying if she said she hadn’t thought about it since. Lying if she said she hadn’t tried, just briefly, to give it meaning.
But that would be foolish. A waste of time.
It was probably nothing. Just a passing impulse. Nothing more.
And yet…
It hadn’t escaped her notice that this was the first night Bucky hadn’t woken up from an episode.
The first night they’d shared the same bed.
The first night without screaming, or shaking, or whispered apologies to ghosts.
The two things weren’t connected. Of course they weren’t. He’d probably just been exhausted enough to rest. It wasn’t her business anyway. Not his nightmares, not his silences, not his fleeting gestures.
Jane held her gaze, then replied, voice even. “I’ve never been much of a sleeper,” she said quietly. “But forgive me if I’m not the best company this morning.”
The Countess leaned forward, waving a hand as if to swat away her fatigue.
“Nonsense, dear. Absolute nonsense. This weekend has been delightful. Annalise, we must arrange another soon.”
The conversation at the table shifted as the plates emptied and coffee cooled. The Count, with a satisfied sigh, dabbed at his lips with his napkin and announced to the table that, regrettably, he and the Countess would have to depart in the early afternoon. “Business waits for no man.” he said, his voice affable and tinged with regret.
“Oh, no, don’t say that,” Annalise interjected with an affected pout. “You can’t possibly leave now. Not when tonight will be so… interesting.”
The Count raised a brow. “I wish we could, truly. But there are matters that need attending.”
Annalise leaned forward slightly, her tone dipping into something silkier. “It’s one of those nights, Maximillian. You know the kind. We haven’t had one in far too long. Games. Stories. Drinks. Finally, we have a younger couple at the table again, no offense to your usual guests, and they don’t seem squeamish or uptight.” She smiled pointedly at Jane, then Bucky. “I think it’ll be a memorable evening.”
Jane caught the way the Countess’s mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile. A look was exchanged between husband and wife, and a bejeweled hand rested on the Count’s forearm.
“Perhaps,” the Countess said lightly, “our affairs can wait until a bit later tomorrow. What do you think, darling?”
The Count looked uncertain, but after a pause, he gave a nod. “Very well. One more night.”
There was a polite chorus of approval. Gradually, chairs scraped back, the sound of silverware and conversation fading as one by one, the guests returned indoors. The breakfast had come to its natural end, the plates mostly empty, the teacups drained. The morning sun had climbed higher, casting longer shadows across the terrace.
When Christian rose from his seat, smoothing the front of his shirt, he glanced down at Jane with a smile. “Will you be joining us?” he asked, tilting his head toward the path leading back to the house.
Jane looked up at him, her voice measured. “Benjamin’s still finishing,” she said, nodding subtly toward Bucky, who was indeed still seated, his coffee untouched. “I’ll stay a little longer. Keep him company.”
Christian gave a small nod, murmured something about preparations for the evening, and turned away. Annalise followed him without a word.
Only when their footsteps had disappeared around the corner of the ivy-covered archway did Jane finally speak. She didn’t ease into it, didn’t soften the blow.
“I know we haven’t gotten anything,” she said sharply, crossing her arms. “I know Christian didn’t say a single thing about the auction. Not one word about the serum, the buyers, nothing. And I know this is our last day here.”
She wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on the garden path ahead, on the way the sun cast long shadows from the wrought-iron chairs.
“But I’ve done everything I could.” she added, her voice lower now, but still laced with defensiveness. “I’ve been patient, I’ve been charming, I’ve been—” she hesitated, lips pressing together, “—approachable. I’ve let him think I was interested. I’ve smiled when I didn’t want to. God, I’ve let him touch me.”
Her voice caught for a second, but she didn’t stop. “So don’t look at me like I should take the blame because I went too far. At least I tried.”
Bucky turned, his expression unreadable at first—then it shifted, slowly, into something like quiet confusion. “Jane,” he said, his voice low, cautious. “I’m not blaming you. I don’t think any of this is your fault.”
“Really?” she snapped, the words out before she could stop them. “Is that why you couldn’t even look me in the eye for more than two seconds this morning? You think I’m stupid?” Her voice cracked, but she pushed through. “I know you’re judging me for what happened with Christian. I can see it all over your face. And you have no right, none of all people, to judge me.”
He stared at her, startled. Then he stepped forward, closing the space between them until they were eye to eye. Jane tensed. Every instinct told her to pull back, to create distance—but her pride, her stubbornness, pinned her in place.
Bucky’s voice was quiet when he spoke, but it didn’t waver. “I’m not judging you, Jane. I’m not looking at you because I’m ashamed. Because I feel like I should’ve done more. I was too cautious, too slow. I couldn’t figure out how to connect with them, how to build any real trust. So everything fell on you. You had to carry it all. Including…” he paused, jaw tightening. His gaze dropped for a second, then rose again, more controlled. “Including his attentions.”
Jane’s chest tightened at the word, and he saw it.
“I’m the one who should feel guilty,” Bucky went on. “Not you. You did what you had to do. I didn’t.”
Jane looked at him. Stunned. She hadn’t expected this, hadn’t known how to brace for this . That kind of honesty. That strange flicker of intimacy. Not from him. And honestly, she had no idea how to stand there, still and composed, and not completely lose her footing.
Bucky seemed to sense it. He stepped back, rubbing a hand over his jaw, then sat down again beside the table. He picked up his coffee cup, took a sip, then exhaled slowly.
“This morning,” he said after a pause, “when I woke up and you weren’t there, I thought you’d gone off again. Wandering around on your own. I figured you’d decided to do something without telling me—again. But then one of the staff told me everyone was outside, waiting for breakfast.”
He glanced up at her again. “So I used the chance. Went for a walk through the house. Through the parts they told us not to explore.”
Jane’s eyes flicked toward him, wary.
“Everything was open,” he continued. “Even Christian’s study. Nothing was locked. Nothing was guarded. But there was nothing there. No useful intel, no hints.”
He set the cup down with a dull clink. “I think they told us to stay out of those rooms just to see if we’d go looking. Just to test us.”
There was a long silence. The garden around them was calm, the soft murmur of birdsong in the hedges behind.
Jane finally spoke, her voice quieter now. “So you think this weekend has been a test.”
“I think it’s always been a test,” he said. “But not in the way we assumed. It’s more like a prolonged audition. And it’s not over yet.”
He looked up at her again. “Didn’t you see the way Annalise talked about tonight? How she pushed the Count to stay?”
Jane nodded, her throat dry. “I did. But… did you see the way she looked at me?” she added, barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t curiosity anymore. It felt like judgment. Like she’d already decided.”
Bucky didn’t answer for a second. Then, “You don’t know that.”
Jane didn’t reply. She didn’t look at him either. She was still holding the edge of the linen tablecloth between her fingers, twisting it gently.
“We still have time.” he said, but it came out less convincing than intended.
The silence that followed was thick. Uncomfortable.
Jane stood up abruptly, brushing her hands against her dress. “We should go,” she said, not looking at him. “They’ll wonder what we’re doing if we stay out here too long.”
Without waiting for a response, she turned toward the house, walking back across the sun-dappled path without glancing behind her. She didn’t need to check if Bucky was following.
She knew he would.
____
The medical bay at Avengers Tower was quiet, its atmosphere filled with the soft murmur of machinery and the rhythmic pulse of the ventilation system. Peter sat on the edge of the examination bed, his suit peeled down just enough to leave his shoulder bare. A gauze pad was taped over a cut, slightly askew now as he leaned forward, inspecting the forming bruise beneath it with the kind of scientific curiosity only he could muster.
The nurse had left only a minute ago, muttering something about grabbing stronger antiseptic. Peter took the opportunity to nudge the edge of the gauze back and wince at the angry blotch of purple and yellow blooming beneath the skin.
Tony entered without knocking, the doors parting with their usual hydraulic sigh. He took in the scene with a raised brow and a tilt of the head. “Nice. Is this your idea of brand promotion? Getting injured in public?”
Peter looked up, startled for only a second before the familiar grin returned to his face. “Just a scratch,” he said, shrugging. “The other guy looks worse.”
Tony nodded, stepping further into the room. “The other guy always looks worse, kid. That’s how I know you’re doing fine.” His eyes flicked down to the chart resting on the nearby table, but he didn’t bother picking it up. “Heard you stopped a nice little shootout in Glendale. That was you?”
Peter nodded, sheepish but proud. “Mostly. I mean—there was this guy with an automatic rifle and no aim whatsoever. So… you know.”
“Impressive.” Tony said it like a passing comment, but his tone was warmer than usual, less performative. He pulled a stool out with his foot and sat down. “Really. You’re holding your own.”
The compliment lingered in the space between them longer than it probably should have. Peter scratched the back of his neck, visibly pleased but unsure what to say. For a second, he just smiled.
But then, silence took hold.
Tony noticed it almost immediately. It wasn’t the comfortable kind. It was hesitant, cluttered. He leaned back, crossed one leg over the other, fingers tapping once on his knee. “Alright,” Tony said, narrowing his eyes slightly, “what’s on your mind?”
“It’s just…” Peter hesitated, then looked down at his hands. “ Have you heard from Jane lately?”
Tony didn’t answer right away. His jaw shifted, slightly. His expression didn’t change much, but his eyes darkened.
He looked away, toward the window, the skyline gleaming faintly in the afternoon light.
“No,” he said, after a pause that was just long enough to be noticeable. “I haven’t.”
Peter blinked. “Oh.” He tried to sound casual, but he’d noticed it. The change. The tension. “I was just wondering. It’s been a few days, and she hasn’t answered any of my texts. I didn’t want to… I mean, maybe I wasn’t supposed to know—”
“So she told you?” Tony interrupted, his voice too smooth to be casual, his eyes fixed on Peter’s face. “That she’s on a mission.”
Peter hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Yeah… I mean, she didn’t say much. Just that she’d be gone for a while.”
“Well,” Tony said with a tight smile, leaning back slightly against the edge of a counter, “then you know more than I do. She didn’t say anything to me before she left.” He folded his arms. “It was Barton who told me.”
That surprised Peter. Of all people, Tony Stark—head of the Avengers, the one with a plan for everything—should have known. The idea that he didn’t, that Jane had left without a word to him, unsettled Peter more than he wanted to admit.
Tony must’ve seen it in his face, because he added, more softly, “She’s under S.H.I.E.L.D.’s protection. Or… what’s left of it. She’s tough, Peter. You’ve seen it. She doesn’t give up easy. She’ll be fine.” He nodded as if to reinforce his own words, then glanced away, as though looking for something to fixate on, some distraction in the quiet sterility of the medical bay.
Peter didn’t look convinced. And Tony couldn’t blame him. Because the truth was, he wasn’t convinced either.
He hadn’t told anyone that he’d activated every override protocol S.A.S.S.I. could offer, pinged every satellite they had access to, and still come up empty. Jane’s suit hadn’t been activated. Her artificial assistant hadn’t been used. Her comms had gone dark the day she left, and hadn’t blinked to life once since.
And that silence… it gnawed at him.
Because lately, the dreams had started again. Not like before, these were more vivid. They were sharp, painful in their clarity. Every night, it was the same: he heard her scream. He ran, barefoot through a hallway he didn’t recognize, heart pounding, breath shallow. He found her in a bed, her face pale, the sheets soaked in blood beneath her. She cried, but not from pain, but from something deeper, something that haunted her even in sleep. And he couldn’t reach her. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
He woke up every time with sweat clinging to his skin and a knot in his chest that didn’t go away.
But Peter didn’t need that kind of burden, so he masked it. Like always.
“She’s smart,” Tony added, his voice a shade steadier now. “And she’s got instincts. If she hasn’t checked in, I’m betting it’s because she doesn’t want to risk blowing her cover. That means she’s doing what she’s supposed to be doing.” He offered a faint smile. “First solo mission. She probably wants to impress Fury. Or prove a point.”
Peter nodded slowly, though the crease between his brows didn’t ease. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense.”
Tony clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder, light but steady. “She’ll be back before you know it, probably annoyed that we worried about her at all.”
There was a pause, then Peter looked up, something uncertain in his expression. “Mr. Stark… can I ask you something?”
Tony tilted his head. “Sure, kid. Hit me.”
“It’s just…” Peter hesitated, fidgeting slightly. “Jane, before she left… She told me she wouldn’t have gone if she’d had the choice. That stuck with me.” He swallowed. “I guess I just wanted to know… if you do hear anything, if you find out anything… would you tell me?”
He rushed to add, “I won’t say anything. I won’t tell anyone. I swear. I just… I just want to know she’s okay. That’s all.”
Tony looked at him for a long second. Really looked. At the lines of tension around his mouth. At the way his fingers twisted nervously. At how damn young he still was, despite everything.
It stirred something gentle in him, a flicker of unexpected tenderness.
“Yeah,” Tony said softly. “Of course, Peter. I’ll let you know.”
Peter’s shoulders sagged with relief, and he nodded, murmuring a quiet thank you just as the door to the medical bay slid open again.
“Know what?” Pepper’s voice, light and warm, filled the space as she stepped inside. “Sounds like I just walked in on something dramatic.”
Tony froze for a second, just a second, but Peter noticed. The stiffness in his jaw, the way his hand dropped from Peter’s shoulder like it had been burned.
Pepper approached, placing a gentle hand on Tony’s back and he hated himself, just a little, because all he could think about was how only minutes ago he’d been talking about Jane. Worrying about her.
And here was Pepper—brilliant, kind, beautiful Pepper—smiling at him like he still deserved her.
Tony knew he’d probably never find the courage to tell her the truth—about what had happened, about how he’d betrayed her and everything she believed about him. But he didn’t want to think about that now. Not here, not while she was looking at him with those eyes, trusting and steady. He wanted to let himself be selfish just a little longer. So he pushed the thought away, shoved it down deep where it wouldn’t burn so hot.
He cleared his throat. “Nothing bad,” he said quickly. “Peter and I were just talking about his last mission. Sounds like our baby Avenger is growing up.”
Pepper laughed. “Oh really?” She turned to Peter with a grin. “You know, Tony talks about you all the time.”
Peter flushed. “He does? Uh, wow. I mean—what does he say?”
“Don’t believe a word of it,” Tony interjected, waving a hand. “She’s exaggerating.”
They might’ve continued with the banter, but the nurse reappeared, pushing a tray with fresh dressings and antiseptic.
Tony straightened. “Alright, I think that’s our cue to leave you to the professionals. You can stay and rest here for a while. No rush getting home, alright?”
Peter nodded, grateful. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”
As Tony and Pepper turned and walked out, Peter watched them go. Something in the way they moved, side by side, struck him as strange. Natural and unnatural all at once.
He thought about Jane.
About the tulips he never gave her. About the way Tony had held her that night in the hospital when Peter had walked in on them—caught in something too intimate, too complicated for him to understand.
He looked away quickly, face flushing again, and tried to focus instead on the nurse dabbing something cold and stinging onto his skin.
It was easier that way.
____
Now that the day was drawing to a close, the light filtering in through the tall glass windows had turned a deep amber, painting the room in tones of honey and rust. The last hints of sunlight slid across the parquet floor, catching on the polished corners of the low table around which the evening’s final players had gathered. Four velvet couches, dark emerald and curved at the edges, formed a square around it—three of them occupied. The table itself was set with polished glass, half-finished wine glasses, and silver dishes of sugared almonds. Jane sat beside Bucky, her hand carefully resting over his on the cushion between them. Across from them were Christian and Annalise, poised and elegant, their bodies angled toward one another like the petals of some rare and poisonous flower. The Countess and her husband filled the place on their left, hands relaxed around their drinks, eyes glittering with interest.
They had just finished dinner. The air was laced with the scent of wine and distant candlewax, and the quiet murmur of conversation seemed to echo a collective anticipation.
The day itself had been unusually quiet. Lunch had been delivered to their private rooms, with no group activities, no shared moments with the other guests, no real chances to interact with Christian or Annalise. Which, in its own way, had only made the evening more charged. Time wasted. Opportunities missed. Every hour spent apart from their targets was a missed chance. Now, as Annalise’s voice rose lightly above the conversation, Jane felt a flicker of tension tighten in her gut. This evening had to count.
“I think, my dear Élise,” she said, turning to the Countess with an arched brow, “it’s the perfect moment to begin a game. One of my favorites, but not always one I can convince my guests to play. It requires… a certain willingness to be exposed.”
The Countess smiled with a languid grace, lifting her glass just enough to toast the idea.
“But tonight,” Annalise went on, “I sense the courage in this room. Don’t you agree, darling?” she asked Christian, whose answering smirk was almost fond.
“More players make it all the more fun.” he said, then turned his eyes to Jane and Bucky. “You’ll join us, I trust.”
Jane felt Bucky’s eyes on her, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned slightly into him and tangled her fingers in his, giving the illusion of intimacy.
“Of course,” she said, her smile light. “It sounds fun. What’s the name of the game?”
Annalise gave a breathy laugh. “Silhouette,” she said. “A game of dares, truth, and a bit of danger.”
Christian motioned to a maid in the corner. “Could you bring us a deck of cards, please?”
“And the rest,” Annalise added, gesturing with her fingers for the blindfolds and the bottle of amber-colored liquor sitting unopened on the bar.
Jane listened with veiled intrigue as Annalise explained the rules. The game revolved around a deck of poker cards, with each suit dictating the type of challenge: hearts for physical obligations, clubs for uncomfortable truths, diamonds for the blindfolded guessing game, and spades—a coveted gift, allowing the player to skip their turn. The players did not choose their own tasks. Instead, the group did. If more than one person wanted to challenge the player, they would draw again: highest card wins the right to decide.
It sounded childish. Ridiculous, even. But Jane knew better. This wasn’t about the game. It was a stage. A space where masks could be worn and removed under the guise of entertainment.
The deck arrived, and Annalise took it without ceremony, shuffling the cards with a grace that suggested she’d done it a hundred times before. “First, let’s decide who goes first.” she said.
She fanned the cards out on the low table. One by one, each person leaned forward and selected a card. Christian drew the highest: a queen of spades.
“Of course,” Annalise purred. “How fitting.”
“These,” she said, sweeping the current cards aside, “are discarded. Christian, darling, draw again. Let us see what fate has for you.”
Christian plucked a card from the top of the deck. Seven of clubs.
His wife smiled, biting her lip ever so slightly. “Oh, I have a question.” she said immediately. She turned to the group. “Anyone else?”
Élise shook her head. The Count simply sipped his drink. “It’s yours.” he said, granting her the floor.
Annalise turned back to her husband with a look that was almost too serene. “Since we arrived here for the weekend,” she asked, her voice light as spun sugar, “have you lied to me, or kept anything from me?”
Christian swirled his wine once, then set it down. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looked her in the eye. “My love,” he said, “what marriage would be worth anything without a few lies?”
The room was silent for a beat. Annalise’s smile remained, but her gaze was like ice. Then she turned away, lifting her shoulders in an elegant shrug.
“Jane,” she said, turning the spotlight with terrifying ease. “It’s your turn, dear. Let’s see what the cards want from you.”
Jane hesitated only a moment. She knew the air had shifted. The game wasn’t so harmless anymore. But she reached forward and picked a card.
Clubs. Another truth.
“I have one,” the Countess said quickly. “Anyone else?”
Silence.
The woman smiled, and Jane was reminded of snakes in gardens. “You can choose to answer or take a shot.”
Jane glanced at the bottle and the row of glittering glasses. “No need.” she said softly. “What’s your question?”
“Benjamin,” the Countess said, then she stopped for a moment, suggesting tension. “Was he your first love?”
Jane paused. Her instinct was to lie. To play the role of the devoted wife. But that would ring hollow, wouldn’t it? Too saccharine. Too easy. So instead, she hid a bit of truth under all of the lies.
“No,” she said, tilting her head with a half-smile. “I’ve been in love once before. A long time ago.”
Another pause. She could feel Bucky shift slightly beside her.
“But that story,” she added, “didn’t end well.”
The room was quiet, Jane could feel Bucky’s eyes on her. Then Annalise raised her glass slightly.
“All the best stories don’t.” she said. And drank.
It hadn’t just been a clever quip, it had sounded almost like a confession. For a brief moment, something in Annalise’s voice had changed. Subtle. But Jane caught it. A flicker beneath the surface of her polished confidence. Not weakness, something else. A crack in the glass.
Now, as the deck was passed along, that same ripple of imbalance seemed to hover in the air. Unseen, but palpable. Jane’s gaze drifted to Bucky, who reached for the top card. He moved casually, but she could tell he was working to seem at ease. His shoulders were too still. His fingers closed over the card with too much precision.
He turned it over. Spades.
Annalise’s lips curved slowly, fingers gliding along the rim of her glass. “Ah, Benjamin,” she said, purring his name like a private joke. “What a pity. Spades. Looks like you’ll have to skip your turn.”
Bucky gave a small shrug and a polite smile. “Well,” he said, setting the card aside, “the night’s still young.”
She didn’t answer, but kept watching him from the corner of her eye.
Jane couldn’t tell if him skipping the turn was a blessing or a missed opportunity. Maybe both. A part of her was relieved—less exposure, less risk. But another part—quieter, more conflicted—wasn’t so sure.
And if Bucky felt her eyes on him, he didn’t show it. Or maybe he was just better at pretending than she was.
Next came the Count. His turn brought a more playful atmosphere. He picked a heart. Annalise raised a brow. “A physical dare, is it?”
There were murmurs of interest. Eventually, someone proposed he whisper something scandalous in his wife’s ear and make her blush—if he failed, he’d drink. With a flourish, the Count leaned in and whispered something that made Élise cover her mouth with her fingers, laughing in a way that was all pearls and polished teeth. The game moved on.
Then came Annalise.
She pulled a diamond. “Ah, a blind challenge! My favorite.” she purred.
It was Christian to decide her test.
On his signal, a maid stepped forward carrying a polished silver tray. Upon it sat two glasses, each filled with a deep, garnet-colored liquid. Annalise adjusted her posture as another maid approached from behind and carefully blindfolded her with a sleek strip of black silk. Her lips curled into a confident smile.
“One of these,” the Countess said, her voice smooth and theatrical, “is your husband’s favorite. The other, an excellent but lesser choice.”
Annalise inclined her head regally and reached for the glasses. She lifted one, then the other, inhaling each bouquet with measured elegance. After a moment’s pause, she took a small sip from the first, then the second. Her expression didn’t shift.
“This one.” she said finally, raising the glass in her right hand.
Christian smiled. “Correct.”
A soft ripple of applause moved through the group, mingled with murmurs of approval. Annalise removed the blindfold slowly, her lashes fluttering open like the final act of a well-rehearsed performance.
Christian reached for her hand and brought it to his lips brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “How could I ever doubt the taste of a woman who knows me so well?”
Annalise met his gaze and smiled, satisfied. “Doubting me,” she said, “is never wise.”
The group chuckled, the mood briefly lighter. Then came Christian’s turn. Again.
Another diamond.
The Count’s eyes glinted. He leaned forward and exchanged a long look with Christian before speaking again. “My dear friend,” he said with a smirk, “a good husband should be able to recognize his wife among a thousand. Shall we test that claim?”
The mood shifted again. Annalise tilted her head, interested. Christian only chuckled.
“We will blindfold you,” the Count said. “And line up three women. You’ll identify your wife by scent alone.”
Gasps and laughter filled the room.
Élise, Jane, and Annalise were instructed to kneel side by side in front of the low table, arms resting delicately on their thighs, chins tilted up. They were forbidden from moving or speaking. Jane’s breath caught as she lowered herself beside the others, aware of the polished floor against her knees, the weight of eyes on her.
The Count blindfolded Christian himself, securing the silk with practiced hands.
Jane flicked her gaze sideways, catching Bucky’s eyes for half a second. There was tension in his jaw. But she looked away. Now was not the time to falter.
Annalise looked utterly at ease, sure of her husband, while the Countess’s lips curled in a knowing smile. Jane mirrored it, feigned lightness, even though her stomach had tightened into knots.
Christian approached. He began with Élise, leaning toward the elegant curve of her neck, nose brushing gently along the skin between jaw and earlobe.
He pulled back, smiling. “The lavender is unmistakable, Countess.”
She beamed. “Well done, Christian. Really well done.”
Then he stepped to Jane.
She didn’t move.
His hand came to rest on her shoulder, light as breath. Then he leaned in, pressing his face into the hollow just beneath her jaw. He inhaled—long, deliberate.
Jane’s entire body tensed. Not from attraction. From the too-intimate contact, the feeling of his brown hair touching her shoulder, the awareness of her skin crawling. And he wasn’t done.
He dipped lower, nose trailing the edge of her collarbone, then down, just enough to brush the delicate skin above her dress line. The touch was nothing overt, but it lingered. Purposeful. Calculated.
He made a quiet sound in his throat. Said nothing. Then, he moved to Annalise.
Jane exhaled, chest tight. Her fingers curled against her thighs.
But Annalise didn’t laugh this time. Her posture was suddenly stiff. As Christian smelled along her throat and décolletage, she didn’t move. Traces of doubt hid in the lines of her smile.
Then Christian straightened. And turned back.
He walked to Jane again. She stiffened.
It couldn’t be. He couldn’t possibly think she was his wife.
But he approached anyway. His hands rose to her face. Fingers brushed her cheeks, trailing gently. Jane couldn’t breathe.
The silk blindfold still covered his eyes. His mouth found hers.
The kiss was too long, too soft. Not a peck. Not innocent.
Jane didn’t dare to move. She just counted the seconds, desperately in need of something to distract her, to make it easier to pretend she wasn’t bothered by his touch on her.
Only when Annalise stood with a sharp motion, making a dull sound, did Christian pull back.
“You’ve failed, husband,” she said coolly. “That is not me.”
Christian removed the blindfold, blinking as he faced his wife.
“My dear,” he murmured, “I don’t know how I made such a mistake. Her scent is so similar to yours.”
His voice was contrite. His expression was not. Christian’s eyes were amused. Cold.
Jane, humiliated, said nothing. Heat crept up her neck, but she kept her face blank.
Bucky was looking at her. She felt it, heavy as iron. But she couldn’t look back.
She rose with mechanical grace, returned to her seat beside him. The Countess followed, languid, and reclaimed her place across the room.
Jane just stared down at her hands. Her knuckles were pale. She hated this.
Hated the way the game had turned. Hated the taste of Christian’s lips still on hers. Hated that everyone had seen everything.
But she said nothing.
So it was Bucky who finally broke the silence. His voice, low and measured. “I think this game,” he said, “has stopped being fun.” His tone wasn’t angry, but something in it was clipped, final. “Maybe it’s time we moved on to something else.”
Jane blinked, surprised. She hadn’t expected him to speak, let alone with such firmness. And yet, as the words hung in the air, part of her wondered if he had meant it or if it had just been a part of the performance. After all, if he was supposed to be her adoring husband, a flicker of jealousy would serve their cover well. A defense of her honor. A claim.
Christian turned toward Bucky, his face painted with a theatrical mask of regret. “Ah, my friend,” he said, opening his hands in a gesture of mock apology. “Please believe me, I meant no disrespect—neither to you nor to your beautiful wife. It was simply a mistake. Let’s not ruin the evening over it.”
He reached for the wine bottle and topped off the abandoned glass near Bucky’s place at the table, then extended it toward him with deliberate slowness. His smile remained courteous, but there was something else there. Too smooth, too calculated.
Bucky didn’t reach for it immediately. He let a few beats pass in loaded silence, holding Christian’s gaze. Then, slowly, he reached forward, but didn’t take the glass. Instead, he looked to Jane, and only then did his fingers close around the stem. “Only if my wife agrees.” he said.
And just like that, the weight of every eye in the room shifted to her again.
Jane felt the heat rise behind her cheekbones. That gaze, his gaze, was a challenge and a shield all at once. But she couldn’t tell if he was genuinely asking for her consent or testing her resolve. There was no malice in his expression, but the intensity made her feel bare, exposed in ways that had nothing to do with the game or the room full of spectators. The absurd part? A fragment of her appreciated it. Appreciated the fact that, even in play, he didn’t pretend she wasn’t real. Didn’t move without including her.
She swallowed and lifted her chin. They had made it this far. There was no turning back now. The mission still stood above all else. Every small crack in their performance could cost them everything. So she offered a soft smile—the kind that was meant to reassure the room, and maybe herself most of all.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Of course we can keep playing.”
Annalise smiled again, but there was something fractured in it now. The edges were too tight, too polished. It gleamed like glass about to splinter. “Wonderful,” she said, voice syrupy and brittle all at once. She turned her eyes back to Jane. “Then it’s your turn again, my dear.”
And just like that, the spotlight returned. Jane steeled herself, her spine straightening, her jaw tightening just beneath the skin. The tension hadn’t ebbed; it had simply changed shape—less playful now, more watchful. There was blood in the water, and everyone here could smell it.
Annalise’s fingers danced over the edges of the cards, her movements swift and practiced. She reshuffled the deck with a flick of her wrist that felt theatrical more than necessary, and handed it to Jane with a smile too wide to be warm.
“Let’s see what fate has in store for you this time.” she murmured.
Jane’s fingertips brushed against the top of the deck. She didn’t hesitate. The moment was stretched taut as a string, and everyone was waiting for her to pull it. She drew.
Another club card.
Annalise sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes. “Ah, how unfortunate. Another truth.” Her tone was tinged with false disappointment, but her smile deepened. “I had something a little more… physical in mind for you, my dear.”
A few polite chuckles rippled around, but the laughter died quickly. Everyone knew something was coming. Jane felt it too, the change in temperature, not in the air, but in the room itself. It was no longer a game.
“Well then,” Annalise continued, tapping a manicured finger against her lips. “Unless someone else has a question…?”
No one spoke. Eyes shifted. All attention curved sharply toward Annalise.
“No?” she said, her smile turning sharper. “Very well. I suppose it falls to me again.”
She leaned back slightly in her chair, letting the silence gather weight. Her voice, when it came again, was light as a breeze, too casual for what it carried.
“You know,” she said, as if remembering something amusing, “during our little spa day, you told me something. You said you’d lost a child.”
The words hit like a stone in still water.
Jane’s stomach clenched. Her hands, resting in her lap, curled into fists before she could stop them. Her nails bit into her palms, grounding her, barely.
Annalise went on, her voice smooth and bright, like she was discussing the weather. “And you said you weren’t sure if you could ever have another. That you feared you might be… what was the word? Infertile?”
Jane kept her face still, but she could feel her chest tightening, her throat beginning to close. She had told her that. She had told her in a moment of false peace, in the haze of lavender oil and warm towels, when she’d convinced herself that vulnerability might buy trust. Now it was being turned into spectacle.
She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The pause was too long, and Annalise took that as an invitation.
“My question is simple,” she said, tilting her head. “Does Benjamin know?”
A pause.
Jane’s pulse thundered in her ears. She could feel every eye on her—Christian’s, curious and waiting; the Count and Countess, suddenly quieter, more serious; Annalise, expectant and hungry.
And Bucky.
She didn’t want to look at him. She already knew. Knew that he had heard every word, that he was sitting there just as exposed as she was, bound to this illusion of marriage they had built between them. But her eyes betrayed her, flicking toward him just once.
He was staring at her. His face unreadable, tense, but there was something else beneath it. Not shock. Not confusion.
Pity.
That was worse than anything else. Worse than judgment. Worse than disdain. That flicker of softness in his gaze cut deeper than any sharp word could. Her spine stiffened.
“No,” she said, her voice tight. “He doesn’t know.”
The words hung there, heavy, final.
Annalise leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, smiling with mock sympathy. “Oh, but why not? Catherine, darling, you shouldn’t hide such things from your husband. Benjamin clearly adores you.”
Jane didn’t move.
“He’d forgive you,” Annalise added sweetly. “Even if… well. Even if your body failed you.”
That was the moment Jane nearly lost control. She felt her chest heave, but no breath came. Her fists clenched harder. The firelight shimmered in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall.
She refused to cry. Not here. Not in front of them.
Beside her, she felt a shift. Bucky’s hand brushed against hers, slow, covering her clenched fist. It was a small gesture, a silent offer—solidarity, perhaps, or apology.
She didn’t know which. She didn’t want to know.
Without looking at him, she pulled her hand away.
Annalise didn’t comment on it. She sat back, satisfied, victorious in a way only she seemed to understand.
“Well,” she said lightly, clapping her hands once. “Let’s not dwell. It’s your turn, Benjamin.”
He reached out and drew a card, his fingers steady. When he flipped it over, a single glance was enough. The sharp red of diamonds was unmistakable.
A blindfold challenge.
Annalise’s grin sharpened instantly. Across the circle, the countess let out a breathy, amused sigh, already playing along.
“What luck!” she drawled, her voice silk-soft but glinting. “I feared you might pull another spade.” She laced her fingers with her husband’s and gave him a look before continuing, “But this… This is much better. Don’t you think it’s only fair for our dear Benjamin to be tested as Christian was?” She turned, eyes dancing. “Let’s see if he’s better at finding his beloved.”
Jane glanced at Bucky instinctively, as if trying to gauge his thoughts. But his expression was unreadable, all hard lines and tension, like a statue carved in ice. His jaw clenched. He didn’t smile. It was clear he wasn’t enjoying this—not even pretending to.
And Jane didn’t know if that was good or bad.
Part of her was grateful he wasn’t grinning his way through it. It wouldn’t be realistic. But another part, the more paranoid, frayed part, worried it could raise suspicion. Everything tonight felt too sharp, too fragile. She could barely think straight anymore, let alone analyze every nuance of Bucky’s behavior.
Still, after a breath, he nodded once.
“I accept the challenge.” he said.
The countess stood up, graceful as a dancer, and retrieved the blindfold from the table. She walked over and stepped behind Bucky, tying it with precision. Jane noticed how tightly she knotted it—how deliberately she obscured his vision. No chance of cheating.
Then, the countess knelt again on the floor, following Jane and Annalise’s example. Her gown pooled elegantly around her knees.
Bucky moved with a hesitance that betrayed his usual composure. He knelt, one hand then the other pressing against the floor, the movement deliberate but slightly awkward.
He approached Annalise first. Jane watched as he leaned in, his head tilting slightly, his nose nearing her cheek—just below it, perhaps. He lingered a moment longer than necessary, as if trying to discern something intangible. Then, without further delay, he moved on.
The countess was next. His approach was more decisive, the interaction brief. It was as though he had already dismissed her as a possibility.
Then, he turned toward Jane.
Her heart pounded, a rapid staccato against her ribs. She sat rigid, her hands clenched in her lap, the fabric of her dress crumpling beneath her fingers.
Bucky’s movements were cautious. He placed his hands on either side of her, grounding himself, and leaned in. The warmth of his presence enveloped her before any contact was made.
Then, his nose grazed the curve of her shoulder, just where her neckline dipped. The touch was unintentional, a slight miscalculation, but it sent a jolt through her. She flinched, a barely perceptible movement, but enough to betray her composure.
She hated herself for the reaction. With everyone watching, she needed to appear unaffected. She lifted her chin subtly, eyes fixed forward, striving for impassivity.
Bucky paused, his proximity palpable. Then, he shifted, drawing back slightly. His movements were precise, almost as if he sensed her turmoil.
He turned, seemingly toward Annalise. And for a moment, Jane was certain, that was where he would go. It would have been the smartest move. The safest. Annalise clearly wanted her little act of revenge, and kissing her would deliver it wrapped in a neat, silken bow. It would also serve as a pointed jab at Christian, a petty but effective response to what he’d done just minutes earlier with Jane.
It made sense. All of it.
Annalise would be pleased. Christian might even be amused. The tension in the room might shift, tilt back toward equilibrium.
It was the only choice that made sense. Which was why Jane froze when Bucky suddenly pivoted.
Not toward Annalise. But back toward her.
And then—slowly, deliberately—he began to move.
He reached for her face, his fingers slow, almost reverent, and still blindfolded. The gloved pads of his thumbs brushed against her cheeks with a gentleness that caught her off guard, as if he were trying to reassure her. Jane didn’t move. She didn’t even blink. Her whole body was locked in place, frozen under the weight of what felt a hundred eyes and the pressure building inside her chest.
She could smell him before she felt him—something minty and citrusy, sharp and clean and horribly familiar. Her fists clenched in her lap, fingertips digging into her palms through the soft fabric of her dress. Still, she didn’t move.
He was so close now, close enough that his breath grazed her lips. It sent a ripple through her, involuntary and electric.
And then, finally, his lips touched hers.
He didn’t press too hard. Instead, he lingered, barely there, tentative. It was a question, not a declaration.
Jane’s entire mind screamed against it. This was reckless. Painful. Unnecessary. And yet… she didn’t pull back. She couldn’t—not with everyone watching. Not with Bucky this close, his breath warm against her skin, his hands cradling her face like she might shatter if he let go.
And then she felt it. His tongue, gently tapping against the seam of her lips. A request. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
This wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t safe. Or right. But something in her, a small, trembling part—relented. She opened her mouth to him.
He deepened the kiss slowly, his lips still soft but more certain now. One of his hands moved, sliding into her hair to cradle the base of her skull, fingers splayed gently at her nape. The other continued its slow, rhythmic strokes along her jaw, as if trying to memorize her skin. And Jane felt it all, every point of contact, every shift of breath, every hesitation.
The sensation rippled down her spine in waves. Goosebumps bloomed across her arms. She didn’t know if it was from shame or anger or something else entirely.
All she knew was that she hated this.
And she hated how much she didn’t want it to stop.
He tasted faintly of red wine. Deep, rich, with something almost sweet lingering behind it. She hadn’t thought about what he might taste like until now. And now that she knew, it was burned into her memory.
Her eyes fluttered shut. Without thinking, her hands moved—one resting on the curve of his shoulder, the other brushing against his arm, where the cold, smooth vibranium lay hidden beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. She touched it anyway.
He didn’t flinch.
For a second, maybe two, Jane forgot where she was. Forgot who she was. Forgot what any of this was supposed to be.
And then—
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The countess’s hands came together, shattering the silence with elegant, gleeful applause. Her voice followed, dripping with amusement.
“Well done, Benjamin. Truly, what an effort. I’m impressed.”
Jane snapped back to herself as if from a dream. She pulled away abruptly, her face burning. Her eyes dropped to her lap, where her hands had already curled back into tight fists.
She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t find the courage.
Jane could feel him watching her, though. His presence still heavy beside her, his breath still lingering on her lips.
Bucky held out a hand.
She stared at it for a second too long before finally placing hers in his. He helped her up gently, without a word, his grip firm but careful.
Their hands lingered in contact longer than was necessary. Or maybe not. Maybe it just felt that way.
They returned to their seats in silence.
Jane’s head buzzed, her chest too tight. Her lips still tingled. Her thoughts were a mess of shame, adrenaline, and something she refused to name.
Across the circle, Annalise’s eyes were locked on her. The smile on her face was still there, but it had cooled. There was no longer amusement in it, only disdain.
That kiss had been a mistake. A stupid, careless mistake.
Bucky should have chosen Annalise. It would’ve pleased her, restored her pride, and balanced the sick, twisted scale of their evening. Instead, he’d chosen Jane. And now Annalise was angry.
Jane could see it in the way her fingers clenched around her wineglass, in the way her gaze cut through her like a blade.
Bucky had complicated everything, and Jane didn’t even know if it was worth it.
She lowered her eyes, trying to ignore the taste of him still on her tongue. The warmth that hadn’t yet faded from her skin. The way her hands had remembered his shape without permission.
Beside her, Bucky sat quietly. His face was unreadable, but his hand, resting on his knee, was trembling—just barely. The moment Jane noticed it, she looked away.
Annalise’s voice sliced clean through the quiet that followed. “Well,” she said, rising gracefully to her feet, her tone light but carrying a sharp undercurrent, “I’d say the game can end here, wouldn’t you agree? It would be downright cruel to force these two lovebirds to remain in our company when, clearly, they’d much rather be alone. Isn’t that right, Jane?”
Jane didn’t answer.
She couldn’t. Her throat was too tight. All she managed was to lower her gaze, trying to hide the flush blooming across her cheeks, the heat crawling up her neck. She felt it, vividly, shamefully. Her whole body seemed to pulse with the awareness of what had just happened—and who had seen it.
Slowly, the rest followed Annalise’s lead. Christian stood first, smooth as ever, the curve of his mouth hard to decipher as he dusted off his lapels. The count and countess rose too, murmuring polite farewells, their expressions subdued, careful. A performance of their own. Everyone was performing. Jane wasn’t sure if she still was.
Annalise adjusted the fabric of her gown, then turned to the group with a silken smile. “It’s been a lovely evening,” she said. “Truly. My husband and I are very grateful for your company these past few days. Breakfast will be served a bit earlier tomorrow, to allow you all ample time to return to Paris without rushing.”
There was a round of courteous nods, a few quiet thank-yous. But Jane hardly registered them. Because as Annalise spoke, she could feel Christian’s eyes on her—heavy, direct, unsettling. She refused to look at him, but she didn’t need to. That stare was burned into her skin already. She didn’t know what it meant, if he was amused, annoyed, intrigued. But it made her feel smaller.
The group began to disperse, voices low, feet brushing against the soft floor. Jane and Bucky lingered for only a moment longer, then moved toward the hallway. They walked in silence. Not a word between them. Not a glance. Jane positioned herself just ahead of him, intentionally. She didn’t want their arms to brush. She didn’t want to feel his presence more than she already did.
Her breath was shallow by the time they reached their shared door. She stepped inside without waiting, her fingers curling around the edge of the door to push it shut behind them. But Bucky followed, and the moment it clicked closed, something inside her snapped.
She turned on him with all the force of a storm barely held back. “What the hell was that?!”
Bucky’s brows furrowed, confused. “Jane—”
“Stop it.” Her voice trembled with restrained fury. “What the hell were you thinking? That was the dumbest, most reckless thing you could’ve done.”
He didn’t answer at first, and that only fueled her anger.
“You had one job,” she hissed. “One. And it wasn’t kissing me. Annalise was the obvious choice. She wanted you to choose her. That would’ve pleased her. That would’ve leveled the field with Christian. That’s what she wanted. And you gave her me. ”
Still, he said nothing.
Jane pressed the heels of her palms into her temples. “She ended the game, Barnes. She shut it down. Did you even notice that? She didn’t even pretend to be amused anymore. We were this close, this close, to building some kind of fragile trust with her. And now she’s furious. I could see it in her eyes.”
Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He stood a few feet from her, jaw tense, arms stiff at his sides. His silence, usually so measured, so intentional, felt different now. Sharper, heavier. And when he finally spoke, there was an edge to his voice Jane hadn’t heard before.
“What was I supposed to do?” he asked, voice low but firm. “Kiss Christian’s wife? You think that would’ve gone over better?”
It caught Jane off guard. Not the words, but the force behind them. She’d yelled at him before. They had argued. But this was something else. He was angry. Truly angry. And it rattled her.
He took a step forward. “Come on, Jane. That would’ve ended in disaster. Annalise wanted a reaction. That whole game was a trap. And you’re pissed at me because I didn’t fall into it the right way?”
“You should’ve picked her!” Jane stepped forward too, now face-to-face with him. “Do you even realize what you’ve done? She’s furious! They’re going to argue about this. And we’re going to be in the middle of it. We needed her on our side and now—”
“There was no right move,” Bucky cut in, his voice rising despite himself. “It was never about the game, don’t you get that? It’s a performance for them. They’ve been playing us from the beginning. I didn’t want to give them more ammunition.”
Jane threw her hands in the air. “Oh, right. Because this, this whole mess, definitely didn’t give them anything to talk about.”
“We didn’t fail because of the kiss,” Bucky shot back. “We failed because we’ve been working against each other this entire time. You’ve been keeping me out since the moment we arrived.”
She grabbed the collar of his shirt, hard enough to make the fabric bunch under her fists. “Don’t you dare,” she hissed. “Don’t you dare put this on me. I told you this morning—I’ve tried. I’ve put in the effort. I’ve done everything I could to make this work. You? You’ve been watching from the sidelines.”
“I’ve been watching because there was no plan!” he shouted. “Because we were improvising and I didn’t want to screw it up even more!”
“You still did.” she snapped, shaking him once by the collar. Her voice broke. “You ruined everything!”
For a second, they both froze. He looked down at her hands on his shirt, then up at her eyes. There was something wounded there—something deep and raw that mirrored her own frustration.
“You could’ve done anything,” Jane continued, her voice raw, breathless. “Anything else. But you chose the one thing—the one wrong thing. Why? Why the hell did you do it?”
Bucky’s eyes darkened. His jaw tensed.
“How can you be so blind?” he shot back. “How can you still not see it?”
She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
“God,” he said, quieter now but no less intense. “You’re completely blind.”
Their breathing was the only sound in the room. Harsh, uneven. Their faces were close now. Too close. Her fists still clung to his collar, and when she realized it, she didn’t let go. His hands, though not touching her, hovered—one near her hip, the other slightly lifted, frozen mid-reach.
Neither of them knew who moved first.
Later, Jane would try to remember, would try to pinpoint the moment it shifted from shouting to this. But the memory would always be hazy. All she’d know for sure was that his mouth was suddenly on hers and that she didn’t push him away.
It wasn’t gentle.
He pulled her against him roughly, one arm snaking around her waist, the other gripping the back of her head like he was afraid she’d disappear. She gasped into his mouth, the sound swallowed between their lips, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.
Jane responded in kind—fierce, almost violent. Her fingers tangled in his hair and pulled hard. Her legs coiled around his waist like instinct. He lifted her effortlessly, his body moving with purpose, with desperation. Their teeth clashed and she bit his lower lip. He groaned low in his throat and kissed her harder, like he could devour the silence they had left between them.
They stumbled toward the bed, uncoordinated, breathless, burning.
Neither spoke. Neither thought.
It was too late for words.
Her nails raked down his chest, feeling the heat of him even through the fabric. She found the buttons of his shirt and tore them open, one by one, sending them skittering across the floor like tiny declarations of surrender. He was strength and want, and she didn’t want to stop. Couldn’t.
When he laid her down on the bed, their mouths parted for a second, just long enough for them to look at each other.
She ended up on her knees, facing him. Their faces were inches apart. His chest was rising fast, his breath ragged, like hers.
And for a split second, their eyes locked. Blue. So blue it stopped her. Just for a breath.
There was something in them, wild and broken. Something that matched the chaos pounding in her ribs.
She reached for him again, her hands moving to his neck, pulling him back down like she couldn’t stand the space between them. Their lips crashed once more, deeper now. Hungrier.
His lips found her neck, biting, dragging heat across her skin. She moaned, barely audible, and arched into him, fingers roaming over his back, her palms flat against the hard planes of his muscles. She wanted to feel all of him—his weight, his tension, his desire pressing against her. She wanted to drown in it, if only for a moment.
Her hands slipped beneath the fabric clinging to his shoulders, fingers brushing the scars along his skin, the warmth of his body. She pushed his shirt off, eager to feel his skin against hers.
And that’s when she saw it.
The arm.
His left side caught the light. Cold metal gleaming under the soft glow of the bedside lamp.
Jane flinched. Violently. As if she’d been burned.
Her whole body recoiled before she could stop it, jerking back from him with a sharp intake of breath. The sight of it, of him, snapped her out of whatever frenzy had overtaken her. It was like crashing into ice water. Sudden and jarring.
Bucky froze, shirt half-off, eyes wide. Then he looked down at himself. At the exposed metal. At what it represented.
Shame bloomed in his expression, quick and suffocating.
And just like that, the spell was broken.
“Jane,” he said, voice cracking. “I—shit—I didn’t—”
But she was already retreating.
The room tilted. Her hands covered her face. Her shoulders trembled.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “God. I can’t. What the hell am I doing?”
She didn’t realize she was crying until the tears soaked her palms. But once they started, they didn’t stop. Her sobs were loud, unrestrained. Her whole body shook.
Bucky moved quickly, silently. He pulled his shirt back on, covering the metal, covering his shame, eyes never leaving her.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky murmured, kneeling beside her. “Jane, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry.”
But she didn’t answer. She couldn’t say anything.
The sobs weren’t just sobs anymore—they were sharp, jagged. Her chest seized with each breath like her lungs were rejecting the very act of breathing. It wasn’t crying anymore. It was panic. Raw and all-consuming. Her fingers clawed at the bedsheets, at her own arms, her breath hitching so fast it hurt.
How could I do this?
How could I let this happen?
How could I do it—with him?
Something is wrong with me.
So, so wrong.
What the hell is wrong with me?
She didn’t know what she was saying, didn’t know if she was even speaking aloud. Her thoughts were a mess, overlapping in a spiral that made everything tilt. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, in her throat, in her ears.
“Jane—hey—” Bucky’s voice came closer, softer now, urgent but low. “You’re okay. You’re okay. I’m not going to touch you, I swear. I just… breathe with me, okay? Just breathe.”
She heard the shift of weight on the bed, the way the mattress dipped under his body. He wasn’t touching her, but he was close. She could feel his presence like gravity.
“Breathe,” he said again. “Come on, in and out. With me.”
He was trying. Trying to steady her without forcing her. His voice was like something to cling to—something solid while the world tilted.
And somehow, it worked.
Little by little, her breaths began to slow. They were still uneven, still raw, but they came. Her sobs dulled to hiccups, then to silence, except for the shudder of her exhale. She curled in on herself, still trembling, still holding her arms tight to her body as if trying to keep herself from falling apart completely.
She felt the bed shift again. Then a weight—gentle, careful—against her back.
Bucky didn’t say anything else. He just sat behind her, offering his presence.
And when she didn’t push him away, when she didn’t flinch, he slowly wrapped his arms around her, tentative as if she might shatter at any moment.
She didn’t resist, letting him hold her.
Her head fell forward, against his chest, and her fingers gripped the fabric of his shirt like a child clinging to the edge of a cliff.
She wasn’t even sure why she was crying anymore.
It wasn’t just shame, or regret, or the sick twist in her gut from realizing what she’d almost let happen. It was all of it. Everything. Piling up until it broke through in waves she couldn’t stop.
His hand found her back. He moved it slowly, rhythmically—up and down, up and down—like trying to anchor her. Not invasive. Not demanding. Just there.
And God, that broke her again.
Because he was being gentle.
Because he was still there—touching her, holding her—despite the way she’d flinched at the sight of him.
Despite the way her gaze had frozen, rigid and recoiling, like she was looking at a monster.
Despite the way she’d treated him like one. From the very beginning. From the first moment they’d been paired together.
Despite all of it, he was being gentle.
How did we get here?
She didn’t know how long she sat there like that, pressed to him, her body shaking with silent grief. But eventually, her breathing evened out again. The burn behind her eyes gave way to an empty, heavy ache. And the pounding in her chest dulled to something she could carry.
Her grip on his shirt loosened, her body slackened against his, and without meaning to—without even realizing it—Jane fell asleep.
Her face rested in the crook of his neck. Her breath was warm against his skin. One hand still curled loosely against his chest.
And that scent, mint and citrus and something purely him, followed her into the dark, where even sleep couldn’t quite untangle the knot inside her chest.
The next morning, Jane woke at dawn. When her eyes fluttered open, the light in the room was faint, a bluish grey that settled gently over everything, like dust. She was lying face to face with Bucky, her hand still resting on his chest, while his arm curled around her waist in an unconscious hold. His breath was slow and steady, lips slightly parted in sleep, lashes casting pale shadows over his cheekbones. For a second, she stayed like that—motionless, staring. There was something unbearable about the silence, something intimate and wrong in the way their bodies had found each other during the night, as if their subconscious selves had decided to let go of the hatred. It made her stomach turn.
She pulled away, not gently, but with a rushed, almost clumsy urgency, her movements jerky and uncoordinated as she tried to free herself from the weight of his arm without waking him. She couldn’t face him. Not like this. Not now. If his eyes opened, if he said anything, she wouldn’t know how to respond. She wasn’t ready for that. Truth be told, if she could vanish, right then and there, she would.
The disgust she felt wasn’t directed at him. It was turned inward, deep and corrosive. It clawed at her chest, her throat, her stomach. She wasn’t just ashamed of the kiss. She was ashamed because she had wanted it. Because somewhere in the chaos of that moment, in the suffocating intimacy of it, she had wanted him.
And that need, that animal, guttural, traitorous need, had been real. That was the part she couldn’t forgive.
Because it hadn’t come from confusion, or weakness, or drunken grief. It had come from her. From something buried and dark and painfully human inside her.
And worst of all, it had been him.
Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier.
That was the thought that burned the most. That the thing she’d craved hadn’t just been forbidden, it had been abhorrent. Unacceptable. Unthinkable. And yet she’d done it. She’d let herself feel something for him, even if just for a second, even if just enough to blur the edges of hate.
She sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers trembling. She was choking on her own thoughts.
How was she supposed to look at him?
How was she supposed to look at herself?
Jane didn’t even know what she felt. Guilt. Revulsion. Panic. A bitter, biting confusion that made her feel like she was unraveling, thread by thread. She couldn’t make sense of it, couldn’t compartmentalize it like she usually did. This wasn’t past of the mission. This wasn’t strategy. This was her. And she hated it. She hated how powerless she felt. How raw. How exposed.
And underneath all that self-loathing was a deeper fear—that something inside her had shifted. That maybe, in some horrifying, inexplicable way, she didn’t hate him the same way anymore. That maybe hate was too easy a word for what this had become.
She grabbed the cardigan draped over the desk chair and pulled it over her bare shoulders. She was still wearing the dress from the night before, wrinkled and stained from sweat, mascara, and everything in between. She could only imagine what she looked like. A mess. A ruin of herself. Her makeup must be smudged across her cheeks, her hair tangled and limp. She felt ridiculous. Weak.
She needed air.
Jane stepped out onto the terrace, the cold morning air hitting her like a slap. It was quiet outside, too quiet, as if even the birds hadn’t yet decided to start their day. Dew clung to the railings and to the wild leaves climbing up the stone walls, and a soft breeze rustled through the distant trees.
She looked down at her hand. At the ring.
Her thumb grazed the inner edge, slowly, back and forth, tracing the invisible memory etched into the metal. It caught the light faintly, a flicker of gold against the dull sky. And for a moment, she considered it.
Calling him. Tony.
She didn’t have her phone with her, not out here. It was still zipped away in the hidden pocket of her bag, buried like a secret she wasn’t meant to touch. And yet, the thought of it clawed at her. She could picture it clearly, the weight of it in her palm, the soft glow of the screen, the name she wasn’t supposed to look at.
She imagined going back inside, pulling it out, pressing that button.
Just to hear his voice. Just once.
She needed it. She needed him. She wanted to tell him everything, how the mission was unraveling, how she was unraveling. How Fury had been wrong to trust her, how she’d lost control. How nothing was working. How she’d failed.
Her breath caught.
What would she even say? That she kissed the man who murdered his parents? That she was sorry? That she didn’t mean for it to happen? That she didn’t know what she was doing? That she wasn’t herself?
But that wasn’t true. She had wanted it.
In that moment, she had wanted to forget everything—every rule, every oath, every memory—and just feel something. And Bucky had given her that.
And even if she told him… as if he’d care. As if it would matter to him.
He didn’t even remember her. He didn’t remember their nights, their home, their child. And there she was, clinging to a memory that no longer existed, tethered to a version of him that was gone. How pitiful. How utterly pathetic she was, holding on to something that lived only inside her.
She hated herself for it. For still loving a ghost.
A tear escaped before she could stop it. She scrubbed it away quickly with the back of her hand.
No more crying.
She had cried enough. For Tony. For the baby. For everything she’d lost. The time for grief was over. What she needed now was clarity. Control. Strength.
She leaned on the railing, staring out into the valley. The sunrise was spreading slowly, casting long shadows across the landscape, gold threading its way between trees and mountaintops. It should have been beautiful. Peaceful.
But all Jane felt was the gnawing emptiness in her chest, the cold weight of shame and confusion dragging at her ribs. She couldn’t go back in time and undo it. She couldn’t unkiss Bucky Barnes. She couldn’t pretend her heart hadn’t stuttered when his lips touched hers, that her breath hadn’t caught when his hand slid to the small of her back.
She hated him. She still hated him. But not like before. That was the most terrifying part.
The hate wasn’t clean anymore. It was messy now, tainted with things she didn’t really understand.
She dug her nails into her palm until it hurt, trying to anchor herself to the pain. Trying to remind herself who she was. What she was here to do. This wasn’t about her. This wasn’t about the past or the future or the ache she carried in her spine every night.
This was about the mission. About stopping whatever the Vogels were planning. About surviving.
She exhaled, long and slow, and closed her eyes. For a second, she imagined Tony beside her—his warmth, his wit, the way he’d wrap his arms around her when he knew she couldn’t ask for it. He would’ve known what to say. He always did.
But he wasn’t here.
And even if he were, he wouldn’t remember.
Her hand clenched tighter around the railing.
She couldn’t rely on anyone. Not anymore.
Especially not on the man sleeping just behind that door.
She had to get through this. Even if it meant building her walls higher, locking away every part of herself that could feel.
Even if it meant burying the part of her that had loved, once. Even if it meant forgetting how it felt to be wanted.
And pretending, from this moment on, that what happened meant nothing at all.
Jane stepped back into the room, the cold morning air still clinging to her skin.
Bucky was still asleep. She could see the slow rise and fall of his chest, his brow slightly furrowed even in rest, as if his mind never truly stopped running. She didn’t look at him as she crossed the room. She didn’t trust herself to.
She walked straight into the bathroom and shut the door behind her with a quiet finality. She avoided her reflection in the mirror and tugged her dress off quickly, letting it fall in a heap on the floor. The jewelry followed, one by one—the earrings, the bracelet, the necklace—all placed carefully, almost mechanically, on the edge of the sink. Each piece felt like part of a costume she no longer wanted to wear. Then she stepped into the shower and turned the water on without waiting for it to warm. The cold hit her like a slap, but she didn’t flinch.
She stood there, unmoving, as the water soaked her hair and traced down her spine in icy rivulets. She didn’t know how long she stayed like that. Five minutes. Ten. Maybe more. Time blurred under the weight of silence and running water. She wasn’t thinking. That was the goal, to feel nothing. To let the water rinse off the night.
When she finally turned the water off, her skin was numb and flushed red from the cold. She stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself tightly in a towel, her hair dripping steadily onto the tile floor. Her movements were quiet, automatic. She didn’t dry off completely, just enough not to shiver, and when she reached for the doorknob, she hesitated for half a breath before turning it.
When she stepped back into the room Bucky was already awake.
He stood near the dresser, his hair slightly tousled, the same shirt from the night before hanging open over his torso. The fabric was rumpled, and several buttons were missing, leaving it to gape loosely over his chest.
He held a bundle of clean clothes in his arms but didn’t move.
Their eyes met, just for a second. And that was enough.
Jane dropped her gaze instantly, the flush rising unbidden to her cheeks.
Her stomach twisted with the memory. She had been the one to rip those buttons. She had been the one to pull at him like that, desperate and uncontrolled. The sight of it now, the proof, was unbearable.
She turned away, fast, pretending to search for something in the closet. Her hands trembled slightly as they brushed past the hangers. She didn’t want to see him like that.
She could still feel his eyes on her—quiet, unmoving—for just a moment longer. And then, without a word, he stepped away. The bathroom door creaked softly behind him before it clicked shut.
She exhaled. Only then.
No conversation. No confrontation. Just silence. And for that, she was grateful. She didn’t have the strength for words. Not yet.
Jane took her time finishing the packing, folding clothes with meticulous precision that masked the chaos inside her. Then she dressed, slipping into the outfit she’d planned for the day before everything got tangled. It felt stiff now, as if it belonged to someone else. But it did what it needed to do: it made her look composed. At ease.
Soon they would be back with the Vogels. Soon the performances would resume—the polished smiles, the knowing glances, the manipulation wrapped in silk.
And thank God it was almost over.
She was glad the weekend was ending. All that pretending was becoming unbearable. The mission, whether it was a success or a failure, felt secondary now. What she needed more than anything was air. Distance. A few days to breathe, far from this nest of vipers. Far from the eyes that watched too closely. Far from herself.
By the time Bucky emerged from the bathroom, hair damp and shirt newly buttoned, Jane was already standing by the door, her bag slung over one shoulder.
The dining room was already set when they arrived. Morning light filtered through the tall windows, painting the pristine tablecloth in pale gold. The scent of brewed coffee, sweet cream, and warm syrup hung in the air like a delicate veil—pleasant, but distant, like everything in that house. Plates of perfectly arranged pastries and fruit glistened on silver platters. The French toast sat steaming in delicate rows, dusted with powdered sugar and thin slices of caramelized apple. Everything looked curated to perfection, but the two end chairs, where the Count and Countess usually presided, were empty.
Jane noticed immediately. So did Bucky.
A maid, silent and efficient, poured coffee without making eye contact. The only one who spoke was Christian.
“They had to leave,” he said casually. “Business in Paris. Something urgent, apparently. They left during the night.”
Jane didn’t respond. She wasn’t sure what to say. She glanced toward Bucky, who gave the slightest nod in acknowledgment, but his face remained unreadable.
Annalise seated at Christian’s left, dressed in a pale silk blouse, her auburn hair pulled back into a soft twist. She smiled as Jane approached—graceful, polite—but the smile was taut. It lacked the effortless charm she usually wielded like a weapon. Jane couldn’t tell if she was tired or simply done pretending. Maybe both.
“Did you sleep well, my dear?” Annalise asked, her voice warm, but noticeably more brittle than usual.
Jane nodded, reaching for her cup. Annalise was already sipping her own, eyes calm but slightly distant.
“You look lovely this morning.” she continued.
Jane glanced at her with a faint smile. “Thank you. So do you.”
Annalise inclined her head, her earrings catching the light. “It’s the lighting in this room. Very forgiving.”
Jane offered a faint smile and busied herself with the croissant on her plate. Bucky sat quietly beside her, shoulders stiff, eyes trained on his coffee. He didn’t speak, and neither did she. The clink of porcelain was the only sound between them for a couple minutes. Neither of them said anything more. But the performance, however strained, went on.
Annalise continued to sip her coffee and occasionally made comments about the weather, the view, the fruit—but it was clear she was going through the motions. Her usual theatrical ease had dulled, and the practiced warmth she wore like perfume now settled more like a mask slipping out of place.
The breakfast moved forward in silence, each bite a mechanical gesture. The tension hung around the table like fog.
Only Christian seemed untouched.
He sipped from his cup with the same relaxed confidence he’d shown since day one, ate his toast with enthusiasm, and hummed a soft tune under his breath as though nothing had changed. As if Jane hadn’t been humiliated the night before. As if they weren’t all dancing around the edge of something unspoken.
When the meal ended, the staff began clearing the table, and the three of them moved into the grand foyer. Outside, the familiar black car was already waiting at the base of the steps, polished and silent. The same one that had brought them to the estate what felt like a lifetime ago.
Annalise stepped forward first. Her smile returned, softer now. She reached for Jane and drew her into an embrace. Her perfume was the same: heady, floral, expensive.
“It was a pleasure, truly.” she whispered.
Jane returned the gesture with matching precision. “Of course,” she said, her voice calm. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
Then Annalise turned to Bucky, offering him a subtle nod and a faint brush of her hand on his arm, light as a whisper.
Christian stepped forward next, his demeanor bright and open. He extended a hand toward Bucky with enthusiasm.
“My dear friends,” he began, “don’t think for a second that your visit has gone unnoticed, or your intentions ignored. We know you approached us for a reason.”
Jane felt her pulse skip.
Christian’s smile sharpened slightly. “And we would be honored to welcome you to one of our more… exclusive gatherings. We’ll be in touch with the when and the where.”
Jane and Bucky exchanged a glance—quick, but full of understanding. Relief bloomed in Jane’s chest like oxygen.
So that was it. After everything, after the games, the tension, the subtle humiliations, they had made it through. They had been accepted.
Jane exhaled, careful not to make it too obvious.
“We’ll be happy to hear from you,” she said evenly, already turning toward the car. “And to continue this connection—if—”
But Annalise cut her off gently. “No need, my dear. You’ll hear from us when the right time arrives.”
She offered one final nod. “À bientôt.”
With that, the goodbyes were done.
They walked down the steps with their bags slung over their shoulders, a silence stretching between them. The driver opened the door, and Jane climbed in first, immediately pressing herself against the window. The leather was cold against her skin, but familiar. Bucky followed moments later, settling into the opposite side of the bench seat without a word.
The distance between them was palpable. Several inches of space, each one heavy with things unsaid. Jane didn’t dare look at him. She just stared out the window, watching the villa disappear behind them as the car pulled away.
The farther they drove, the easier it was to breathe.
That place had been a cage—beautiful, polished, suffocating. And though she knew the real mission had only just begun, this part was finally over.
They had survived it. Somehow.
She rested her head against the cool glass and let her eyes drift shut.
Maybe she could sleep. Just a little. The road to Paris was long. And for the first time in days, there was nothing to pretend.
Notes:
This chapter was particularly hard to write—not because of the content itself, but because something quite difficult happened in my personal life while I was working on it. It hasn’t been a good time, honestly. I even considered stopping the story altogether. But in the end, I chose to keep going, because writing this fic has been incredibly therapeutic for me. It brings me peace, in its own strange way. So… we move forward.
You probably don’t care about all this, and I’m sorry if I’m boring you—but I’ve started to use these notes as a bit of a journal, so feel free to ignore me.
That being said, this is a pretty pivotal chapter in terms of story development. There’s a shift happening in how Jane sees Bucky. Beyond the hatred, beyond the anger… something else is starting to surface. And there was the first kiss—one that wasn’t part of the act. So yeah, things are shifting. I hope I managed to convey it properly without going too over the top.
And yes, I know I’m making Jane cry all the time, she’s a lot. She feels everything very deeply. She yells, she cries, she breaks things. That’s just who she is. She’s emotional, impulsive, passionate—Italian, like me—so it makes sense, I promise.
Luckily, Bucky balances her out. He’s more restrained, more grounded. But the truth is… they’re not that different. They process pain in similar ways. Maybe that’s the one thing that truly connects them: the unresolved parts, the scars they carry. But I’ll let the story speak for itself on that front.
Oh, and there’s a small scene with Tony, mainly because I missed them. I just needed to write them again. It’s not super relevant plot-wise, but it made me feel better.
I hope you enjoyed the chapter. And if you did… kudos are always quick and easy, and they genuinely make my day. Especially today.
If you feel like sharing your thoughts about the story, about where it’s going, about what’s working or not, I’d love to hear from you. Constructive criticism is always welcome. Talking about this story helps keep my mind off other things right now, so really… thank you if you’ll decide to leave a comment.
Sending you all a big hug. Hope you’re having a good week, and I’ll see you in the next one. ❤️
xx
Chapter 14: Past and present
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It was late afternoon, and a muted pinkish light spilled across the hotel suite, casting long, slanted shadows on the wooden floor and glinting off the glass edges of the coffee table. The same room they’d stayed in before the weekend with the Vogel, but it felt subtly different now. Like the air carried a different weight.
As soon as they arrived back in Paris, they had both changed into something more comfortable, something that didn’t cling to memories or to tension. The silence between them had been almost suffocating, so it had felt easier, more neutral, to focus on practical things. Jane had slipped into soft black pants and a sleeveless top, her hair pulled up, a few strands already falling free. Bucky had vanished into the bathroom for several minutes before reemerging in a clean t-shirt and dark jeans. They didn’t speak. Instead, they’d agreed wordlessly to call Clint to update him on what the Vogels had said, to at least keep moving forward with the mission. Something concrete. Something safe.
Jane had spent the entire drive back from the countryside pretending not to exist. She’d fallen asleep quickly in the car, body curled against the window, her face turned away. And when she woke up, she made sure he didn’t notice.
Pretending was easier than speaking. Pretending meant she didn’t have to confront the echo of the night before, didn’t have to face the way his presence had burned against her skin or the way she didn’t want it to stop. Now, with the safety of feigned sleep gone, the silence among them felt sharper. Thinner. Like a thread stretched too tight.
Tiny tongues of flame danced at the tips of her fingers. Brief, flickering sparks that flared to life and vanished just as quickly . She wasn’t trying to do anything with them. It was a distraction. A way to stall her thoughts, keep her focus on something that didn’t ask for answers. Every time the fire flared, it cast a warm glow across her skin. Then it was gone again.
Bucky was close, sitting half-reclined on the bed, long legs stretched out in front of him. He was on speakerphone with Clint. “They said they’ll be in touch soon about the auction,” he said. “So I guess we made some kind of impression. Built enough trust. They’re strange people, but… I think we passed whatever test that was.”
His voice was calm, but Jane could feel his occasional glances toward her, as if checking whether she was still breathing. She didn’t meet his eyes.
From the phone came Clint’s voice, slightly distorted but still unmistakably his. “Good. That’s really good. Now you need to switch gears. From here on out, you need to be visible. Go out. Be seen. Hit the places their circle frequents. Be loud about your wealth. Look young, rich, in love. Make it believable.”
Jane gave a soft snort, barely audible. Bucky glanced her way but kept listening.
“There’s a dinner reservation tonight,” Clint continued. “High-end place downtown. One of those restaurants Christian and his circle are known to frequent. We pulled some strings and got your names on the list. It’s a good opportunity to be seen. Be there at 7. Blend in. Make it look like you belong.”
Jane rolled her eyes slightly, the fire at her fingertips briefly intensifying. Without looking up, she muttered, “ I’ve already asked you. Just give me the phone. Let me talk to him.”
“Hang on,” Bucky murmured. “He’s still giving me details.”
Jane glanced sideways, then narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, well, I need to talk to him now.”
Clint’s voice crackled through the speaker again. “Alright, alright. Barnes, hand it over.”
Bucky obeyed with a sigh. Jane snatched it from him, hit the button to take it off speaker, and stood abruptly. The soft fabric of her loose pants whispered against her skin as she crossed the suite’s sitting area, her bare feet making no sound on the floor.
“Clint?” she said, voice low.
“Yeah. I’m here. Something wrong?”
“No. I mean… no. Everything’s fine.” She hesitated. “Well, fine is a big word. I didn’t think they’d actually invite us. I thought we blew it.”
There was a pause. Then Clint replied, steady and warm. “It’s your first op. Things are going well. You’re still in it, that’s what matters. Just remember: when you get word about the auction location, you report in. We’ll back you however we can.”
Jane nodded to herself, but her voice was quieter now. “Yeah. Of course.”
She glanced back toward the bed. Bucky was watching her again. His gaze wasn’t unkind—just present. Still, she took a few more steps toward the far side of the suite, keeping her voice lower.
“Are you home?” she asked suddenly. “Did they let you go home after you left us?”
There was a beat of silence. Then Clint replied, and Jane could almost hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah. They let me go. I’m home. Everything’s fine.”
Her shoulders eased, just slightly. She smiled too, a quiet thing. “I’m glad. I’m really glad you’re back.”
“But then,” she added, “why are you still handling us? Shouldn’t they pass it to someone else?”
“Maybe,” Clint said with a dry chuckle. “But I don’t mind. Feels like some boring desk job now. Remote work. Besides, I want to know how it’s going.”
Jane laughed under her breath. “You wanna know how I’m doing, daddy?”
Clint sighed dramatically. “You want me to transfer you to Fury? Is that what you want?”
“God, no.” Jane said quickly, almost recoiling at the thought. “Every time he talks to me, something awful follows. No, thanks.”
She grew quiet for a second, then added more softly, “Clint… even if the mission is going forward, even if this means we’re actually getting somewhere… I’ve been thinking, and… I don’t know if I—”
Clint didn’t let her finish. “If that is your place?”
She didn’t answer.
“I saw you out there. I saw what you’re capable of. And I read the report about your last mission in New York. You saved those kids, Jane. I know undercover work isn’t easy, and I know that working with…” he paused, his voice dropping a fraction, “with him… isn’t easy either. But you’re doing good. Really good.”
Jane blinked, taken aback by the gentleness in his tone. A corner of her mouth lifted, more in surprise than amusement.
“Damn,” she said, still smiling. “Not used to hearing you like this. Is that really Clint Barton talking? Maybe going home made you soft.”
Clint gave a quiet, almost reluctant laugh. “You might be right.”
Then, more firmly: “But I mean it. You’re doing good, Jane.”
Her throat tightened. She felt it like a knot behind her collarbone. Her eyes burned suddenly, stinging with the weight of everything she was holding back. She wanted to cry. She really did. But she knew Bucky was watching her, and even with her back to him, she couldn’t give in.
So with a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “Okay. We’ll update you as soon as we know anything.”
“Good,” Clint replied. “Talk soon. And Jane—”
“Wait,” she interrupted. “One last thing.”
She paused, biting her lip. “You haven’t been back to New York, right? So you haven’t seen Peter?”
“No,” Clint said. “I haven’t. But the kid’s okay. I’ve still got access to some of Fury’s databases. I’ve been reading Stark’s latest reports.”
Jane closed her eyes.
“Tony’s keeping an eye on him,” Clint continued. “I was in New York for you , Jane. After you left, I didn’t really have a reason to stay. But Peter… he’s Stark’s responsibility now.”
There was a beat. Then Clint added, “Stark’s reports are solid. The kid’s doing fine. Apparently had a recent run-in with some bird-themed lunatic. Vulture, or whatever. But he handled it. He’s tough. Stronger than you’d think for someone his age.”
Jane smiled faintly, biting the inside of her cheek. Peter. God, she missed him. But knowing he was safe helped.
“Thanks, Clint.” she said. “Really. Talk soon.”
“Anytime.”
The call ended.
Jane stayed there for a moment, eyes shut, exhaling slowly through her nose. She blinked hard, steadying herself, and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Then she turned back toward the bedroom.
Bucky had settled deeper into the mattress, pretending to be absorbed in a book. Persuasion , by Jane Austen. Of all things. He must’ve brought it back from the Vogels’ house. His thumb brushed the edge of the page, but his eyes were definitely on her.
She didn’t say anything. Neither did he.
The tension between them was still there.
Jane felt the need to keep herself busy. Anything to stay in motion, to distract her hands, her thoughts. Just to avoid the weight of his gaze, the way it made her heartbeat flicker unevenly in her chest. So she crossed to the far side of the room, to the tall armoire near the foot of the bed, pretending to be occupied with its contents. The doors creaked softly as she pulled them open. Inside, her clothes were still neatly arranged. More neatly than she remembered leaving them, which made her pause for half a second. Then she shook the thought away and started rifling through them.
She needed to pick something for the dinner Clint had mentioned earlier. Her fingers skimmed across a row of fabrics: silks, chiffons, light knits. She stopped on a dress she hadn’t worn yet. Shorter than most of the others, it fell above the knee in a playful, almost flirtatious cut. Midnight blue, with thin straps and a delicate sweetheart neckline, the bodice hugged the torso before flaring slightly at the waist. Elegant, but not too formal. Something she could imagine wearing to a place where Christian Vogel and his clique might casually spend a Thursday night sipping overpriced wine and exchanging smug glances.
She was still holding the dress when Bucky’s voice cut through the air behind her.
“Did Clint tell you the name of the restaurant?”
She froze with her back to him, one hand clutching the hanger.
Her eyes narrowed at the inside of the wardrobe.
Shit.
“No,” she admitted, tone clipped. “I forgot to ask.”
She didn’t turn. Didn’t have to. She could already picture the look on his face. That tiny crease between his brows, that silent I-knew-it he wouldn’t say out loud.
“That’s why I asked you to wait,” he said, and this time there was a hint of something under the surface. Not anger, not really, but definite annoyance. “He was still giving me information.”
Jane clenched her jaw but kept her voice even. “I got distracted.”
She tugged the dress from the rack and turned slightly toward him. The expression she gave him wasn’t apologetic, but it wasn’t combative either. Just tired.
“You can always call him back,” she added, lifting one shoulder. “It’s not like I did it on purpose.”
He didn’t answer right away. She didn’t wait for him to.
Scooping up a pair of heels, a silver cuff bracelet, and the compact with her lipstick and communicator chip, she made her way to the bathroom. She closed the door behind her with a soft click, resting her back against it for a second before letting her shoulders drop.
The silence on the other side of the door felt just as heavy, but in here, at least, she could breathe.
She exhaled slowly, pushing a hand through her hair and glancing at her reflection in the mirror without really seeing it. The makeshift bun she’d thrown together earlier had collapsed into a disheveled mess.
She frowned faintly and reached for her brush and the hotel hairdryer.
It was mechanical, at first. Start at the roots, work through the knots. But soon the repetition became something more deliberate. She parted her hair carefully, fixing the ends into soft spirals that framed her face just enough.
Her makeup bag sat open on the counter, like a quiet dare.
She reached for the lipstick first. Deep dark red, the kind she usually avoided. And yet, this time, she uncapped it and traced the color across her lips with a hand that only trembled slightly.
She’d done this before. Countless times, across countless years.
Getting ready had always been a ritual of necessity. Another mask to wear, another time to blend into, another version of herself to inhabit just long enough to get the job done. In the fifteenth century, she’d learned to lace corsets with trembling hands. In the nineteenth, she’d powdered her face in candlelight. During the war, she’d painted red over fear and slipped into silk she hadn’t earned. Again and again, she’d transformed. Sometimes for safety, sometimes for power, but always for survival.
Beauty, for her, had never been about being seen. It had been about being believable .
Convincing. Appropriate. Strategic. Her appearance was a weapon, and she’d wielded it as such, tailoring it to the needs of the moment, to the expectations of the time.
But this time felt different.
The way she moved, the way she adjusted every detail of her appearance without even thinking about it, betrayed something more personal.
She wasn’t dressing for a role this time. Not entirely.
She told herself it was still about the mission, about keeping the cover intact, about projecting confidence and luxury and elegance for the dinner ahead. And maybe that was true.
But as she curled her lashes, as she smoothed the shimmer across her eyelids, as she swept the brush along her cheekbones with almost meditative focus, she realized there was a quiet care to it that didn’t feel rehearsed.
When she reached for the hem of her top to change, her hands slowed. She pulled the fabric upward carefully, sliding it off her torso, and for a moment her fingers lingered on her shoulder.
And there it was. The memory struck like a spark.
His hand on her shoulder. The way he’d grabbed the strap of her dress with the urgency of someone who knew the moment could disappear if he didn’t act. It had slipped down her arm fast, too fast, and then his fingers had been on her waist, splaying wide, pulling her into him like he couldn’t stand the space between them. There’d been no prelude, no restraint. Just heat. Skin against skin. Her breath catching as his mouth found hers again, her spine arching into the pressure of his body like her nerves had bypassed thought entirely. His metal hand had gripped her hip, steadying her, holding her in place. His other hand had tangled in her hair, too hard maybe, but she hadn’t cared. She’d wanted that friction, that contact, that desperate affirmation that something about her was still real. Still wanted .
She bit her lower lip now, teeth digging into the soft flesh as the memory surged forward like a wave crashing against her chest.
What the hell is wrong with you?
Her heart stuttered.
She turned away from the mirror sharply, squeezing her eyes shut like that could erase the image, the feel, the sound of his breath in her ear.
“You’re pathetic.”
The word tasted bitter in her mouth. And yet, beneath it, her pulse still raced. She exhaled sharply, squeezing her eyes shut.
She peeled off the rest of her clothes in a rush, her movements sharp, almost spiteful. Each piece landed in a careless heap on the floor. Her skin still tingled in the places he had touched. The feeling sent a flush up her neck, and with it, a wave of frustration. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed the dress and slipped into it, yanking the fabric into place with a force that mirrored the chaos beneath her ribs.
It was a deep, inky shade of midnight blue, almost black under the bathroom lights. The neckline dipped in a subtle V, and the fabric hugged her waist before flaring slightly over her hips. It wasn’t vulgar, but it was close enough to make her hesitate.
She turned side to side in the mirror, frowning.
Her heels were already waiting near the door. Silver, strappy, elegant. She slipped them on one foot at a time, tightening the thin ankle straps. On her wrist, she fastened the silver cuff Clint had given her for the mission. Contained an emergency beacon in case anything went wrong. She added the long, slender earrings: polished steel with a glint of violet at the tips.
She studied herself one last time. A quiet bitterness rose in her chest.
Whore.
A man touches you once and now you’re here—heels, lipstick, dressing up like it means something.
She hadn’t thought it would feel like this. She hadn’t thought she would feel like this.
How could she? How could she let this happen— with him ?
She knew what he’d done. Who he was. Who she had become because of it.
He was a monster. And maybe she wasn’t so different. Not anymore. Something altered. Something shaped by grief and time and ruin.
Two unnatural, monstrous creatures. That was the truth no one wanted to say aloud.
She’d done damage too. Had broken things she couldn’t fix. Had gone too far, too many times. She’d crossed every line she used to hold sacred. Maybe that was why it had happened. Maybe that’s why her hands had reached for him in the dark.
But none of that made this less wrong. It didn’t erase what he’d taken from her. What he had taken from Tony.
And yet she’d stood there last night, mouth on his, body pressed into his like it belonged.
She could tell herself it had been adrenaline. Chaos. Desperation. Something unthinking.
But that didn’t explain why she was trembling now. Why her palms were sweating like this.
She had spent years untouched. Willingly. Closed off. She had decided she wouldn’t let anyone in again, not fully, not after what she had lost. Not after the choices she’d made.
So why now?
It felt grotesque. It felt like betrayal. Not just to Tony, but to herself. To all the versions of her that had survived to be here.
And still, here she was. Unable to think, to breathe.
She leaned forward against the sink, knuckles white, and bowed her head. The reflection in the mirror shimmered, warped ever so slightly. As though it, too, wanted to look away from her.
She didn’t need to say it aloud. She already knew.
Disgusting.
That’s what she was.
She suddenly reached for the towel beside the sink, rolled it tightly between her hands like it was something she needed to squeeze the air out of, then brought it to her mouth. With short, sharp swipes, she removed the red from her lips, stripping away the color until all that was left was bare skin. No drama. No ceremony. Just the quiet rejection of something that suddenly felt ridiculous.
A knock on the bathroom door jolted her.
“Jane?” came Bucky’s voice, muffled but clear. “I don’t want to rush you, but the car’s already downstairs. Reception just called.”
She flinched, turning back to the door.
A ridiculous part of her wanted to hide again. But it was late.
She gave herself one more glance. One more breath.
Then she crossed the room, opened the door. And stopped.
He was there, waiting just outside, smartly dressed.
His hair was slicked back, the lines of his face marked by the golden light filtering from the windows, those pale blue eyes sharpened by contrast.
He was watching her, carefully, with a stillness that made it hard to hold his gaze.
His eyes didn’t linger anywhere inappropriate. Not exactly.
But it moved. From her face, to her collarbone, to the line of the dress along her hips. And then back again.
She felt it.
The heat in her chest. The way her fingers curled slightly at her sides.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, forcing her voice to sound casual. It wasn’t.
Bucky blinked, like he was waking from something.
He shook his head, just once.
“No….” he said, hesitating. “Everything’s fine. We can go.”
But his voice was different. Rougher than usual. And she noticed the way his hand lingered a little too long at the cuff of his sleeve, as if giving himself something to do.
She nodded, stepped past him.
They didn’t speak again as they made their way out of the suite, but the silence between them carried weight.
Not resentment. Not exactly tension. Something in between. Something that sparked when he glanced sideways at her and she looked quickly away—that lingered in the space between their arms, close but not touching. It hummed like electricity just beneath the surface of everything.
The car ride was silent, but mercifully short.
The confined space had felt almost suffocating. Jane kept her eyes on the city beyond the window, tracing the neon reflections in the glass, counting the flickering lights in an effort to anchor herself to something. Every time Bucky shifted beside her, even slightly, she felt her muscles tighten.
When they arrived at the restaurant, the relief was palpable. At least here, among strangers and the dull clatter of silverware and glass, they wouldn’t have to be alone together in such… limited space.
The restaurant was ostentatious in a way that didn’t need to try. Polished marble floors, velvet seats in deep jewel tones, golden light that pooled like honey over every surface. A piano played softly in the background, barely audible beneath the low murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of cutlery.
A hostess greeted them at the entrance with a practiced smile.
“Bonsoir. Your name, please?”
Bucky stepped forward, his voice smooth. “Benjamin and Catherine Young. We have a reservation.”
The hostess consulted a slim tablet, then nodded with a polite smile. “Of course, Mr. Young. Right this way.”
They were led to one of the best tables in the place. It was set slightly apart from the others, near a large window that offered a view of the glowing terrace outside, where hanging lights flickered gently in the breeze.
Bucky pulled out her chair. It was a small thing, but it made her stomach knot.
Jane sat with careful precision, murmuring a vague thank-you as she avoided his eyes. Her posture was stiff, her hands folded too tightly in her lap.
Across from her, Bucky looked more composed, but Jane noticed the way his jaw flexed when he thought she wasn’t looking. The way he tapped his thumb once against his glass and then stopped. He was nervous. Not obviously, not like her, but it was there.
A waiter arrived to deliver their menus, followed closely by a sommelier.
“May I suggest a wine to begin the evening?”
Jane barely glanced up. She already felt off-balance, her thoughts too scattered to consider alcohol.
“Something red,” Bucky said, his voice low, calm. “Medium to full-bodied.”
The sommelier nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps a Saint-Émilion Grand Cru, 2014. Rich, but smooth. Pairs well with most entrées.”
Bucky inclined his head. “That sounds good.”
Jane hadn’t turned a single page of the menu. She stared at it, her fingers resting lightly against the spine, unmoving. Bucky watched her for a beat, then leaned forward slightly.
“Not hungry?”
She hesitated. Then, “Not exactly.”
He didn’t push. Instead, he glanced down at his own menu, scanned it quickly, and set it aside.
“Do you want me to order for you?”
She didn’t respond but didn’t protest either. Just nodded once, her shoulders still too tight.
The sommelier returned with the bottle and uncorked it with quiet confidence, pouring a taste into Bucky’s glass.
He sipped, then nodded.
But before the man could continue, Bucky lifted a hand with an easy, polite gesture.
“It’s alright, leave it to me.” he said, reaching for the bottle himself.
The sommelier gave a courteous nod and disappeared between the tables, leaving behind the quiet weight of their table for two.
Bucky leaned forward and tilted the bottle toward her glass.
Before the wine could touch the rim, Jane’s hand came up, steady, covering it.
“You said I shouldn’t.”
Her tone wasn’t harsh. But there was something buried in it. A flicker of resentment. She remembered too well the way he had told her, with that even voice of his, that it was better she didn’t drink. That it clouded judgment. That she needed to be sharp. Present.
She wasn’t sure what had hurt more—that he was right, or that he’d said it.
Bucky held her gaze. Then gave a faint smile. “One glass won’t hurt anyone.”
She didn’t answer, only let him finish pouring.
Around them, conversations buzzed. Laughter. Silverware clinking against porcelain. Jane scanned the room with quiet precision, searching for familiar faces. But for the moment, it seemed clear. No one from the Vogel villa. No watching eyes. Just people eating and drinking.
She took a sip of wine. It was smooth, rich, a little earthy. Her fingers trembled slightly as she set the glass back down.
She adjusted the hem of her dress again, suddenly self-conscious. The fabric felt too tight across her stomach. The neckline too exposed.
She tugged it slightly, not that it made much of a difference. Across the table, Bucky hadn’t said anything, but she could feel his eyes flicking toward her and then away again. As if unsure where to look. As if the silence between them had become too sharp to ignore.
A waiter approached, notepad in hand, smile professional. “Are you ready to order, monsieur, madame?”
Bucky spoke first. “Yes.” He reached for both menus and passed them to the waiter in a single motion. “I’ll have the steak.”
He hesitated for a second before continuing.
“And for her… the pasta with truffle and sage.”
Jane blinked, surprised. She hadn’t expected him to choose something so specific. But she didn’t argue. She didn’t say anything at all.
The waiter nodded, collected the menus, and disappeared without a sound.
Bucky shifted slightly in his seat, drumming his fingers once against the base of his wine glass. “I read in the file Barton gave me that you’re Italian.” he said eventually, not quite meeting her eyes. “I thought… well… figured that might be something you liked.”
Jane lifted her gaze, just for a moment. “Sure. That’s fine.” she said. Then looked away again, letting her eyes skim the restaurant. The other guests. The glimmer of candlelight on wine glasses. Anything but him.
Bucky gave a quiet sigh. He picked up his glass, let the wine swirl lazily within it, hesitating on the edge of a breath. Then he said it.
“You know… things don’t have to change.”
Jane’s expression didn’t shift, but her voice was clipped when she replied, “Nothing’s changed.”
He shook his head, slowly. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just… I don’t want to make this harder than it already is. I won’t get close again. I promise you, Jane.”
His voice was low. Quiet. Like he meant it.
Jane’s throat tightened. She stared at the flickering candle between them, the melted wax pooling at its base, her hands clasped too tightly in her lap.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said after a moment. Her voice was quieter, now. Less certain. “What happened… it was a mistake.”
Bucky’s jaw twitched, and for a second, he didn’t move. Then he nodded. A single, small movement. “You hate me. I get it. But—”
“I don’t—” she began, but he cut her off.
“You do,” he said. “And you should. If I were you, I’d feel the same.”
There was no bitterness in his tone. Just a dull, exhausted honesty that struck deeper than she expected. A kind of self-hatred that had grown roots. His eyes were somewhere else now, unfocused, turned slightly toward the darkened window beside them. As if he couldn’t bear to look at her while saying it.
“I don’t want to talk about this.” That was what she really meant to say before he interrupted her. But now, he would never know.
“Too bad.” His reply came without venom, without heat. Just a fact, dropped between them like a stone.
He took another slow sip of wine before setting the glass down with deliberate care. “When we leave for the auction, it’s going to be harder. We’ll be in deeper. Closer. We don’t know who’s already there. What’s waiting for us. We need to actually work together this time. For real.”
Jane’s spine stiffened. Her voice, when it came, was edged with something colder. “I know what has to be done. I’ve always known. I did everything that was asked of me before, and I’ll do it again now. Don’t worry about that.”
Her eyes flicked up, meeting his. “I won’t let personal mistakes get in the way.”
Before Bucky could reply, two waiters approached with a flourish. Dishes were placed in front of them with practiced elegance. A small nod, a murmured “bon appétit,” and then they were gone, swallowed back into the ambient hum of the restaurant.
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Jane stared at the steam rising from her plate, the way the pasta glistened faintly beneath the drizzle of truffle oil. She didn’t reach for her fork. Her appetite had vanished.
Across from her, Bucky shifted again. His fingers toyed with the base of his glass, but he didn’t drink. Not yet.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. And in that stillness, Jane felt something twist inside her. Shame. Anger. Confusion. She couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began.
She had told herself that it didn’t matter. That she was in control. That the night before had been an anomaly. A crack in the surface. Nothing more. But the way her chest still tightened when he looked at her made everything harder.
And now here they were, in an elegant restaurant with expensive food and polished manners, pretending to be something they weren’t. Pretending that the mission was all that mattered.
Jane reached for her wine and took a sip, just to keep her hands busy.
She was about to set the glass down when she felt it—his hand, warm and steady, closing gently around her free one.
The contact startled her. Not in a dramatic way, not enough to make her gasp. But something inside her recoiled, or maybe flickered. She wasn’t sure. She turned her head slowly, confused, her brows drawing together in a silent question. What was he doing?
Then he brought her hand to his lips.
It was smooth, delicate. He turned her palm slightly, took her fingers in his, and kissed each knuckle one by one. The motion was gentle, almost reverent. His breath brushed her skin, hot and soft all at once, sending a fine current of shivers down the length of her spine.
Her lips parted, uncertain, confused by her own reaction. It wasn’t like the night before. It wasn’t frantic or impulsive or fuelled by anger. This was something else. And she didn’t know what to do with it.
Before she could say anything, before she could move, Bucky lifted his eyes to meet hers and murmured calmly, almost casually, as if they were talking about the weather.
“They’re behind you. Don’t turn.”
Her chest tightened for a different reason now. “The Vogels?”
“No. Christian’s old private tutor. And her husband. We met them the first night at the Vogels’.”
Jane’s stomach turned cold. She remembered the woman clearly now. The quiet judgment in her posture, the way she’d observed rather than participated, like someone measuring a performance.
She let out a slow breath, glancing down at the table. “They’re watching us?”
“They have been for a while. Took me a minute to recognize them. The light’s different in here.”
And so she did what she was supposed to. She leaned slightly forward, allowed herself to smile, something small and private, and let him kiss the top of her hand again, this time slower. He didn’t rush it.
She gave another small nod, murmured, “Maybe we should go talk to them.”
He didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was soft, amused. “Later. Not now. It’d look off. Let them watch.”
Let them watch.
She hated how easily he slid into the part. How natural it seemed. Like it cost him nothing to pretend this way, to touch her this way. Like he didn’t feel it.
Like she wasn’t still shaken.
After a moment, she gently withdrew her hand from his. It was subtle, polite even, but deliberate. Her palm now felt warm where his lips had been, and she curled her fingers into her lap, hiding them beneath the tablecloth. She didn’t want him to see the way they were shaking.
The tremor was worse now. More visible. And she hated that.
She turned her attention back to her plate, but the food—perfectly plated, beautifully aromatic—now seemed uninviting. Her appetite had evaporated. Her mouth was dry. She took a sip of wine, if only to give her body something to do, some excuse for why she wasn’t speaking.
Across from her, Bucky had resumed eating. Slowly. Without pressure. As if nothing had happened.
She envied that quiet stillness of his. That control.
And yet… she’d felt it. Even if for just a moment. He hadn’t been unaffected. His pulse had jumped, she had felt it when his lips trembled, just barely, when they’d closed around her fingers. He wasn’t immune. But he hid it well.
And now she sat there, pretending to chew, pretending to listen to the sounds of forks and crystal and low conversation, pretending to enjoy the illusion they’d built together.
Dinner went on.
Jane forced herself to eat, pushing small bites past the dry tightness in her throat. Bucky, across from her, kept smiling. Talking. Keeping up the façade with casual remarks and soft nods, answering the waiter’s occasional questions with easy charm. But it was all a performance. His jaw tensed more often than it should have. His fingers fidgeted against the edge of his wine glass.
It didn’t take long before the couple approached.
The plates had already been cleared, and Jane had just set her napkin aside when she felt the shift in air beside the table. That familiar voice spoke first. Smooth, refined, just a hint too warm.
“We thought we recognized you. I hope we’re not interrupting.”
Jane looked up, and there she was. Mrs. Strauss, dressed in a sleek black gown, a string of pearls tight against her throat. Her husband, a stately man with silver at his temples and a practiced politician’s smile, stood at her side.
“Oh no, Mrs. Strauss, not at all.” Jane said with a calm she didn’t feel. Her voice sounded steady, even to her own surprise. “It’s lovely to see you again.”
“It’s been a while.” Bucky added smoothly, setting his glass down with a nod. “Quite a while, in fact.”
“Well said.” Mr. Strauss chimed in. “The Vogels told us you spent the weekend with them. Said it was delightful. And that we’ll be seeing more of you very soon… for business, I suppose.”
That was the first real signal.
Jane and Bucky exchanged a quick glance, one of those silent exchanges that said everything. The word had begun to circulate. Their presence at the Vogels’ estate was no longer isolated or discreet. It had been acknowledged, passed around, accepted. That was progress. That was what they needed.
“We’d love to meet up sometime for a coffee, perhaps?” Jane asked lightly.
“Oh no, dear.” The man interjected gently, as if correcting a child. “Best to wait until after the Vogels’ gathering, I’d think. And then, of course, we’ll see each other as often as we please.”
“We didn’t mean to intrude. Just wanted to say hello.” Mrs Strauss placed a bejeweled hand gently on Jane’s shoulder. Fingertips cold, somehow, despite the warmth of the room. “You’re one of us now.”
Jane smiled, lips tight, then nodded. “Thank you. We appreciate it.”
With a few more polite goodbyes and restrained smiles, the Strausses drifted back into the golden-lit sea of tables.
As soon as they were gone, Bucky leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice. “That’s the second time someone’s said it would be better not to meet before the auction. Remember what the Vogels told us?”
Jane nodded slowly, her fingers now laced in her lap, tense. “Yeah. It’s starting to sound like a rule. Maybe for security reasons. They’re probably worried someone’s being followed. Or bugged.”
“Paranoia.” Bucky muttered, but there was no judgment in his tone. Just awareness.
Then he stood up. “Shall we?”
Jane hesitated, then pushed her chair back and rose to her feet.
He stepped beside her, reaching out her hand.
Her fingers hovered in the air for a second too long. Then, reluctantly, she gave him hers. Together, hand in hand, they crossed the restaurant floor with the kind of practiced grace expected of a wealthy, affectionate couple.
At the entrance, their server handed Bucky the bill. He paid without hesitation, murmured a quiet thanks, and guided Jane toward the doors.
Outside, the night had cooled. A faint breeze stirred the trees along the avenue. Their driver stood waiting in the parking lot, already holding the rear door open.
Neither of them said a word as they climbed into the car.
The silence returned, pressing in around them like a second skin. Dense and uncomfortable.
Only the sound of the engine and the occasional flicker of passing headlights broke the quiet.
Jane folded her hands in her lap again, Bucky kept his gaze fixed on the window beside him.
They sat like that the entire drive. Not speaking. Not touching.
Later that night, once they’d returned to the hotel, they’d both changed out of their dinner clothes, shedding the final remnants of that performance. The illusion of ease, of wealth, of seduction—all stripped away. Jane had scrubbed off her makeup in the bathroom mirror until only the raw, unfiltered version of herself remained. Her skin looked pale under the vanity lights, her eyes hollowed out by exhaustion. She had slipped into her nightgown and sat on the edge of the bed, back straight, hands loosely clasped in her lap. She didn’t know if she was waiting or stalling.
When Bucky finally emerged from the bathroom, with damp hair and wrinkled tank top, he looked different too. Still himself, but quieter somehow. Less spy, more man.
He paused at the edge of the room, standing beside the bed where she already sat. His hesitation was palpable, thick in the air. He didn’t move right away. He didn’t assume.
“Are you sure this is okay?” he asked quietly, his voice low and hesitant.
His eyes met hers, steady and searching. Not pressing, but still impossibly difficult to look into. Jane felt her breath catch, just a little. Then, She nodded.
Not because she was sure or because she wanted him there. But because the alternative—a night on edge, hearing him toss and turn on the couch—felt somehow worse.
Bucky took the cue. He moved slowly, crossing to the other side of the bed, and pulled back the covers. There was something unnerving in how careful he was. As if he were afraid he might break something just by existing in her space.
He lay down on his side, facing away from her. Jane did the same.
The room was dark now, lit only by the city glow creeping in around the edges of the curtains. Jane stared at the wall, willing herself not to think. Not to feel. But she could hear his breathing. Slow. Even. Purposeful.
And despite everything, there was something oddly comforting about it. Something she wanted to pretend didn’t affect her. Even if it did.
Her body, drained from the evening’s tension, began to give in. She exhaled, long and steady, and let the sound of his breathing anchor her in the stillness. She focused only on the rhythm of air moving in and out of his chest, and the faint hum of distant traffic below.
And in that dim quiet, just for a moment, Jane let herself believe she was safe.
____
The snow was blinding. A pale, endless sheet of white that swallowed sound and thought. Jane crawled through it on hands and knees, each movement clumsy and slow, her limbs half-frozen and uncooperative. Her throat burned, raw and ragged like she’d been screaming for hours. She could taste blood at the back of her mouth, metallic and sour. It coated her tongue and made her stomach churn.
She had no idea how she was still alive. No idea what had exploded from her hands back there in the clearing. Light, or energy, or maybe just raw panic, but it had bought her a few seconds. Seconds she had wasted crawling toward nowhere.
Her palms sank deeper into the snow. Her breath came in shallow gasps, steaming in the cold air. She didn’t dare look behind her. Didn’t want to know if the Winter Soldier was still following, if he’d seen what she was capable of, what she couldn’t yet control.
Then, the snow blinked out like a shattered bulb, and suddenly she was running barefoot across soft grass. Morning air brushed her skin. The scent of jasmine clung to her hair. She was wearing a thin nightgown, cotton or silk, she couldn’t tell. But she could feel the wind nip at her knees and the back of her neck.
There was laughter behind her. Familiar. Joyful. Then arms wrapped around her from behind. Strong and warm.
“I’ve got things to do today, you need to let me go.” she gasped out, laughing.
“No.” came the voice. Low. Playful.
Tony.
His nose touched the back of her head as he pulled her closer. “This morning, you’re mine. I’m not letting go.”
She turned, half-laughing, half-protesting—but the second their eyes met, the smile faded. His face was close. Too close.
She leaned in…
And the world shifted.
Now she was sitting up straight. Cold. Numb.
An empty hospital room stretched out around her, sterile and washed in fluorescent light. She looked down and found a paper in her hand. Crinkled. She could barely read the text, her eyes wouldn’t focus. But her name was there, and the words spontaneous abortion printed just below.
The pain bloomed again, not just in her chest this time but in her lower belly, a phantom ache she remembered too well. Cramping that had left her bent double on the floor, clutching her stomach and whispering “please, please, please” even though it was already too late.
She hadn’t told him. Tony didn’t know.
She folded the paper, her fingers trembling, and when she blinked—
She was outside.
The porch creaked under her feet. Wind rustled the trees. In front of her stood a man in uniform.
He smiled. Not the confident smirk of someone used to admiration, but something softer. Something kind.
One gloved hand lifted to brush her cheek, a featherlight touch. He leaned forward, slowly, reverently.
But then the sky behind him turned dark. The wind stopped. And his eyes, so kind a moment ago, went cold.
His hand tightened.
The mask fell into place. The long, wet hair clung to his face. The metal arm gleamed in the moonlight. And then his hands, those terrible hands, were around her neck. Squeezing.
She kicked and clawed. Her lungs screamed for air. Her vision tunneled into blackness.
He didn’t let go.
Jane woke with a jolt, her fingers clenched tightly in the sheets. Sweat soaked the back of her neck, her temples.
The room was dark, but not completely. Pale light from the city beyond the window slipped in through the gap in the curtains, painting silver lines across the floor.
It took her several seconds to remember where she was. The hotel. The mission.
Not the snow. Not the porch.
Bucky lay beside her, his breathing slow and even.
Jane pressed a hand to her throat. It didn’t hurt, but the phantom memory of his hands lingered there.
“You’re not sleeping.”
His voice broke the silence.
Jane didn’t flinch, but her fingers curled just slightly against the edge of the mattress.
“Neither are you.” she replied without turning her head.
“Old habits.” he murmured, tone softer now.
“Same.”
For a long moment, they said nothing else. They just laid there, two still shapes outlined by the glow of a city that never really stopped. The air in the room felt heavier now, as if their breaths were enough to tilt the balance.
Jane could feel him. Not touching her, not even close, but there. Present. Aware.
And she didn’t know why she spoke. Didn’t understand the mechanism that pushed the words from her lips, as if they’d been crouching in her throat, waiting for the right crack in her armor to slip through.
“I had a dream,” she said at last, the words small but firm. “It wasn’t good.”
“Me too.”
And that was all.
She could’ve asked. Could’ve opened the floodgates. Could’ve told him what she saw—snow and blood, laughter and death. She could’ve asked what he dreamed about. If it was the war. If it was the faces. If it was her.
But she didn’t. Because that would’ve been too much.
Too much for this narrow distance between them, too much for the way the night had softened everything, made it fragile. Their voices felt too close, as if wrapped around each other like vines in the dark. And she was still shaking on the inside, even if her body had gone still. Still trying to erase those pale eyes staring down at her as his hands closed around her throat in the snow.
She kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling, where shadows danced like phantoms across the plaster. She didn’t dare turn her head. Didn’t dare look at him.
But she knew. He was watching her.
His body had shifted, barely, but she felt it. The weight of his gaze, the focus of it, so palpable it could’ve left marks. She didn’t need to meet his eyes to know what he was doing.
He was trying to see her. To understand something about her that she hadn’t offered.
For a heartbeat, that terrified her.
Because he still scared her. Not the way he used to, not in the way that made her fists clench and her skin crawl. It wasn’t just what he had done. It was the question of what he could do, of what still lived inside him.
But more than that, what scared her now was the possibility that she could see herself in him. In a way, they felt the same shadows pressing at the walls when the lights went out.
And maybe that was the cruelest intimacy of all.
She swallowed, the mattress beneath her felt too soft. The room too quiet. She hated how clear her thoughts became in this silence, how easily the night peeled back every defense, made every breath feel like confession.
He was still looking at her. She closed her eyes.
Maybe if she did, she could shut it all out. The images. The questions. The feeling of cold metal and hospital antiseptic that still clung to the edge of her mind.
Maybe sleep would come again. Maybe not.
She didn’t expect rest. But she could fake it.
So she lay there, unmoving, drawing the sheets up tighter against her chest, pretending not to care that his breathing had changed again. Slower, quieter, as if he too were trying to disappear into the illusion of peace.
And in a strange way, knowing he, too, had his own demons, his own dreams that broke him open, made her feel a little less alone. It didn’t fix anything. It didn’t soothe the raw edge of what she had seen or the ache that still lingered in her chest. But it was something. A fragile thread of shared pain. And sometimes, that was enough.
Just enough to let the exhaustion pull at her like a tide, and close her eyes again.
_____
The curtains had been drawn back, letting in the silvery gray light of a Paris morning. The kind of light that didn’t warm but lingered, a soft, heavy sheen that coated everything in quiet melancholy. Outside, the sky was overcast, pale and thick, like stretched wool. Jane stood still for a moment by the window, watching the slow drift of cars and early joggers in the gardens below. She adjusted the belt of her trench. Light beige with dark buttons, a crisp collar, and fabric that still smelled faintly of starch. It was elegant but practical, the kind of thing that made her feel like she had armor, even if it was only cotton.
She was fastening the last buckle at her waist when Bucky’s voice cut through the stillness, rough with sleep.
“Where are you going?”
She turned slowly to face him. He was still in bed, sitting up now, rubbing a hand over his face, his hair tousled and sticking up in places. His voice was low, hesitant. The moment his eyes met hers, she saw there was something questioning in his gaze.
Jane forced herself to hold his gaze. This time, there was no venom in her eyes. No deflection. No wall. Just something close to tired honesty.
“I’m not asking for permission,” she said softly. “But I want you to know it’s not an escape. It’s just something I really need to do.”
Bucky sat up straighter. Concern flickered across his face. “Jane… Is something happening?”
She shook her head. “No, there’s nothing to worry about. I just… I need to visit a place. I’ll be back by the afternoon.”
He didn’t answer immediately. His posture had stiffened slightly, but he nodded at last. A small, almost mechanical gesture. Jane stepped toward the dresser, grabbed her sunglasses, and when she glanced back at him one last time, she caught that look again. That subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his body leaned forward, barely enough to notice, as if part of him wanted to move, to stop her.
There was a kind of tenderness in the concern that lingered behind his eyes, in the stillness of his frame. As if the rigidity wasn’t just caution, but a restraint. As if he was holding back the instinct to reach for her, to say something more.
But he didn’t.
Jane held his gaze for just a second longer than she meant to, then turned and walked toward the door.
The elevator was nearly empty, and the descent was quiet. When she stepped into the reception, she asked the concierge for a taxi. The man, polite and efficient, typed into his screen.
“Destination, madame?”
She hesitated only briefly. “Musée de l’Orangerie.”
He nodded, and she took a seat in the waiting lounge, legs crossed, her fingers tapping restlessly against the trench’s belt. She wasn’t sure this was a good idea. Maybe she was being foolish, clinging to ghosts, to moments that didn’t exist anymore. Nostalgia could be a sickness, and she knew how easily it could rot the present from the inside.
And yet, she needed this. Needed something familiar. Something beautiful. Something that had once made her feel whole.
By the time the car pulled up, a soft spring rain had started to fall. Not the refreshing kind—this was warm, muggy, the kind of rain that made everything feel damp instead of cleansed. She ducked into the cab, gave a tight smile to the driver, and kept her gaze out the window for the entire drive.
More than once, she was tempted to ask him to turn around. But she didn’t.
When the taxi finally stopped in front of the museum, her heart clenched. She stared at the building for a moment, and the sight of it hit her harder than she expected. It looked just as it had before. That was the problem.
She paid the driver, murmured a distracted merci, and stepped out into the street. The line was long—unsurprisingly, given the season—but she didn’t mind. It gave her time. Time to breathe. Time to feel the rain lightly tapping the shoulders of her coat. Time to wonder if any of this would help.
But when she walked through those doors, it was as if no time had passed.
Paris had been their first stop on their honeymoon. A whirlwind tour across Europe, city after city, border after. They’d been tourists then, giddy and childlike. The Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the hidden cafés where Tony insisted on ordering in hilariously bad French, mispronouncing almost everything but somehow charming every single waiter in the process.
From there, they had drifted southward, into Spain, where the air was warm and heavy with the scent of orange blossoms. They’d spent their days wandering through sun-drenched alleys in Seville and sipping wine under the stars in Granada. Tony had fallen in love with the rhythm of flamenco, the sharp heels on old stone, the wild melancholy of the music. Jane had just watched him. Watched how easily he let himself be taken in by the world, how he made every place feel like it belonged to them the second they stepped into it.
Then, Italy brought something else. Something deeper. More fragile.
They hadn’t skipped the postcard cities like Rome, Florence, Venice. But Jane had made a quiet request to go somewhere else too, somewhere that didn’t usually appear on travel brochures. And Tony, curious and maybe a little infatuated with her mystery, hadn’t questioned it. He’d rented a car without asking why.
She took him to the South.
To stone villages nestled between olive groves and hills that crumbled into the sea. Places where the buildings wore time like a second skin, and the people still whispered at the corners of piazzas. Where women in colorful dresses watched them pass with knowing eyes, and children played in the dust while bells rang from ancient churches.
Jane had walked those streets in silence, her fingers brushing over familiar stone walls. She hadn’t explained why she knew the twists of the alleys, why she spoke the dialect with effortless ease. She didn’t tell him the truth—not then, not ever. But in a way, showing him those places had been her version of telling.
It was like opening a door to a house she’d once lived in. A house she didn’t fully remember but still carried in her bones.
She’d shown him the beach where she used to sit for hours, staring at the water, trying to make sense of a world that never quite accepted her. The old monastery-turned-library where she used to sneak in as a girl, hiding in the shadows to read books in languages long forgotten. The vineyard with the half-collapsed wall where she’d once watched the stars and dreamed of another life. She hadn’t given him names or dates or stories. Just glimpses. Just enough.
Tony hadn’t pressed her for answers. He’d sensed the intimacy of the gesture, even without the context. He’d just held her hand, kissed her hair, and whispered something about how he was glad she’d brought him there. How beautiful it all was. How beautiful she looked in it.
And still, despite all that, it was Paris that had remained the anchor. The root. The first page. border. This city had felt like the beginning of something. Like the prologue to a life they thought they had all the time in the world to live.
Maybe because it was the only place where they had both been equally lost. Two strangers in a city of strangers, learning how to be something together. Maybe because it was before the weight of who they were and where they came from began to claw at the edges of the dream.
Paris was the before. Everything after had been touched, changed, marked by time.
She walked slowly through the halls of the Orangerie, the soft soles of her boots quiet against the polished floor.
She paused before each painting, eyes tracing lines and colors. Half-seeing, half-remembering. A Cézanne still life: apples on a table, so vivid they looked like they could bruise under a careless hand. A Renoir girl with flushed cheeks and an absent gaze that reminded her, painfully, of youth long gone. The rooms hummed with soft murmurs from other visitors, but Jane was deaf to them. Everything around her felt distant, like walking underwater. Or maybe it was she who had become the ghost, moving soundlessly through rooms that hadn’t changed, while she had.
She didn’t stop for long at each piece. It wasn’t what she’d come for. But still, there was a weight behind her ribs with every turn of a corner, every glimpse of a familiar brushstroke. She could remember the last time she’d walked these halls. Not alone. Never alone. Tony had been beside her then, making sardonic comments about the way people squinted too hard at Impressionist paintings, only to fall uncharacteristically silent in front of a Renoir. “I like this one,” he’d said, and she’d turned to find him staring at a snowscape. “Looks cold. But quiet. Like a place you could think.”
Now the snowscape was still there, untouched, but Tony wasn’t. Jane felt her throat tighten.
She kept walking.
There was a pull in her chest, an invisible thread, drawing her forward as if her feet already knew where to go. She passed tourists with their phones, docents whispering to students, but none of them touched her. She wasn’t truly here with them. She was following something older. Something sacred.
Until finally, she reached it.
The oval room.
The light was different here. Softer. Natural, diffused from the ceiling like the sky itself had been stretched across the glass. The room held silence like a shell holds the sea. No music. No voices. Just the hum of stillness, and color.
The Water Lilies.
Jane stopped at the threshold.
Even now, after all this time, the sight hit her like a wave. All that blue. That impossible, infinite blue. It wasn’t just paint, it was movement. It was water. Depth. Memory. She stepped inside, and it was like entering a cathedral made of sky and pond. The panels wrapped around the room like an embrace, a fluid horizon that had no beginning and no end. Just light. Just shadow. Just time suspended in pigment.
She moved closer. Each step slow, careful, reverent. As if she feared breaking something.
Jane had been here so many times before. But every time it was different. That was the thing about the Water Lilies. You didn’t just see them, you felt them. They changed depending on who you were when you walked in. On what you carried with you. And Jane… Jane was carrying everything.
She sat down quietly on one of the curved benches at the center of the room. Her gaze lifted to the panel in front of her, and her chest tightened again. It was overwhelming. So much softness and peace, and yet, beneath the layers, there was a restlessness too. A longing. Monet had painted these as his eyesight faded, as grief took hold of him. She could feel that now. The ache beneath the surface.
And then, without even realizing, the memory rose.
Tony standing behind her, that day. She hadn’t even heard him approach, but suddenly his hands were on her waist, his chin settling into the crook of her shoulder. His scent—clean, metallic, just a hint of bergamot—had enveloped her, grounding her instantly. He’d rocked her gently, a sway more than a hug, and whispered:
“I’d give anything to get inside your head right now. Just for a minute.”
She had smiled. Kept her eyes on the painting.
“You’d be disappointed,” she’d murmured.
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m not thinking about anything logical or genius-level or poetic. I’m just… drifting.”
Tony had chuckled. “Then I’d like it even more.”
They’d stayed like that for a while, her body nestled against his, the scent of oil paint and old plaster in the air, tourists shuffling quietly around them.
She hadn’t looked away from the painting. “I don’t know. It just feels… timeless. Like a river that doesn’t end. I get lost in it. Like time doesn’t matter when I’m looking at this.”
“Funny,” Tony had whispered. “You always talk about time like it’s this horrible thing. Always racing, always vanishing. But it doesn’t scare me. Not anymore. Not since you.”
She had turned in his arms then, taken his face in her hands.
He looked so young. Unburdened. Or at least pretending well enough to fool her, and maybe even himself.
“Maybe,” she’d said, “maybe it’s because since you, time never feels like enough.”
It wasn’t true. Not entirely. Her obsession with time came from much farther back than Tony. From the ticking of clocks she had no power to stop. From centuries lived and lost.
But in that moment, none of that had mattered.
Tony had reached up and gently brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek. His fingers had lingered, reverently.
Her thumbs had stroked across the ridge of his cheekbones, tracing the shape of a man she knew far too well, and not enough all at once. She could feel his breath on her lips, warm and steady, and something about the way he looked at her—eyes so open, so utterly there—had made her feel like her heart was too full.
Then he leaned in.
And when he kissed her, it wasn’t a dramatic sweep of mouths or passion spun into spectacle. It was gentle. The kind of kiss that didn’t need to prove anything.
Jane remembered thinking that this was what she had been afraid of her entire life. Not danger. Not death. But this: the knowledge that she could never want anything else again.
In that kiss, in the soft scent of old paint and cologne, she had found the one thing time could never touch.
Until it did.
Now, standing alone in the oval room, Jane felt a tear slip silently down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away at first. Just let it sit there, warm against the chill of her skin. Then, slowly, she raised her hand and brushed it aside with the back of her fingers.
So much time had passed. So much had changed.
And yet here it was. This place. Still here. Still echoing with pieces of a life she could never quite reclaim. The past wasn’t gone, not really. It lingered in the walls, in the light that filtered softly through the high windows, in the scent of stone and silence and reverence. In the hush of the space that once held her laughter and his voice and the weightless joy of not knowing how brief everything would be.
Minutes stretched out, uncounted. Maybe hours. She wasn’t sure. It was like the paintings had cast a spell, and she’d fallen into it.
She might’ve stayed there forever, had it not been for the voice that broke through her thoughts.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
The voice came from her right. Gentle, tinged with a soft Parisian lilt. She blinked and turned.
There stood a man in his late sixties, with thinning gray hair and a navy blazer. A museum badge was clipped neatly to his chest. His hands were folded loosely behind his back, and his smile was the kind worn by someone used to speaking softly, like the art might be listening.
Jane gave a faint nod and offered a polite, barely formed smile in return.
The man seemed about to step away, but then paused. He tilted his head slightly, studying her face with more attention. His eyes narrowed, not suspiciously, but thoughtfully. Recognition flickered across his expression like a slow match being struck.
“Pardon,” he said in French, then switched to English, just as soft. “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”
There was no malice in the question. Just curiosity. As if something in her had sparked a memory.
Jane looked at him more closely now. He was an old man… it was possible. He could have worked here for decades. He might’ve seen her then. All those years ago.
But she couldn’t let that thread unravel.
She shook her head gently and rose to her feet, smoothing out the front of her trench with both hands. The gesture was precise, a shield of movement.
“No,” she said, her voice even. “This is my first time here.”
She didn’t wait for his reply. Just offered a final, cordial smile, dipped her chin in thanks, and turned.
She felt his eyes follow her for a second, and then she was gone. Out of the room, down the hall, her footsteps muffled against the museum floor.
Once outside, Jane pulled her trench coat tighter around her frame, hugging the fabric to her. The wind had shifted. The drizzle from earlier had stopped, but in its wake remained a dampness that clung to her skin. A shiver ran up her spine, slow and insistent, and the weight of the morning settled into her legs like concrete.
She blinked up at the sky. It was brighter now, an anemic sun pushing through the clouds, casting everything in that pale, reflective light peculiar to early afternoon. It had to be well past noon. Her stomach gave a hollow twist. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday evening, hadn’t even thought about food. For a fleeting moment, she considered stopping somewhere. One of those narrow cafés along the Seine, maybe. She could order something simple. A sandwich, a coffee, something warm. But the idea melted away as quickly as it had come. Her knees felt unsteady. Just standing upright took more effort than it should have. She didn’t trust herself to stay conscious long enough to order, much less eat.
The exhaustion was beginning to win.
Maybe it was because she hadn’t slept, not really, for days. Or maybe it was just that her body had reached a limit. Whatever the reason, her limbs felt detached, heavy and slow, like she was underwater.
She made her way to the edge of the street with sluggish, uncertain steps. Cars hissed by on wet asphalt. Her vision wavered slightly at the corners. When a cab finally slowed in front of her, the minutes that had passed had felt endless. She barely managed to open the door without stumbling. And when she did, the relief of sinking into the back seat was almost enough to make her cry.
The leather was cold against her skin as she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. A wave of dizziness hit her then, and she fought the urge to curl in on herself. Her skin had begun to prickle with goosebumps, and she realized with a faint sense of surprise that she was freezing. Her clothes, so carefully chosen only hours before, now felt impossibly thin.
She kept her eyes closed the rest of the ride.
When the taxi finally pulled up in front of the hotel, the clock on the dashboard read nearly one thirty. She paid the driver with shaking fingers, not bothering to count the change. The lobby felt far too bright when she stepped inside, the polished floor reflecting light in jarring ways. She didn’t speak to the receptionist. Just nodded vaguely and headed straight for the elevator, her footsteps uneven, her breath shallow.
Each second felt stretched, too long and too loud. She just wanted to be in the room. She just wanted to stop moving.
By the time she reached the hallway and fumbled the keycard into the door, her body was pulsing with that hollow kind of fatigue that made her feel half-sick. The door clicked open and—
The room was filled with light.
The curtains had been drawn back, and the wide windows let in the full force of the afternoon sun. The bed was made, and the scent in the air had changed. A warm, savory trace of food lingered, faint but unmistakable. Her eyes drifted toward the table by the window, where a covered cloche sat beside two empty plates. Bucky had eaten. Recently, probably. The scent of herbs and something buttery still hung faintly in the room.
She blinked, disoriented. The contrast between the cold outside and the warmth inside made the room feel unfamiliar, like it belonged to someone else.
Her knees buckled slightly.
She reached for the wall instinctively, her palm flattening against it for balance as the world tilted faintly on its axis. Her other hand clutched at the front of her coat, her breaths shallow now, uneven.
Then—footsteps. The sound of movement in the bathroom. Bucky.
He stepped into view a second later, wearing a dark t-shirt and sweatpants, towel still around his neck. When he saw her, he froze.
“Jane?” He crossed the space between them quickly. “Jane, what’s wrong? Are you—?”
He didn’t finish. His eyes scanned her face, her posture. She must’ve looked awful. Pale. Trembling.
“Did you drink again?”
His words landed like a slap. She flinched.
“No,” she said tightly, her voice strained. “I didn’t drink anything. I just— I don’t feel well.”
He stepped closer, cautiously, like approaching a wounded animal. “Hey. Okay. Let me see.”
She tried to shrug him off when his fingers touched her forehead, but she was too tired to resist.
His eyes widened.
“Jesus, Jane. You’re burning up. You’ve got a fever.”
He didn’t wait for her to respond. One arm moved gently around her waist, the other reaching for the collar of her trench.
“Come on. Let me help.”
She wanted to protest. Wanted to tell him she could manage. That she didn’t need help. That she didn’t want to be touched. But the strength had gone out of her. And despite the part of her that bristled at the idea of being weak, another part, the quieter part, just wanted to lie down.
He helped her shrug off the coat, careful not to jostle her too much. She stood there in silence as he draped it over the back of a chair, then guided her to the bed. His touch was firm.
“You need to lie down,” he said gently. “You’re shaking.”
She let him pull back the covers. Let him steady her as she sat. And when she finally sank into the mattress, her body exhaled in relief.
He watched her as she settled, his brows drawn together in a tight line. Concern etched every angle of his face. She could feel his eyes on her, but she couldn’t meet them.
Her head sank into the pillow, her breathing evened slightly. And as the warmth of the blankets began to seep in, she let her eyes close.
The world went quiet and sleep, finally, took her.
The first thing Jane felt was cold.
Not a shiver, not the kind of draft you brush off, but a sharp, wet cold that crawled across her forehead and sent ripples down her spine. It woke her like a tide pulling her back from some deep, dreamless sleep. Her lashes fluttered weakly, too heavy to lift fully, and she frowned before she could even open her eyes. Something soft and damp pressed against her skin—her brow, her temples—and then lifted.
The sound of water. A cloth being wrung out. The soft drip of liquid into a basin.
How long had she been lying here?
Her sense of time had dissolved completely. There was only the ache in her bones, the weight in her limbs, the heat pulsing at the back of her neck and in her cheeks like a fevered drumbeat. Even the simple act of breathing felt like it took effort. Like her lungs were operating through a layer of cotton and fog.
Then came the cold again, gentler this time. A new slow swipe of the wet cloth across her brow. The blur behind her eyelids started to thin, just barely. Light filtered through the haze. The outline of a face, leaning close. A man’s face. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Concerned eyes, watching her with an intensity that tugged something in her chest.
She tried to speak, but her throat burned raw. The word came out cracked and broken, barely more than a whisper.
“Tony?”
She didn’t know why she said it. Or maybe she did.
It was the way he hovered near her, the way his touch felt both safe and careful. Something familiar. The image was still fogged, like looking through misted glass, but it felt real enough.
She blinked, slowly, and the fog shifted. The eyes weren’t brown, they were blue. Too blue. Not Tony.
Barnes.
It was Barnes.
Her brain tried to catch up, but her body moved before her mind could intervene. Fevered and dazed, she reached up with trembling fingers and touched his face.
The gesture was instinctual, without thought or control. Her fingertips brushed his forehead, followed the line of his temple. He didn’t pull away. He just watched her, frozen. Like her touch had short-circuited whatever instincts he usually relied on.
She traced the curve of his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose. Her movements were slow, like she was learning a sculpture by touch. When her hand reached his lips—full, slightly parted, warm with his breath—his eyelids flickered. He exhaled, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan. And the sound of it burned into her.
His breath ghosted over her skin, hot against the tips of her fingers.
Her voice came then, hoarse and low, barely audible. “I hate you.” she whispered, and her thumb brushed gently beneath his lip. “I hate you so much.”
But the words held no weight. They floated, empty of venom, hollowed out by exhaustion and fever. They were a ritual. A mask. Something to say in place of what she was really feeling. Her hand slipped lower, cupping his jaw now, thumb tracing the line of his stubble. It was too intimate, too tender, too much.
He didn’t speak.
He only closed his eyes, just for a moment, as if trying to memorize the rhythm of her touch. His expression had gone blank, but something in the tension of his shoulders, in the stillness of his breath, betrayed him. He was holding himself still. He was trying not to feel.
Jane could sense it, even in her fevered state. He was trying not to lean into her touch. Trying not to respond.
It made her ache.
“Pretty.” she murmured. Barely audible, more breath than sound, a slip of voice blurred by heat and dizziness. It could have meant anything, could’ve been a fragment of dream or memory, but it hung in the air between them like something delicate and dangerous.
And he heard it. She knew he did.
His jaw tensed, just slightly. His breath caught for half a second. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but she felt the shift. The way something inside him braced.
He was too close. Too beautiful. It was wrong how beautiful he was. How gentle he could be. A man like him wasn’t supposed to look like this. To feel like this. Not after everything he’d done. Not after everything he’d taken.
But there he was. Eyes closed. His breath catching, just slightly, when her thumb moved again.
And then—
Her body gave out.
Her hand slipped from his face like a leaf floating to the ground, weightless and spent. It landed beside her on the bed with a dull thump, fingers still half-curled. She didn’t have the strength to lift it again. Her eyes, once cracked open, fell shut again. Darkness pressed in from the edges.
The last thing she felt was the residual warmth of his skin still clinging to her fingertips.
And then nothing.
Notes:
This chapter carries a lot of Jane’s past. It’s scattered in quiet moments, in memories tucked between museum walls and whispered dreams. But in many ways, it’s also about her present. That’s where the title comes from. The way the past and present bleed into each other. The way healing is never really linear.
Her relationship with Bucky is shifting. Evolving. And for Jane, that’s becoming harder and harder to deny. Her perception of him is changing, and he’s no longer just someone she hates. That change, however subtle, is a test in itself. Especially in a city like Paris, which we now know holds a deep emotional weight in her history with Tony. Every step forward feels like walking a tightrope between old wounds and new questions.
We also got a little moment with Clint in this chapter (because I missed him, honestly) and it felt right to add another small piece to his dynamic with Jane. Their relationship has a quiet, complex rhythm I really enjoy exploring.
Next chapter? Oh, there’s going to be a lot. Discussions, revelations… emotional chaos, really. Just thinking about it gives me a bit of anxiety, to be honest 😅. It’s going to be PACKED, and I hope I can pull it off with the emotional depth it deserves. Fingers crossed.
Truthfully, this story has been such a lifeline for me lately. I know that’s personal, but… I just wanted to say it. Things have been a bit rough on my end, like I mentioned in the last chapter’s notes. But this story, and all of you, have been such a comfort. A form of escape, in the best possible way.
So thank you. Really. Your encouragement, whether it’s through comments, kudos, or even just silent reading… It means the world to me. Reading your thoughts keeps me going. Brings me genuine joy. So if you feel like sharing a comment, I’d love to hear from you. And if you want to drop a quick kudos? Always appreciated.
Until next time… Take care! And I hope your week treats you kindly.
With all my gratitude,
🖤p.s.
Timeline Recap!
(Thanks to a lovely reader who pointed out the timeline might be a little confusing. Here’s a quick breakdown!)Past Relationship (Jane & Tony):
• Met and fell in love
• Got married after about 1 year (around 1993)
• Together for 6 years total (5 of them married)
• Jane left around 1998–1999, after erasing Tony’s memory of their relationshipJane’s Personal Timeline (Subjective):
• Gave a brief report to Fury
• Spent years traveling across multiple timelines
• Lived through many different lives, some long, some short
• For Jane, it’s been far more than 20 yearsMain Timeline (Story Present):
• Set around 2016 (post Civil War)
• It’s been nearly 20 years since Jane left Tony in this timeline
• That’s why Pepper calls the wedding photo “at least 20 years old” when she finds it.Hope everything is clear now! ✨
Chapter 15: Can’t you see that it never can be?
Notes:
Before diving in, I recommend listening to “You Go To My Head” by Billie Holiday while reading the fist part of the chapter.
You’ll see why as you go on.I hope you enjoy this one. ❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It had taken almost a full week for Jane to recover from the fever completely.
The first couple of days had blurred together into a haze of aching limbs, cold sweats, and dreams that never quite faded even after waking. She remembered very little clearly. Just fragmented impressions, like pieces of film burned at the edges. The cool press of a cloth against her forehead. The warmth of a hand wrapping around her wrist to check her pulse. The rustling of a paper bag, Bucky coming and going, returning with medicine from a nearby pharmacy. He’d fed her, coaxing her into taking slow spoonfuls of soup she didn’t remember asking for. He’d helped her sit up, helped her when she could barely stand, and even held her hair back once, when the nausea had gotten the better of her. She hadn’t looked him in the eye after that. Embarrassment still clung to her like a second skin.
There had been a night, she only recalled it later in fragments, when the fever spiked so high Bucky had nearly carried her out of the hotel to find a doctor. But she’d mumbled something, begged him not to, and instead he’d stayed at her side all night, keeping a vigil with cold compresses and whispered reassurances. She didn’t remember what he’d said, only the sound of his voice, low but insistent. As if he believed he could will her back from the edge with nothing but patience and quiet stubbornness.
And maybe he had.
In those days, something had shifted. Imperceptibly at first, like the first cracks in a wall that had held too long against pressure. Jane found herself allowing things she never had before—his presence in her space, his touch on her skin, his voice when the silence became too heavy. She didn’t flinch every time he helped her sit up. She stopped pulling away when he placed a cool cloth on her neck. It didn’t mean she was comfortable. Not exactly. But something inside her had softened. Enough to let him in.
Secretly, and without fanfare, she appreciated it.
Not that she would have ever admitted it out loud. But she couldn’t lie to herself, not about that. It was too clear, too crystalline in her mind. His care, his quiet, constant presence… it had been a kindness she hadn’t felt in years. Decades, maybe. The kind of tenderness she no longer believed she deserved, let alone expected from someone like him. And somehow, impossibly, it had come from Bucky Barnes.
A man she was supposed to hate.
Those days had been a strange sort of armistice. A fragile ceasefire suspended in the sickly lull of fevered nights and whispered words. They’d fallen into a rhythm of shared meals when she had the strength, soft encouragements from him when her appetite faltered, cool towels at dusk. He’d talk to her just enough to keep her awake when necessary, never pushing too far, never asking questions. It was an odd peace, a suspended intimacy neither of them had chosen, but both had accepted for what it was.
And then she got better.
Slowly at first—less dizziness, clearer thoughts, less trembling in her hands—but with clarity came discomfort. The closer she returned to herself, the more acutely she felt it: the awkwardness, the way her skin bristled under his gaze, the pressure of everything unsaid. She no longer needed him to help her out of bed. No longer needed his hand at her back when she walked. And without the excuse of illness, their proximity began to unravel.
What had felt like closeness now turned brittle. Conversations dwindled to the bare minimum. It wasn’t coldness, not really, but something more complicated. A quiet discomfort neither of them knew how to name. They moved like roommates in a space too small to ignore each other, yet too awkward to engage. Parallel lives sharing the same rooms, same schedules, same obligations… but never truly intersecting.
Weeks passed like this.
Outside their room, in the curated theater of their mission, they were flawless. Smiles that touched the eyes. Hands held at the right moments. Lips brushing cheeks in passing. The perfect couple. Especially when acquaintances of the Vogels appeared—never the Vogels themselves, but their orbit of high-end socialites and mercenaries. Bucky and Jane played their roles to perfection. Her fingers curled into the crook of his elbow. His hand lingering on the small of her back. A kiss on the temple before a toast. It was seamless. Convincing.
And yet, when the door of their suite clicked shut behind them, the masks dissolved.
No more hand on her back. No more shared glances. Only silence.
Nights passed with each of them curled at opposite sides of the bed, backs turned, not touching. The only sign of their earlier closeness was the faint scent of eucalyptus from the humidifier he’d bought during her fever—still there, still running.
The distance hadn’t grown because of a fight or a word spoken in anger, but because neither of them knew what to do with the intimacy that had bloomed under unnatural circumstances. They’d crossed lines. Unintentionally. Quietly. And now they didn’t know how to carry that closeness without tripping over it. Without it unraveling everything else.
Jane hated how much she noticed it. The shift. The weight of it.
He still looked at her, she knew it. She could feel it. Those fleeting glances while she was fixing her blouse, the way his eyes lingered in the mirror just a moment too long before flicking away. But it wasn’t the same. And that carefulness, that silent restraint, made her skin prickle with discomfort.
It reminded her of reality. Of who she was. Of who he was. And of all the things the fever had let her forget.
Now, with every too-polite nod, every stifled silence between them, it was like the universe was forcing her to remember. Forcing her to sit with the absurdity of how far she’d let him in. Forcing her to face the fact that whatever temporary peace they’d found had been just that, temporary.
And now they were both pretending nothing had changed.
Even though everything had.
Now Jane sat on the floor with her back against the wall, knees drawn tightly to her chest, a record player humming quietly beside her. The music crackled from the speakers. It was an old tune from another time, a voice crooning low and sweet from the warped grooves of a vinyl she’d asked the receptionist to find days ago. She hadn’t heard the song in years. Hadn’t even realized she remembered it until it played in the hotel lobby, stopping her mid-step like a ghost brushing past.
The half-light of early morning bathed the room in a dim, bluish hue—the kind of in-between moment just after sunrise but not yet bright. Shadows stretched across the floor, soft and elongated. Jane wasn’t thinking of anything in particular, at least not consciously. The melody drifted around her, both soothing and sorrowful, wrapping itself around her limbs like fog.
She remembered things—fragments, mostly. Flashes of rooms she’d once slept in, faces she might have loved, songs she might have danced to. But they were too old now to hold together. The years had worn them down into slivers of memory, too thin to grasp. That made her feel a weightless sort of grief, suspended in the air, lingering without a name. Not for one specific life, but for all the ones she had lived and lost. All the ones she couldn’t quite recall. A quiet ache for the versions of herself that no longer existed. For the stories she barely remembered. For the cities whose names she’d forgotten, though she still carried the smell of their air in her bones.
From the bathroom came the sound of water, a steady cascade that somehow married the music perfectly. The rhythm of it, the way it filled the quiet without breaking it… It belonged to the moment. She let her eyes fall half-closed, let the ache in her limbs soften a little.
And then the water stopped.
Jane’s body stiffened without her permission. Her breath hitched in her throat. She bit down on her bottom lip, a small, habitual gesture of tension. She knew what came next. Knew he’d emerge from the steam in a matter of seconds. And though there was no real reason to brace herself, her body prepared anyway, as if anticipating the impact of something silent and invisible.
The door opened.
He stepped out casually, toweling off his face, his hair wet and slicked back, darkened by the water. A plain dark T-shirt clung to him, and black pants hung low on his hips. He looked normal. Familiar, even. There was a kind of ordinariness to it now. She had come to recognize the rotation of his clothes, the way he dressed when he wanted to be comfortable, when there were no plans, no roles to play. That shirt was one he wore often.
His eyes found hers.
“What are you doing all the way down there?” he asked, a flicker of curiosity, or maybe concern, in his voice. He tossed the towel onto the bed, rubbing the back of his neck.
She didn’t answer.
He tilted his head slightly, listening. The song was still playing. He looked toward the record player, and something in his expression changed. Softened.
“I know this song,” he said, voice quieter now, more reflective. “Used to dance to it. Back when Steve and I went out. Must’ve been… God, a lifetime ago.”
Jane’s breath caught again, but for a different reason this time. There was a far-off look in his eyes, like he’d just walked backward into a memory too big to hold.
Then, without hesitation, he stepped toward her and held out his hand.
“Dance with me.” he said.
She blinked up at him, frowning. “What?”
“Dance with me.” he repeated. No explanation. No expectation. Only the quiet offer of his hand, palm up, waiting.
Jane didn’t take his hand.
She looked at it, at him, her expression unreadable. For a moment, it seemed she might refuse and stay there on the floor. Let the silence answer for her.
But then Bucky exhaled, low and patient, and murmured, “Come on.”
His voice was gentle. Not a command, not a plea. Just something in between.
He reached for her again, this time not waiting for permission, and took her hand wrapping his fingers around hers.
And Jane… surrendered.
She didn’t even know why. Maybe it was the music, or the nostalgia. Maybe it was the way the morning light softened everything, the way his voice had sounded just then—soft, not asking for too much.
Or maybe… she was just tired.
Tired of always bracing herself, of pushing people away. Tired of wearing the same armor that, lately, didn’t seem to fit quite right anymore.
So she let him pull her up, because in that exact moment resisting felt heavier than yielding.
For once, she chose the lighter of the two.
Without resistance, she let him guide her up, her body slow to follow, unsure.
She stood, rigid at first, her movements awkward and reluctant. He didn’t seem to mind. He stepped closer, resting his hands lightly, carefully, on her waist. She flinched. Just barely. But he felt it. And in response, he loosened his grip, giving her space.
She hated how aware she was of his hands. Of the heat of his body. Of how close his face was. How clean he smelled.
The scent filled her lungs until she thought she might choke on it.
“I’m not good at this.” she muttered.
“You don’t have to be.”
The song carried on, a slow, swaying rhythm. He started to move, just a step. Just enough to pull her with him. She followed stiffly at first, her hands hovering uncertainly at his shoulders, before settling there. Her fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his shirt.
“You always look like you’re about to run.” he said softly.
She exhaled through her nose. “That’s because I am.”
He smiled. Not a wide one. Not mocking. Just… gentle.
They moved together, their bodies finding a rhythm in the soft light of the room. Their faces were close now. Too close. She could feel his breath on her cheek, could count every flicker of emotion in his gaze. He was watching her again. And this time, she couldn’t look away.
“You’re not running now.” he whispered to her ear.
“Don’t push your luck.”
But her voice was softer than she intended. Almost fond. And he heard it.
He leaned in, not much, just a little. Just enough to tilt her world. Her heart thudded against her ribs, an uneven, frantic beat.
The record whispered on. He murmured along to the lyrics, voice low, just for her:
“ But I say to myself, «Get a hold of yourself.
Can't you see that it never can be?»
You go to my head… ”
His fingers shifted slightly at her waist, a small motion, but it sent a ripple through her chest. It was too much. Too intimate. And yet her hands didn’t move away. They held on.
She didn’t know how long they danced. It could’ve been seconds. Or longer.
Time didn’t seem to move in any familiar way—not in the steady, linear rhythm she was used to. It felt slower here, softer, like the world had shifted slightly off axis.
She wasn’t keeping track, didn’t try to.
There was something oddly grounding in the way his hand rested on her waist, in the measured sweep of his fingers that never moved too fast or too far. A quiet kind of presence. A steadiness she wasn’t used to receiving.
The cotton of his t-shirt was warm under her palms. Damp in places from his hair, from the shower, from the air still thick with humidity.
His head was tilted slightly, low enough that a few strands of wet hair brushed her temple now and then—accidental, probably, but she noticed every time.
Every so often, their eyes would meet, brief and unspoken.
There wasn’t much in the way of meaning exchanged. No declarations or confessions. Just a glance. A shared sense that something was shifting, however slowly.
She let herself focus on small things. The faint pressure of his thumb when the music changed tempo. The soft shuffle of his steps against the carpet. The way her own breath had started to match his without her realizing it.
It didn’t feel like something that needed to be named. Or analyzed.
It was just this. Whatever this was.
And maybe that was why she didn’t pull away. Why she didn’t tense or speak or ask what the hell they were doing.
Because she didn’t feel entirely like herself. But not in a bad way. More like the edges had softened a little, just enough to let this happen.
And in that space between one thought and the next, Jane let it be. Let the moment last, whatever shape it wanted to take.
And then—
A shrill, sharp tone sliced through the softness of the moment.
Jane stiffened. So did he.
The burner phone on the nightstand buzzed again. Then a second time.
They froze.
She let go first. Took a step back, breaking the spell. Turned away, pretending she hadn’t felt the shift in the air.
He didn’t say anything. Just stood there for a beat too long before finally turning to the phone.
The music played on behind them. But whatever had been there, whatever almost had been, faded with the echo of the ringtone.
“It’s coordinates,” Bucky said flatly after picking up the phone, eyes narrowing slightly as he read. “We’re expected at the location in two hours.”
Jane turned slowly, still not trusting her voice. She cleared her throat. “Did something happen?”
He looked at her, then he shrugged. “It doesn’t say. Just the time and place.”
There wasn’t anything else to ask after that.
Jane crossed the room and picked up the bag she’d left earlier on the bedside table. It was already packed, out of habit or maybe instinct. She looped the strap over her shoulder in one smooth motion. Bucky, without a word, grabbed the keys from his side of the dresser. They moved around each other in that unspoken rhythm that had developed between them, one of necessity more than comfort.
Outside, the hallway was dim and hushed, the soft carpeting muffling their steps as they made their way down. Neither spoke. There was no need. The moment had passed.
A few days earlier, Bucky had rented a car—a practical black sedan with tinted windows and a subtle engine hum. The constant back-and-forth from the villa, with all the surprise invitations and shifting schedules, had made relying on car services annoying. The rental had been a quiet solution, a small act of control in a mission that gave them very little of it.
Now, sliding into the passenger seat, Jane stared out the window without a word as Bucky started the engine. The dashboard lit up in muted blues and reds. 06:11. They were right on time.
The streets of Paris thinned quickly as they drove south, buildings giving way to wider roads, then to stretches of green and sparse residential clusters. The farther they went, the more the city seemed to dissolve behind them. Trees lined the highway like sentinels, their shadows lengthening with the setting sun. Bucky kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, his jaw tight, his gaze fixed forward.
They didn’t speak. Not even once.
Jane’s fingers curled slightly in her lap, picking at the seam of her coat. The tension from earlier—the dance, the closeness, the warmth of his hand on her back—still echoed faintly through her body. But now it felt distant. Untouchable. Like something that had happened in another timeline. Something she might have imagined.
The radio was on, low. Some French station playing a soft rotation of older songs, jazz mostly, and the occasional burst of static. A saxophone crooned through the silence like an afterthought.
Jane kept her eyes on the trees. They passed fields, glimpses of low houses, a flock of birds spiraling in the sky above a pond. None of it registered fully. Her mind was still somewhere else. Back in that room. Back in that moment when she’d nearly leaned closer. When everything had felt like it could tip, if she let it.
But she hadn’t.
The GPS eventually pointed them off the highway, down narrower roads that wound deeper into the forest. Fontainebleau. Jane had heard of it, vaguely. She remembered something about its royal hunting grounds. Dense woods. Rock formations. Isolation.
It made sense, in a way.
If someone wanted to talk in private, this was the kind of place you’d pick.
She glanced sideways at Bucky. His profile was still, but not relaxed. There was tension in his brow, in the line of his jaw. He looked like he was thinking hard, or trying not to think at all.
And maybe they were both doing the same thing—waiting for the mission to pull them back to what was safe. What was clear. Orders. Objectives. Roles.
Something easier than whatever this was.
The GPS chirped softly, reminder that their destination had been reached. Jane lifted her gaze from the quiet stretch of trees outside the window and saw it: a small wooden structure tucked between the tall pines, about a hundred meters away, camouflaged by age and moss. A hunting cabin, by the looks of it. Weathered by time, partially swallowed by the forest. And in front of it, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, stood a man she hadn’t seen in weeks. From that distance, the silhouette was vague, but something in her gut stirred. Then, as the morning sun pushed through a gap in the clouds and caught the glint of metal on his belt buckle, she knew.
“Clint.” she murmured aloud, a soft smile touching her lips before she even realized it. “It’s Clint!” she repeated, turning toward Bucky without waiting for a reaction. The relief hit like a warm gust of wind.
Before Bucky could respond, Jane was already pushing the car door open. Her shoes crunched against the gravel as she strode toward the figure, her steps quickening with each pace. After so many days of tension, of walking on eggshells and speaking only when absolutely necessary, seeing a familiar face, a friendly one, felt like someone had finally let air into the room.
Clint straightened as she approached, a grin spreading across his face at the sight of her. “You look alive.” he said, arms open just slightly. She stepped into the half-embrace without hesitation.
“I’ve been worse.” she replied, her voice low but honest. A heartbeat later, she heard Bucky’s footsteps behind her, slower, more measured. Clint nodded toward him with a casual, “Barnes.” and received a nod in return.
Without much ceremony, Clint turned toward the cabin door. “Come on. Let’s get inside. Place isn’t exactly five stars, but it’s secure.”
The inside smelled like damp wood and dust, but it was spacious enough. A rough wooden table stood in the center, and papers were already laid out. Jane felt Bucky step beside her, silent as always, while Clint busied himself with the documents.
He spread them out slowly. Photographs. Clear ones.
“These were taken two nights ago.” he said. “Outside a private compound on the outskirts of Versailles. That’s Vogel—here—and that man is confirmed to be Kaspar Richter. He used to be on Hydra’s fringe payroll as a chemist.” He tapped the photo where two figures exchanged sleek metal briefcases. “There goes your smoking gun.”
Jane leaned in, eyes narrowing on the photo. She didn’t need confirmation: it was written all over the scene. Vogel’s posture. The secrecy of the exchange. And more than that, the man’s face… it had that haunted, clinical look she recognized from people who had spent their life surrounded by suffering and syringes.
“They’ve got the serum?” Bucky asked quietly.
Clint nodded. “Most likely replicas. We don’t know how close they are to the original formula, or how many attempts they’ve made. But they’re not decorative. This is active.”
Jane folded her arms, voice steady. “Have they tested it on people?”
“Not that we know of,” Clint replied. “But intelligence is thin. They’re being careful. We haven’t intercepted any subjects, no footage, nothing on the black market either. It’s like they’re keeping it under lock and key until they’re sure.”
She exhaled slowly, mind racing.
“You’ll get the auction coordinates within a few days,” Clint continued, looking between the two of them. “We suspect it’ll happen soon. You’ll need to be ready to move quickly.”
“And you came all the way here just to tell us that in person?” Jane asked, tilting her head slightly. “You could’ve sent an encrypted file.”
There was a beat of silence.
Clint hesitated for a moment, then shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Figured I owed you both a visit. And it’s not that far a trip.”
Jane raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Yeah, from New York to the middle of the French woods. Just a quick stop.”
“I needed the air.” Clint said simply. “Besides, I had a feeling you’d need a few things.” He reached under the table, lifting a slim metal case onto the surface.
Jane and Bucky exchanged a glance. Clint flipped open the case to reveal an array of compact gadgets—clean, sleek, unmistakably Stark-tech.
“This one’s for you,” he said, tapping a narrow silver bracelet. “New beacon embedded. Tracks your location, pulses a distress signal if you tap it twice in under three seconds. It also pings backup after ten minutes if the signal stays static.”
He turned to Bucky. “You get the matching wristwatch. Same functions. Keep ‘em close.”
Then, almost as an afterthought, he reached into the foam paneling and pulled out a second, much smaller case. “And these are for both of you.”
Inside, two tiny, near-invisible earpieces rested in molded slots. They were matte black, shaped to hug the inner curve of the ear canal with minimal exposure—barely noticeable once worn.
“Encrypted link, tight channel,” Clint explained. “Long-range and secure. No interference. They’ll let you communicate across the estate without looking like you’re wearing comms.”
Jane picked up the bracelet, letting it sit in her palm. It was heavier than expected.
“There’s also this,” Clint added, retrieving a soft black case from the side. “Just in case.”
Jane’s breath caught slightly.
“You might’ve packed the one Tony gave you,” Clint said, his voice dropping a little as if treading into familiar, dangerous ground. “But—this suit’s newer. Straight from his lab. Built off your specs. I figured… better to be safe.”
He hesitated, then added with a faint smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “He promised he wouldn’t try to track you if you activate it. Swore up and down. But… well, when it comes to a Stark, maybe don’t take their word as gospel. So yeah. Only if it’s absolutely necessary . I don’t want him poking around, or trying to drag you back.”
Jane didn’t answer. The moment Tony’s name was spoken, the air in the small hunting lodge shifted. It was something subtle, like pressure changing in her chest. She dropped her gaze to the table, to the metal case between them, as if the name alone had knocked the breath out of her.
For a moment, there was only the quiet shuffle of wind outside the wooden walls and the steady thrum of blood in her ears.
Her hand opened the case and reached for the bangle. It was smooth and cool to the touch, sleek silver with a faint violet pulse tracing a line along its edge—different from the one Tony had given her weeks ago. This one was more refined, lighter. Stark tech always evolved faster than anyone could follow, but the care in its design was unmistakable. It bore her measurements, her specific needs, the way she moved. It was his work. His signature, even if his name wasn’t written on it.
She ran her thumb along the surface, feeling the almost imperceptible grooves, the hidden seams of nanotech waiting to unfold at a single command. And as she held it, as her fingers tightened just slightly around the edge, she felt that ache again. The sharp, unmistakable ache of absence.
Hearing his name aloud, after all these weeks of avoiding it even in her own mind, was like reopening a wound that had only just scabbed over. It pulled at her chest in a way she wasn’t prepared for. It wasn’t just loss. It was longing. It was memory. It was guilt.
A beat passed, then another.
Across the table, Bucky watched her. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move, but Jane could feel it—his gaze lingering.
She swallowed hard and finally set the bangle down, a little too gently, as if afraid to bruise it. Or herself. Her fingers lingered on the metal a second too long.
Clint seemed to pick up on the weight of it, the heaviness in her shoulders. He cleared his throat lightly and gave a small, almost sheepish smile. “Well,” he said, placing a firm hand on her shoulder, warm and grounding. “That’s all I had. We’re done here. Let’s get out of this place—smells like mildew.”
Jane let out the faintest exhale. Not a laugh. But close.
Outside, the air was cooler than expected for a morning in early spring. A light mist hung over the low shrubs like a veil that hadn’t yet lifted, and the damp earth gave off a clean, almost metallic scent. Jane followed Clint out of the musty cabin, grateful for the shift in air, both literal and emotional. She took a breath, filling her lungs with something other than tension and mould.
They stood in silence for a few awkward seconds, then Clint shifted on his feet and turned toward Bucky,
“Hey, Barnes,” Clint called out casually, but there was a firmness under the surface. “Mind giving us a minute?”
Bucky hesitated mid-step. He looked at Clint, then at Jane, and for a moment his eyes lingered—searching hers for some sign, some cue. But Jane didn’t know what to give him. Her face remained neutral, unreadable, because she didn’t know what this was either. As a result, Bucky gave a small nod and took a step back.
“Sure,” he said, quietly. “I’ll wait and in the car.”
He walked away without looking back.
Jane turned to Clint with a puzzled expression, brow furrowed. “What’s going on?” she asked, keeping her voice low. “Is something wrong?”
Clint shrugged, casually, but it was too nonchalant to be real. “No. Nothing urgent.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I just wanted to check in. That’s all.”
Jane tilted her head, unconvinced. “Check in?”
Clint nodded. “Yeah. After our last call… I don’t know, you didn’t sound like yourself.” He glanced away briefly, then back at her. “You’ve always been tough, Jane. Stubborn as hell. I’ve seen you train through a fractured rib without complaint, remember? Alaska wasn’t exactly gentle.”
That drew a reluctant smile from her. “Yeah,” she said. “That was hell.”
“And you didn’t blink.” Clint added. “So hearing that hesitation in your voice? It stuck with me.”
Jane crossed her arms, not out of defiance, but more as a way to hold herself together. “So what—you flew all the way here just because I sounded a little tired on a call?”
Clint gave her a flat look, then rolled his eyes. “God, you’re insufferable sometimes.”
Jane huffed a laugh. “You do know you’re not really my dad, right?”
“Lucky.” Clint muttered. “But someone’s gotta look out for you.”
For a moment, they simply stood there, both half-smiling. The kind of smile shared between people who had bled beside each other before trust was even a question.
“This mission’s testing you,” he said after a beat. “Testing both of you, I’d guess.”
Jane glanced back toward the car. “Yeah. It’s… it’s strange, pretending so much. It’s exhausting. But after a while… I don’t know. You almost start to believe it. Like muscle memory, even when your head knows better.”
Clint nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful. “I remember my first deep-cover op. Vienna. First few days, I thought I was doing fine. Then one night, I had a full-blown panic attack. Thought people were watching me in every mirror, following me around corners.” He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “Paranoia’s a bitch.”
Jane looked down at her shoes, her voice soft. “You start wondering if you’re even doing it right. If they believe you, or if they’re just waiting—watching—for you to mess up. Like the whole thing’s a stage and you forgot your lines halfway through.”
She paused.
“I’ve always been good at lying,” she added. “Good at hiding. It’s been most of my life, in one way or another. Different centuries, different names. But it was always on my terms. I chose what to show. Who to be. This… isn’t like that. This has rules. Consequences.”
Clint didn’t say anything right away. Just nodded. “Still. You’re doing well. They wouldn’t have invited you to the auction otherwise.”
“Or maybe it’s all a trap.” Jane murmured, still staring at the ground.
“Could be,” Clint agreed. “Or maybe it’s not.”
When he spoke again, his voice was a little lower, a little more awkward. “And… how’s it going with him?” He didn’t say the name, just tilted his head slightly in the direction of the car.
Jane didn’t answer immediately. She bit the inside of her cheek, hesitant. “It’s been… complicated. But I think we’re finding some kind of rhythm.”
Clint studied her, the way her mouth twisted at the edges when she said it. Then he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck again.
“I know you brought a phone.” he said, voice flat now. “The burner’s not the only thing you’re using.”
Jane’s head snapped up, startled.
“I traced the signal.” Clint continued. “Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Not even Hill. But it was a dumb move, Jane.”
Jane looked away, silent.
“I just hope you haven’t told Stark—or Peter or anyone else—too much,” Clint said, his voice sharpening. “Because you might think you’re being smart, or subtle, or emotionally justified, but Jane—this isn’t a game. You don’t know who’s listening. You don’t know who’s tracing signals. You’re not invisible, and that phone? That’s a damn neon sign when you’re out here. If this operation collapses, it won’t be because of the Vogels. It’ll be because one of us got sloppy.”
“I know,” she said quietly, though her voice had lost some of its strength. “I know.”
Clint looked at her with that stern expression he wore like armor—brows drawn, lips pressed into a flat line, the kind of look that made her feel like she was seconds away from being grounded. And despite the weight of his words, despite the sharpness behind them, the thought nearly made her smile. There was something oddly comforting in it. Like the familiarity of an old rhythm, a role they both knew how to play.
He looked at her for a long moment. His tone shifted, softer now.
“Okay. Then no lecture. Not now.” Then, he stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You have my number. The burner. If you need anything—if things go sideways, if you need to talk to someone without it being traced, without it reaching the wrong ears… even his ears—you call me. Not Stark. Not Parker. Just me. Or at most Hill. Got it?”
The way he said it wasn’t commanding, but it didn’t leave much room for argument either.
Jane raised an eyebrow, letting out a small huff. “Alright. You can stop hovering now. I’m not twelve.”
Clint gave her a sidelong look. “You’re right. Probably not twelve. More like… a hundred and twenty. Or who knows how old you are at this point.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “In that case, you should probably start calling me Grandma.”
He scoffed, amused. “You’re not wise enough, hothead.”
Then, after a brief silence, her voice softened. She tilted her head, the sarcasm fading just a bit.
“Seriously though… thank you for coming.”
Clint didn’t smile this time. He just looked at her for a long moment, something more serious behind his eyes.
“Yeah. Well. I owed you. After Alaska… after those months…”
He left the rest unsaid.
Jane nodded slowly, her gaze dropping for a moment. Then, with a quiet breath, she straightened her shoulders.
Clint gestured vaguely toward the car. “Go on. Barnes looks like he’s brooding hard enough to fog up the windows.”
Jane snorted and, after a quick nod, she turned. Her footsteps steady as she made her way back.
She didn’t look back but, for a moment, the weight on her shoulders felt just a little bit lighter.
The forest now was alive with early birdsong and the rustle of wind through branches, but inside the car, the atmosphere was thick.
Jane kept her gaze fixed on the trees rushing by, her profile caught in that soft light. She didn’t speak. Not right away. And Bucky didn’t push. His hands stayed steady on the wheel, his eyes focused ahead, jaw tight. After a few minutes, maybe just to break the weight of the silence, he spoke.
“Barton seems pretty attached to you.” he said, his voice low but casual enough to feign indifference. It didn’t quite land that way.
Jane’s mouth twitched at the corners—not a smile, not really, but the suggestion of one. “You’re the second person who’s told me that.” she murmured while her eyes stayed on the trees. “And at this point, I’m starting to think it might be true.”
They didn’t speak for a while after that. The road dipped deeper into the woods, where the trees grew closer together, thickening on either side like a narrowing tunnel. Branches arched high overhead, casting long shadows that swallowed the sun almost entirely. What little light filtered through was fractured and fleeting, glinting like glass shards on the windshield.
Eventually, Jane shifted in her seat and spoke again—more to the window than to him. Her voice wasn’t sharp, but it was raw. Honest.
“You know,” she said, “I always imagined you differently.”
He glanced at her, just briefly. “Differently how?”
Her mouth was a thin line. “All rage and violence. Like a mindless monster.”
It didn’t come with venom. If anything, her tone was too quiet, too tired. Like she wasn’t accusing him, just stating a fact of how she used to make sense of the world.
Bucky exhaled through his nose. His grip on the wheel remained steady, but something in his posture shifted, slightly more upright, like bracing for impact.
“I’ve been called worse.”
Jane turned then. Not fully, just enough to see the side of his face, how the light hit the scar near his temple.
“You’re an assassin, James,” she said evenly. “And time… doesn’t change that.”
His eyes didn’t leave the road, but his voice lost that edge of pretense. “You know,” he said quietly, “that’s the first time you’ve called me by my name.”
Jane blinked. It took her a second to register what she’d said— James . She hadn’t meant to call him that. It had just… slipped out. But now that the word hung in the air, she could feel its weight.
It sounded different. Intimate. As if, without realizing it, she had pulled a brick from the wall they’d carefully built between them.
She held his gaze for a second. Just one.
And then she turned away. Back to the window. To the road. To neutral ground.
Because there was something dangerous in moments like this, something hard to deal with.
So she said nothing more. And neither did he. The road stretched ahead of them, long and uncertain. And for now, silence was the easiest choice.
They’d been driving for over half an hour, deeper into the forest, until the narrow road had blurred into little more than a dirt path.
Then, without warning, Bucky slowed the car and pulled over onto a gravel shoulder swallowed by moss and wild ferns.
Jane blinked, straightening slightly in her seat. “Why are we stopping here?” she asked, confused. “We’re nowhere near Paris. We’re still deep in the forest. What is this?”
Bucky didn’t answer right away. He turned off the ignition with a soft mechanical click, and the silence that followed felt heavier than it should have. No more gravel crunching under tires. No hum of the engine. Just the sound of their breathing and the faint rustle of leaves outside.
He finally looked at her.
She met his gaze, brow furrowed. There was something about the way he was staring—steady, too serious for a detour. It made her chest tighten, her instincts sharpening.
“Look,” he said, voice low. “I need to take you somewhere. And I need you to trust me.”
Jane drew back slightly, her expression hardening. “What’s going on?” she asked, trying to keep her tone even. “Where are we?”
He didn’t flinch. Just watched her, eyes fixed on hers like he was anchoring himself to something. “You’ll understand in a second,” he said. “But you have to promise me something before we go.”
“Promise you what?” she shot back. “How can I agree to anything when I don’t even know what this is?”
There was no anger in her voice, just wariness. It was the voice of someone who had walked into too many traps to ignore the sound of a closing door behind her.
Bucky hesitated, then added, “My plan was to bring you here tonight—after dark. When it wouldn’t draw attention. But… Clint beat me to it. And honestly, leaving and coming back again would be stupid, if not suspicious. I think we’re already pushing our luck.”
His voice was calm, but underneath it she could hear the tension. Like he was second-guessing every step, even as he kept moving forward.
Bucky let out a slow breath and rubbed his palms against his thighs. “You know I’d never jeopardize the mission. And I think—” his voice caught slightly, and then he steadied it, “I think you know, after everything this week, I wouldn’t do anything to put you in danger either. So I need you to just get out of the car and come with me. That’s it. Just that.”
Jane sat motionless for a moment, eyes flicking over his face, searching for something—deceit, maybe. Or a sign that this was one of those moments where things started to go wrong. But all she saw was sincerity. A strange kind of quiet resolve.
Eventually, she exhaled.
Her hand reached for the door handle, slow but deliberate. She opened the door and stepped out, her shoes crunching softly against the dry leaves on the ground.
Once upright, she shut the car door behind her and turned to face him. Her hair caught a faint breeze and lifted around her face like silk threads.
“Well,” she said, meeting his eyes again, “are we going, or what?”
Relief flickered in his features. It was not obvious, but it was there. A small breath. The ghost of a smile. He gave a silent nod and stepped out of the driver’s side, the door closing with a soft thunk behind him.
He didn’t explain further. Just turned and started walking into the woods.
Jane hesitated for just a second before following, scanning their surroundings. It was quiet, barely lit.
Her feet sunk slightly into the moss as she walked, her gaze flicking from tree to tree, from shadows to sunbeams. Everything looked the same. Green and old and endless. But there was something under her skin now. Not fear, not exactly, but a flicker of unease. A thrum in her chest that had less to do with where they were going and more to do with who she was following.
Was it stupid to trust him?
The back of Bucky’s figure was rigid. Focused. She watched the way his stride didn’t falter even once. Unlike her.
But she kept walking. And with each step, the forest seemed to swallow them a little more.
After what felt like fifteen or twenty minutes of walking, the trees started to thin just enough to let the clearing emerge—a patch of earth beside a slow-moving stream, where the light shimmered between the branches and dappled the ground in gold and green. The smell of damp moss mingled with faint traces of ash, the kind that linger after an old fire. Jane slowed her pace, squinting ahead.
Two tents. A compact campsite with scattered gear: folded chairs, a fire pit now cold and unlit, a pair of mugs left out beside a closed thermos. It looked lived-in, not abandoned. Someone had been here. Still was.
She turned to Bucky, her brows drawing tight. “What is this?”
But he didn’t answer her right away. Instead, he stepped forward, raising his voice just slightly as he scanned the quiet scene.
“Steve?” he called. “You here?”
For a beat, there was nothing. Just the murmur of the river, the quiet breath of wind through the leaves.
Then, the zip of a tent cut through the silence.
The flap pulled back, and a tall figure stepped out—broad-shouldered, dark blond, bearded. Steve Rogers. His features looked harder now, a little more weathered, but unmistakable. He blinked into the morning light and called toward the second tent.
“Nat? They’re here.”
That was when Jane’s stomach turned.
Because the second tent stirred. A few seconds later, the flap opened again, and a woman stepped out—short, tousled blonde bob, black tactical undershirt, eyes sharp and scanning. Natasha Romanoff. No mistaking her, either.
Jane stopped in her tracks, grabbing Bucky’s arm. Her fingers dug in slightly, reflexively.
“What the hell is going on?” she hissed. “What are they doing here?”
Bucky didn’t pull away. He held her gaze with a calm that only made her angrier. “They’re passing through. I keep in touch with Steve when I can. Well, never during the mission, but… he reached out recently. After our last contact, we realized we were both in Paris. Given the situation… it might be the last time we are able to see each other.”
He paused, but only for a moment. Like he was trying to find the right words. “I know it sounds crazy. I do. But I trust them. And I’m sure—this won’t put the mission at risk.”
“You’re sure?!” Her voice rose, then faltered as she glanced toward the pair now walking toward them. “Are you insane? What if someone followed us? What if communications were traced? This is reckless, Barnes!”
“I could’ve done this behind your back,” Bucky said. “I could’ve met them alone, without telling you anything. But I didn’t. I chose to involve you. I chose to trust you. You just need to do the same.”
Jane looked at him like he’d grown another head. “They’re fucking criminals!”
Bucky didn’t flinch. “Then I guess I am too. And yet, you’re still working with me.”
“That’s different.” she shot back, jaw tight. “With you I had no choice.”
And at this, something shifted in Bucky’s expression. It wasn’t overt, barely more than a flicker in his eyes. But she saw it. The way his mouth tensed. The way his gaze seemed to falter for a second.
He looked away, just briefly, like trying to hide the sting. But when he turned back to her, the mask was in place again. Neutral. Focused.
“Clint already brought us here. If someone’s watching, it’s too late to undo any of it. What matters now is trust. And I need you to trust me.”
Jane’s jaw tightened. “Trust is one thing,” she said. “But asking me to sit around and chat with two internationally wanted criminals—while we’re in deep cover on a mission that could determine whether or not another supersoldier program rises from the ashes—that’s something else entirely.”
She took a step closer, her voice just above a whisper now, meant only for him.
“You know how high the stakes are. You know what happens if this goes sideways. And you still thought this was a good idea?”
Her eyes searched his, brimming with disbelief. “What exactly are you expecting from me, Barnes?”
Jane’s gaze then snapped back to Steve and Natasha as they approached. She couldn’t let go of the unease tightening her gut. She didn’t like being out of control. And this… This felt like being blindsided.
Steve extended his hand toward her with a polite nod. “Jane Russo, right?” he said. “Or Violet Wing, I suppose. You’re already a bit of a star back in the States. Word travels. Especially after that hospital attack.”
Jane didn’t take his hand.
At that, Steve’s mouth twitched, just faintly. A ghost of a smile. He lowered his outstretched hand without protest, as if he’d half expected it. Beside him, Natasha arched a brow and shot him a sidelong glance. There was a flicker of amusement between them, “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. One of Stark’s own. Loyal to the core.”
“I’m loyal to my mission.” Jane replied. “And right now, you’re a risk to it.”
“You don’t have to see us as enemies,” Steve said calmly. “Being on different sides doesn’t make us a threat.”
“You’re not my enemy, Rogers.” Jane said, her voice clipped. “What you are is a complication. And right now, I can’t afford complications.”
She turned to Bucky sharply. “We need to go. Now.”
Before he could respond, Natasha spoke, her tone even. “You’re already here. What harm could a few hours do?”
Bucky looked at Jane, then he stepped forward, his voice low. “Just for today. Just this once. Can you trust me?.”
Jane’s lips parted, but no words came. Her instinct screamed to walk away. This, whatever this was, felt like walking straight into a trap. But turning back wouldn’t undo the fact that they had been there. That the contact had already happened.
She exhaled slowly through her nose, then gave a tight nod. “Two hours,” she said. “No more.”
She already knew she’d regret it. The entire idea was reckless—borderline insane. Just being there, surrounded by wanted fugitives, put them both at risk. If anyone had tracked them, even by accident, it could unravel everything. Their cover. The mission. The fragile balance they were still pretending wasn’t fractured.
And yet, the damage was already done. Clint had led them straight into this. Bucky had made his choice. Turning back now wouldn’t erase that. Wouldn’t fix it.
So she stayed. Against her better judgment.
Bucky gave a small, relieved smile.
Steve moved closer, trying again to bridge the space between them. But before he could speak, Natasha stepped in beside Jane and gestured toward the cold fire pit.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get the fire going.”
Jane didn’t move at first.
Her shoes remained rooted to the mossy ground as she watched the others settle in. She watched Bucky, specifically, the way his posture had already relaxed a fraction in Steve’s presence. The two men exchanged a few quiet words as they made their way toward the stream, Steve casually throwing an arm around Bucky’s shoulders in a gesture that was too easy. Too familiar. Like old times had never ended. Like the world hadn’t changed underneath them.
Jane’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Nearby, Natasha had crouched beside the dead fire pit, pulling the collar of her jacket tighter and beginning to gather dry twigs from the supply stacked under a tarp. Her movements were efficient, precise. She didn’t look at Jane, but there was something purposeful in the way she occupied the space. As if leaving a gap beside her on purpose. An invitation, silent and implied.
Still, Jane didn’t move.
She let her gaze drift from one face to the other, all of them once legends in a world that no longer had room for myths. She had studied their files. Knew their habits, their tells, the cracks in their stories. But seeing them in the flesh—seeing Steve Rogers laugh under his breath, seeing Romanoff brush hair from her eyes with a quick, almost childlike gesture—it all felt disarming.
Part of her, the part that was still cursed with curiosity, found them fascinating. It was like stepping into the pages of a classified report and finding the human margins scribbled in. Real, flawed, dangerous.
But the rest of her, the part trained to survive and calculate threats, couldn’t forget what they were.
Traitors.
They had turned their backs on Tony, on their team, on everything the Avengers were supposed to stand for. They’d made their choice, and that choice had shattered the world.
So what was stopping them from doing it again? What guarantee did she have that they wouldn’t compromise this mission too, either by accident or by design?
She glanced around the clearing. It was quiet. Secluded. Too easy to be ambushed here, too easy to disappear.
Jane’s jaw tightened. Her breath misted faintly in the cool morning air. She let out a slow sigh, the weight of her hesitation lingered for just another second—
Then she moved.
Her steps were careful as she made her way towards the fire pit. She didn’t look at Steve or Bucky. Didn’t look at the tents or the path they’d taken. Her eyes locked on Natasha, who was still busy arranging kindling.
She still didn’t trust them. Not even a little. But for now… she’d stay.
Jane sat down brushing a few damp needles off the moss-covered log beside Romanoff. She extended her right hand over the stones, palm facing up, and concentrated. A tongue of fire unfurled from her fingertip, burning blue at the core, before she flicked it with a smooth, practiced motion into the pit. The dry twigs caught instantly, crackling to life.
Across from her, Natasha paused mid-motion. She had been arranging kindling with the kind of ease that came from muscle memory, but now her hand hovered in the air. Her head tilted slightly, not alarmed—just curious. Impressed, even. Her expression was unreadable for a beat, then shifted into something faintly amused.
Behind them, Bucky’s voice floated in casually. “Told you she was something.”
Jane’s head snapped toward him. There was no teasing in his voice, no smugness. Just quiet certainty, like he hadn’t even thought twice about saying it aloud.
He caught her look but dropped his gaze quickly, already turning back to where Steve stood near the water’s edge.
Jane repeated those words in her mind a few times before focusing again.
Natasha, meanwhile, had straightened fully now and was watching Jane with the kind of alert focus that made her stomach tighten. “You have powers.” she said, not quite a question.
Jane looked down, her hand still outstretched toward the flames. She let new flickers dance across her fingers, smaller this time, like restless butterflies licking at her skin before vanishing into smoke. “I think I’ve always had them.” she said quietly. “But I only recently learned how to control them.”
Natasha knelt slowly, one knee pressed to the earth. “Like Rogers and Barnes?” she asked, tone still casual.
She frowned, unsure. “What do you mean?”
“You were experimented on?” Natasha clarified bluntly. “Modified?”
Jane shook her head, slightly uncomfortable now. “No. I was born like this.”
A beat.
Natasha tilted her head slightly, her eyes catching the flicker of firelight. “And is it just fire?” she asked, casually enough, but Jane could tell it wasn’t a throwaway question. There was something measured behind it. Curiosity, yes, but also a quiet kind of assessment. Natasha Romanoff, scanning her from the inside out, building a mental file.
Jane’s jaw tightened. She hated how the question sparked something in her—a flicker of need, even if unwanted. A need to prove something. To be seen.
She gave a small shake of her head. “No,” she said simply, her voice even.
Then she brushed her palms down the sides of her pants in a quick, automatic motion. A beat passed before she turned toward the stream, the sound of water trickling over smooth stones filling the quiet space between them.
She raised her hand, fingers gliding into a slow motion that looked fluid and practiced, almost like a conductor pulling music from the silence. The stream responded instantly. Water rose from it in long, shimmering ribbons, lifting into the air with uncanny grace. They twisted in thin blades of liquid hovering like silver snakes suspended in a currentless space.
Then, without a word, Jane flicked her wrist.
The water shot out in a smooth, silent burst. The blades sliced clean through the bark of a fallen log, leaving deep, fresh grooves in the wood. The impact made almost no sound, just a soft shhff —and then the water collapsed into the ground.
She hadn’t meant to show off, had she?
But still… part of her had wanted to.
When she finally turned, Natasha was watching her with the same unreadable expression. Not shocked. Not intimidated. Just… interested. A slight twitch at the corner of her mouth was the only giveaway.
Steve’s reaction, on the other hand, was much less subtle.
He stood a few feet away near the edge of the stream, arms loosely crossed, but his eyes were wide, visibly taken aback. He let out a quiet breath, then turned his head toward Bucky, eyebrows still slightly raised in visible surprise.
Bucky, standing just a few steps behind, gave a slow nod, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Told you,” he murmured, barely loud enough to carry. Steve huffed out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as if to say of course you did .
Jane caught the exchange out of the corner of her eye. And already, deep inside, a flicker of pride bloomed. She felt it coil, low and warm, but didn’t let it show. Not fully. Not more than necessary.
“I can manage the natural elements,” she said simply, returning to face Natasha. “And telekinesis. Some minor things too.” She left out the time travel, the aging loop, the way her own body betrayed time. That stayed buried, for now.
Natasha gave a soft whistle. “And here I thought I was special just for being able to kick people.”
It was a self-deprecating joke, clearly meant to lighten the air, but Jane didn’t smile. Not immediately. She studied the woman across from her, this legendary Black Widow whose file she had read over and over. Red in her ledger. A ghost of the Cold War. Reformed, but dangerous. She was… different than Jane had imagined. Softer in the mouth, sharper in the eyes.
“How did Tony find you?” Natasha asked after reaching into her pack and pulling out a collapsible coffee pot. She set it over the fire, arranging it with care.
Jane hesitated.
She could lie. Or deflect. But something about the moment, about the flickering firelight between them, the way Natasha’s voice wasn’t digging but simply asking—made her pause.
“It wasn’t Tony,” she said finally. “It was S.H.I.E.L.D. They found me. Trained me. Long before New York.”
Natasha looked up sharply. Her expression didn’t change much, but her whole posture did. It was as if something settled in her. Some unspoken understanding.
“I’m sorry.” she said. Simple. Honest. No pity, but something close to respect.
Jane shrugged, trying to make it seem like it didn’t matter. But her fingers curled slightly around her knee.
“You know how it is,” Natasha added after a moment. “I’ve been through it too. When S.H.I.E.L.D. trains you, they don’t go soft.”
Jane didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Natasha seemed to understand anyway.
After a moment, Natasha tilted her head slightly. “Bucky told me Clint was your mentor.”
Jane’s gaze snapped up. “He still is.”
“Hardass.”
Jane snorted despite herself. “That’s one word for it.”
Natasha’s smile was faint, but real. “He tries to be, at least. But underneath, he’s the kindest man I know.”
Jane’s face softened. “I don’t know if kind is the right word, but, yeah.”
There was a short pause, comfortable in a strange way.
“He’s home now.” Jane added. “They let him go after I finished training. He’s not under arrest anymore. Not hiding. He’s… just home.”
Something flickered in Natasha’s eyes—relief, maybe. Hope.
“Good,” she said quietly. “I’m glad. For him. And for his wife. I’m sure she was worried sick.”
Jane nodded. The fire crackled softly between them.
It wasn’t the kind of conversation Jane had expected to have tonight. Not with Natasha Romanoff. Not at all. But here they were, sitting in the woods like old acquaintances, trading pieces of their pasts like burnt offerings into the flame. Jane wasn’t sure she liked it. She still didn’t trust her. Not fully. Not yet. But maybe, just maybe, she didn’t hate her either.
Jane watched the flames shift and stretch, then broke the silence. “Why Paris?” she asked, her tone not accusatory, but direct. “Why are you here?”
Natasha didn’t answer right away. She leaned forward, checking the coffee pot balanced over the fire, then reached for four dented tin mugs. The scent of strong, bitter coffee wafted into the crisp morning air.
She poured a portion into Jane’s cup first and handed it to her, then served herself with a shrug.
“We were in England for a while,” she said finally, wrapping her hands around the warmth of her mug. “With Wanda and Vision. It was quiet. Safer, for a time.”
Jane looked at her over the rim of the cup but said nothing.
Romanoff took a sip and continued. “After that, France was easy to reach. Borders, back roads, old connections. We’ve been splitting up lately. Staying off the radar. Some nights it’s a cheap motel in the countryside. Others, like this—” she gestured around them with a small tilt of her mug, “—it’s a tent and a fire.”
Jane raised an eyebrow. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” Natasha said with a dry smile. “But it’s safer than getting too close to anyone. We’re recognizable. Especially Steve.”
She tilted her head toward the men standing by the water, their outlines softened by the morning light. Steve was crouching now, running his hand through the stream. Bucky stood beside him, arms crossed, listening to something Steve was saying with that intense stillness Jane had come to recognize in him.
“Try showing up at a gas station with that jawline and not turning heads.” Natasha muttered, amused.
Despite herself, Jane smirked.
Natasha turned her head slightly toward the men. “Coffee’s ready, soldier boys.” she called out. “Even the mighty need caffeine.”
Steve looked back with a half-smile. “You just want me alert so you can keep beating me at cards.”
Natasha raised her mug in salute, then took another sip, eyes never quite leaving Jane.
Jane let the steam hit her face. Her hands were cold despite the fire. Everything about this morning felt strange, off balance. She was surrounded by people she had considered enemies. Ghosts in dossiers. Names on lists. And yet, here they were. Drinking coffee. Sharing stories. Warming themselves by the same flames.
And she was still trying to decide whether that was a sign of progress… or a mistake she would come to regret.
Bucky and Steve approached the fire with slow, unhurried steps, hands buried deep in their jacket pockets, boots crunching softly on the forest floor. The air was brisk, curling their breath into ghostly plumes. Without a word, they settled onto the log opposite Jane, leaving Natasha between them. Steve adjusted the hood of his jacket and gave Jane a polite nod, his expression easy. Bucky dropped down beside him, elbows resting on his knees, eyes briefly meeting Jane’s before flicking away again.
Natasha arched a brow and lifted her mug. “Alright, boys. What were you whispering about with those serious little faces?”
Bucky smirked faintly, glancing toward Steve before replying. “Steve was telling me about that time in Manchester. Some lady on the street started screaming ‘Captain America! You scoundrel!’ and chased him three blocks. You had to duck into a bakery just to get her off your trail, right?”
The words came out with a lightness Jane wasn’t used to hearing from him. There was a subtle curve to his lips, a glint in his eyes that softened the usual steel in his gaze. He looked younger in that moment—less like the man she’d been forced to share a hotel room with under layers of mutual suspicion, and more like someone entirely different. Someone from another life.
Steve let out a short laugh, his cheeks coloring slightly. “She had one of those giant purses,” he added, mock-defensive. “I wasn’t about to get smacked in the face with a leather tote the size of a car battery.”
Natasha chuckled into her coffee, while Jane watched the exchange with a reserved expression. It was strange, hearing these fragments of normalcy slip so easily from their mouths.
“And while I was reliving the trauma,” Steve continued with a pointed glance at Bucky, “he was walking me through how your mission here involves lounging in a luxury villa with a pool and full-board catering. Truly, the most harrowing assignment.”
He dragged out the last few words with theatrical irony, voice light but unmistakably teasing. Bucky gave him a look half amused, half exasperated. Across the fire, Jane’s gaze locked with his for the briefest moment. There was a flicker there, maybe irritation or embarrassment, but whatever it was, it vanished as quickly as it had come.
She looked away first, setting her mug down more firmly than necessary. “It’s not exactly a vacation,” she said sharply, her voice colder than she intended. “Trying to maintain control in a place where people believe they own your time, your dignity, your body… just because they’re wealthy and powerful? Always being watched. Constantly second-guessing your every word, every glance, every breath. That’s not luxury. That’s a prison with silk sheets.”
Bucky’s brows drew together, his tone shifting as he leaned slightly forward. “Jane, I didn’t mean it that way. You know I wouldn’t.”
There was a genuine note of concern in his voice, almost too genuine. Jane could feel her pulse quicken, but she didn’t lift her eyes.
Steve’s face changed too. Some of the mirth drained away, replaced with something softer. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Maybe that joke landed worse than I thought. That was… thoughtless.”
Jane didn’t respond. She picked up her mug again, blew on the surface of her coffee as if it needed to cool, and took another sip. A shield in ceramic.
The silence that followed stretched—just long enough to tighten—but Natasha, ever the tactician, swooped in to cut it short.
“You know,” she said, swirling the dregs of her coffee in her tin mug, “this reminds me of a mission I had once. Somewhere in the Baltics. Latvia, maybe. I had to get close to this shipping magnate—old money, old family, enormous ego. He thought that just because I was sent to ‘negotiate’ in person, it meant he had bought a weekend with me.”
Her tone was light, even casual, but Jane didn’t miss the bitterness just beneath it. Nor the way Natasha’s fingers subtly tightened around the mug’s handle. It wasn’t what she said, it was what she didn’t need to say.
Steve glanced over at her with a flicker of concern, but Natasha’s eyes stayed on the fire, a faint, crooked smile playing on her lips. “You know the type,” she added. “The ones who think a few glasses of wine and a fireworks show entitle them to your time. Your attention. That your smile is owed. That silence equals consent.”
Jane said nothing at first. Her own hands had gone still around her mug. But her thoughts spiraled back to Christian Vogel’s cloying cologne, the oily tone of his voice, the way his hand had slid down her back too slowly, too confidently. Like he was already savoring his imagined ownership. Like she had no say.
Her stomach turned. She swallowed hard.
“Yeah,” she said eventually, voice low. “I know the type.”
Natasha turned just slightly toward her, enough to catch Jane’s eyes. There was no smirk this time, just a quiet, grim sort of understanding. Woman to woman. Soldier to soldier. Survivor to survivor.
“You do what you have to,” she said softly. “You endure it. Then you finish the job.”
Jane nodded stiffly. The words weren’t comforting. They weren’t meant to be. But they rang with a kind of brutal truth she understood all too well.
Then, as if catching herself getting too close to old scars, Natasha exhaled and stretched her legs out in front of her with a sigh.
“Anyway,” she said, flicking a pine needle off her knee, “he ended up spending the next six years in a prison cell in Cyprus. So… I guess I made a lasting impression.”
Steve let out a chuckle, shaking his head. “You always did have a flair for diplomacy.”
“Oh please,” Natasha shot back, feigning offense. “You’re just bitter because my last undercover op went smoother than yours.”
Steve raised his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty as charged.”
Jane watched the exchange unfold, the ease between them disarming. These were fugitives. Names she’d seen in classified files, marked with red flags and warnings. People she had been trained to view as threats. And yet… here they were. Laughing. Teasing. Sharing war stories over coffee and firelight.
Would Tony have looked at them the same way she had? With suspicion, with distance? Or would he have seen them as part of the same, fractured family?
Bucky hadn’t spoken in a while. He sat with his forearms resting on his knees, eyes downcast, but she could tell he was listening. Then, as if sensing her glance, he looked up, and for a moment, their eyes met. There was something there. Not pity. Not apology. Something more like waiting. As if he was holding something back until she was ready.
She looked away first. Again.
The chill that had crept in during the late morning hadn’t eased. A breeze off the water caught the edges of her sleeves, brushing cool fingers across her skin. She shivered without meaning to and instinctively rubbed her arms, trying to create some warmth. Her jacket wasn’t thick enough for the forest’s wet breath; she’d dressed thinking of Paris, not pine and moss and shaded glades.
The fire was still burning low.
“We’ll need more wood.” Bucky said suddenly, voice low but clear.
Natasha, who was now crouching beside the fire pit with a small knife and a half-chopped onion, tilted her head. “If you want lunch, you better hurry.” she warned. “I’m not holding back the good parts for latecomers.”
Steve smiled as he stood, brushing his palms on his jeans. “She’s not kidding.” he said. Then he bent down, pressed a quick kiss to the top of Natasha’s head—so casual and still so caring—and added, “Don’t let her fool you, Jane. She always takes the biggest share.”
Bucky stood too, casting a glance in Jane’s direction without her really noticing.
Natasha gave her a knowing smile before returning to her makeshift prep station. “We don’t have much.” she said over her shoulder, “but I’ll make it pass. Something quick. Not bad for rebels in hiding.”
But Jane didn’t have time to reply.
Without a word, Bucky stepped close behind her. She felt him before she saw him. His presence was something she’d grown used to, even when it unsettled her. Then, with a rustle of fabric, he slipped off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
She stayed still.
The gesture was quiet, almost careless, but the weight of it hit her like a stone. Her first instinct was to shrug it off, hand it back. But the warmth of it, sudden and enveloping, caught her off guard. So did the scent. The sharp mint, the clean bite of citrus. She inhaled the familiar cologne without meaning to. The lining was still warm from his body.
Her fingers clenched around fabric, but she didn’t turn to look at him.
From her peripheral vision, she caught the way Natasha had noticed, had paused just a beat longer than necessary before continuing her slicing. And Steve, he saw too. But neither of them said a word.
The two men left a moment later, ducking past the trees in search of firewood. The crunch of leaves under their boots grew softer, then vanished entirely.
Jane was left with the silence, and with Natasha, who had returned to humming softly under her breath as she stirred the contents of a pan. The moment felt oddly suspended, like the forest was holding its breath.
Then, it happened.
The sharp, unmistakable trill of a message tone.
It was soft. Barely more than a whisper beneath the hum of the camp and the wind rustling through the canopy. Natasha didn’t flinch. She had her back turned, focused on the small pot now steaming over the fire. But Jane… Jane went rigid.
Her heart seized in her chest.
That sound.
Only three people could contact her on her cellphone. Clint. Peter. Tony.
Tony.
She could feel the heat rising in her chest. Not the kind from fire, but the flush of panic and expectation at the same time. Of something dangerously close to longing.
Her eyes flicked toward her bag. It was laying right there, beside the log where she’d been sitting. She didn’t move at first. Couldn’t. But then the sound came again—a second chime…
Natasha was still turned away.
Jane reached. The movement was fast. Too fast.
She unzipped the side pocket and pulled the phone out in one fluid motion, shielding the screen with her hand. Her thumb swiped quickly. The message blinked up at her in grey-blue text.
Tony:
I need to talk to you.
Tony:
I’ll call around seven. Let me know if it’s okay.
Jane’s fingers hovered above the screen. She typed a quick reply, but the bar stayed stuck. No signal. She pressed her lips together in frustration, let out a soft huff of air, and dropped the phone back into the bag with a little more force than she meant to.
Then she breathed. In. Out. And stood.
“Need help?” she asked, her voice too even.
Natasha looked over, surprised, but nodded. “Sure. If you know how to chop mushrooms without losing a finger, you’re hired.”
Jane crouched beside her, hands trembling just enough to make her conscious of every movement. But she didn’t show it. She wouldn’t. Not here.
She didn’t see the figure in the trees. But Bucky had paused halfway through the forest. Half-hidden behind a mossy trunk, he’d caught the faint glow of the screen, the urgency in her movements.
And he knew.
That wasn’t one of their devices. That wasn’t from Barton. That was a secret.
He didn’t say anything. Just watched. His expression unreadable, eyes shadowed beneath his brow. Then Steve’s voice called out “Hey, come on, you getting sentimental out there?”, and Bucky turned toward the sound, his boots crunching over damp ground as he rejoined the path.
The forest swallowed them quickly, muffling the crackle of the campfire and the quiet murmur of Natasha’s voice. Bucky walked beside Steve without speaking, the rhythm of their steps uneven against the soft, pine-blanketed ground. The cold had lost its bite now that the sun was higher, but the damp still clung to their skin, the forest air heavy with last night’s rain.
After a while, Steve broke the silence, eyes forward. “She’s got quite the fire in her, doesn’t she?”
Bucky didn’t look up. He grabbed a fallen branch and snapped it across his knee. “Yeah,” he muttered. “She does.”
Steve raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”
“What?”
“I’ve seen that look before,” Steve said, glancing at him sidelong as he unsheathed a small hatchet. “The way you gave her your jacket. The way you looked at her.”
Bucky froze. For just a second. Then, slowly, he knelt and began to arrange the kindling, deliberately ignoring Steve’s gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on,” Steve said, voice warm but firm. “You forget who you’re talking to? I’ve known you since we were kids. I know what it looks like when you’re trying not to feel something.”
Bucky gave a half-laugh, short and without mirth. “That so?”
Steve didn’t answer immediately. He watched Bucky for a moment, then said, “You like her.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bucky replied flatly.
Steve didn’t flinch. “Then, explain it to me.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose, then stood upright. “It’s a long story.”
Steve straightened too, leaning the handle of the axe against his shoulder. “I’ve got plenty of time, if you didn’t notice.”
For a moment, Bucky didn’t speak. Then he planted the axe Steve gave him into the soft bark of a rotted log and crossed his arms, eyes narrowing toward the treetops. “She’s Tony Stark’s wife.”
Steve blinked. “Come again?”
“She was… she is—she was married to Stark.” Bucky’s voice was low, cautious, like he wasn’t sure he believed the words himself.
There was a long beat. “You mean—Pepper’s Tony? That Tony?”
Bucky exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck with a tired hand.
“First of all, I have no idea of who Pepper is.” he said. “And second… I don’t think he remembers any of it anyway. So yeah, it’s complicated.”
Steve gave him a disbelieving look. “What does it mean that he doesn’t remember? And when could they have even…?”
“In the ‘90s.” Bucky said quietly, perfectly aware of how absurd it all sounded.
Steve’s brows furrowed. “That makes no sense. That girl’s what, twenty-six?”
Bucky stopped mid-swing, the blade of the axe buried halfway into a log. He didn’t answer right away. His hands tightened on the wooden handle, jaw flexing as he stared down at the splintered grain. There was a moment, brief but weighted, where he seemed to debate something with himself. When he finally spoke, it was quiet. Careful.
“She’s not twenty-six,” he said. “She’s… not even close.”
Steve straightened, sensing the change in his tone. “What do you mean?”
Bucky lifted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “She’s a time traveler.”
The words hung in the air like a gunshot. Bucky didn’t look at Steve right away, almost like he regretted saying it the second it left his mouth. But he couldn’t take it back now.
Steve blinked. “A… time traveler?” he repeated slowly, like testing the shape of the words in his mouth might make them make more sense.
Bucky finally looked at him. “Yeah.”
There was silence between them, punctuated only by the rustling leaves overhead and the distant murmur of Natasha’s voice back at the campsite. Steve looked at him like he was trying to see if he was joking.
“I know how it sounds.” Bucky added, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hell, I wouldn’t believe it either if I hadn’t seen what she can do.”
Steve exhaled, still processing. “Are you sure she’s from Earth?”
“As far as I know, yeah,” Bucky said, with a dry, incredulous huff. “She’s Italian. Apparently.” That earned a short laugh from both of them—half disbelief, half relief just to let the absurdity breathe.
“I don’t even think ‘Jane’ is her real name.” Bucky went on, voice lower now, like he was slowly unpacking something he hadn’t said aloud before. “Fury and Barton definitely know more. Barton gave me the basics when he told me I’d be partnering with her on this mission. But he didn’t go into detail. Just said she’s not like the others. That she’s… seen things. Been through things. And yeah, she’s probably a few hundred years old, maybe more. Technically older than either of us. Which, you know… is saying something.”
Steve dragged a hand down his face, letting out a soft, almost disbelieving breath. “Jesus.”
Bucky didn’t respond. He just stepped on the log, gripped the axe again, and split the remaining half with one hard swing.
After a few seconds, he added, “She’s still loyal to Stark. Even now. Even though he doesn’t remember her.”
Steve raised his head again, the shift in Bucky’s voice too subtle to miss. “And why he doesn’t?”
“I think she used some kind of mind control,” Bucky said, brow furrowing as if the very idea made him uncomfortable. “Or… maybe not control. More like erasure. Wipe. I don’t know. She doesn’t talk about it. Ever. And when she does, it’s usually because we’re in the middle of a fight.”
He let the axe rest against the tree trunk, leaning on it slightly as if the weight of the story pressed heavier than the blade.
“I just know that she made him forget her. For his own good, I think. But she’s still loyal to him. Even if he has no idea she ever existed.”
Steve watched him carefully, lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s… a lot.”
“And she blames me,” Bucky then said, in a tone barely above a whisper. “For what happened to his parents.”
Steve didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, letting the words settle.
“She’s right,” Bucky added after a moment. “It was me. My hands. My face. Even if it was Hydra’s programming behind it… it was still me.”
“That wasn’t you,” Steve said quietly. “And you know it.”
Bucky didn’t answer. He stared at the axe in his hand, then looked out toward the trees where Jane was. Or had been. “I don’t think she cares about that distinction,” he said. “And honestly? I can’t blame her.”
There was a silence between them again. Heavy, but not hostile. More like the quiet you leave around something broken, because speaking too loudly might make it worse.
“She’s been through hell, Steve.” Bucky said eventually. “And I think, somewhere along the way, I have my part of blame. Even if I don’t exactly know how.”
Steve exhaled, glancing toward the treeline. “But she still chose to be here.”
Bucky shrugged. “For the mission. Not for me.”
“But she’s not walking away either.” Steve murmured.
Bucky didn’t respond to that. He just stared at the next piece of wood, and split it clean down the center.
After a long beat, he spoke again, voice lower now, almost like he wasn’t sure he should be saying it at all.
“You know,” he said, eyes still on the pile of firewood, “this isn’t even the first time we’ve met. Me and her.”
Steve turned toward him, looking even more confused than before.
“I met her before the war,” Bucky continued, lips pressing together into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Before everything.”
Steve blinked, trying to parse what he’d just heard. “Before the war…? When?!”
There was the briefest flicker of nostalgia across Bucky’s face as he finally glanced at Steve. “Remember the night before I shipped out to England? We were out in Brooklyn, hopping bars. You and me.”
Steve nodded slowly. “Yeah, I remember. We got separated at some point. You said you’d met someone. Some girl.”
A pause. Then his eyes widened slightly. “Wait… you said her name was Lily. Or Lana, something like that.”
Bucky let out a quiet huff and shook his head. “Lily,” he murmured. “That’s what she told me to call her.”
Steve’s expression turned pensive. “I remember. You talked about her a lot, it stuck with me. During the war, when we were in the barracks, I’d sometimes hear you say her name in your sleep.”
“Yeah,” Bucky said, finally allowing himself a small, bitter smile. “That was her.”
Steve stared at him, eyebrows lifting, disbelief written plainly across his face. “That was Jane?!”
Bucky just nodded.
A moment of stunned silence passed before Steve ran a hand through his hair. “Do you realize how… impossibly crazy this all sounds?”
“There’s a word for it,” Bucky muttered, “but I don’t think it even covers it.”
Steve gave a soft, incredulous laugh, half amusement, half exhale. “Sounds like a novel, really.”
Bucky gave no answer. Instead, he drove the axe into the next log with a little more force than necessary. Splinters flew, catching the light like tiny shards of memory.
Steve took a step closer. “She saw the real you. That counts for something, Buck.”
Bucky didn’t look up. “Not to her. Not now.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’ve seen her eyes when she looks at me.” His voice was even, but something broke beneath it. “She doesn’t see the man from that night. She sees the one who took everything from the man she loved.”
“You weren’t in control.” Steve said gently.
“It doesn’t change what happened,” Bucky replied. “It doesn’t bring them back. And it sure as hell doesn’t make it easier for her.”
“But you care about her.”
He didn’t deny it. Just looked out toward the trees again, jaw tense.
Steve let the moment stretch before speaking again. “Maybe she’s angry. Maybe she’s hurting. But I don’t think it’s because of who you used to be. I think it’s because you remind her of everything she’s trying not to feel.”
Bucky scoffed quietly. “That’s not comforting.”
“No,” Steve admitted. “But it’s human.”
Bucky lifted the axe again, split another log clean in half, then let the blade rest in the wood. He stared down at it, jaw set. But after a few seconds, a different glint came into his eyes. Something quieter. Almost amused.
“By the way,” he added, turning his head just enough to glance at Steve, “I’ve noticed the way you look at Romanoff, too.”
Steve stiffened slightly, caught off guard. His eyes dropped to the bundle of logs in his arms, as if they’d suddenly become fascinating. A faint smile tugged at his lips, and he gave a noncommittal shrug. “Maybe we’ll talk about that another day.”
Bucky huffed, smirking as he straightened up. “Hell no. I just spilled my guts. Your turn, Rogers.”
Steve chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “You really don’t hold back, do you?”
“And yet you’re still here.” Bucky shot back, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Steve sighed dramatically, muttering something Bucky couldn’t quite understand. But there was a warmth between them now. A shift.
Then Bucky tilted his head and said, almost too casually, “So… where do you wanna start?”
Steve looked up at the sky, sighed like a man preparing for war, and shook his head with a groan. “God help me.”
The meal was long gone, but the pan Natasha had used still bore the evidence of it—small bits clinging to the edges, a faint trail of steam rising from where it had barely cooled. Jane sat with her legs tucked beneath her, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, not exactly. Just… filled. Not with words, but with the kind of noise that lived inside Jane’s head and refused to quiet down.
She had sent the message.
Yes.
One word. That’s all she’d allowed herself to write to Tony before the screen had flickered and gone black. Her fingers had hovered over the phone for far too long before finally pressing send. And now it was dead. She hadn’t charged it in days. It was too risky with Bucky always around, with no real way to explain why she was keeping an unauthorized smartphone in the lining of her jacket.
It wasn’t just the battery. It was the idea of him. The possibility that Tony had come looking for her, had something to say. That thought looped through her head like static: what if I’m too late? What if I miss it?
“Hey.”
Jane blinked.
“A penny for your thoughts.” Natasha said softly, raising a brow as she poked at the leftover crumbs in the pan with a fork.
Jane exhaled through her nose and uncrossed her arms. “It’s been more than two hours. They should’ve been back by now.”
She shrugged with a faint, amused snort. “They haven’t seen each other in a while. Who knows when they’ll get another chance.”
“That’s not an excuse,” Jane said, sharper than she meant. “We agreed on a window. Two hours. This isn’t some reunion in Central Park. If they’ve compromised our timing—”
“I get it,” Natasha interrupted, not unkindly. “Believe me. But I’ve worked with Steve Rogers long enough to know he thinks the world will pause for him when he needs a moment.” Then, after a moment of silence, she continued “You care about this mission a lot, don’t you?”
Jane nodded, slowly. “I have to.”
“I admire that,” Natasha said. “There were times I didn’t. Not really. I went where they told me, did what they said. But I didn’t always believe in it. Not the way you seem to.”
Jane didn’t answer right away. Instead, her eyes wandered to the edge of the camp, where the trees had darkened. At some point, the sunlight had faded, and the sky had turned a dull slate. The first drops of rain landed silently on Natasha’s bleached-blonde hair, beading like crystals before sliding off. Jane watched them, almost mesmerized, until more followed—thicker now. A gust of wind curled through the clearing, shaking the leaves overhead.
Then came the thunder. Distant at first, but rolling louder with each passing minute.
“We should get inside.” Natasha said, already rising and grabbing the pan.
By the time they slipped into her tent, the storm had hit in full. Rain poured in sheets over the canopy, and the trees groaned under the weight of it. Lightning flared white across the darkening sky, followed by a crack of thunder that seemed to shake the earth.
Jane hugged her knees to her chest, staring at the walls of the tent as if she could will the storm to stop. The battery was dead. Her message had gone through, but what if he replied? What if—
Footsteps.
Soft at first, then louder. Someone approaching. She sat up straighter.
“Natasha, it’s us.” Steve’s voice called from just outside. He didn’t open the flap, but his tone was easy. “Mind if we join you in here? Just until it lets up.”
She looked at Jane, but she was already unzipping the flap before Romanoff could respond. She stepped out, rain lashing her face and soaking instantly into her clothes. The cold slapped her skin, but she barely felt it. Her eyes locked on Bucky.
“You have to come with me,” she said without preamble. “It’s late. We need to go.”
Rain dripped from Bucky’s hair onto his cheeks, running down the side of his face like sweat. His shirt clung to his chest, soaked through. He glanced toward Steve, then back at her, lips parting slightly in confusion.
Steve raised a hand in protest. “It’s pouring, Jane. The forest’s not safe to drive in this. We could skid or worse. We just need to wait it out.”
“I don’t have time to wait.” Jane snapped.
Bucky stepped forward, eyes narrowing. “Why not? What’s so important?”
Jane bit the inside of her cheek. She couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t admit that she was desperate to get back to the hotel in case Tony answered. That this thing, this goddamn message, had her wrapped so tight she couldn’t breathe.
“You know why,” she said, her voice lower. “The mission.”
“The mission?” Bucky repeated, almost flatly. “You think Fury would want us to drive off a muddy cliff for the mission?”
Jane didn’t answer. Her gaze dropped to the earth, to the muddy ground beneath her shoes. Water was seeping into the fabric, chilling her toes. A raindrop slid into her eye. She blinked it away.
He was staring at her, serious now. The storm blurred the edges of his face, softened the hard lines just enough to make them unfamiliar again. His hair, dark and heavy from the rain, hung messily across his forehead, plastered against his skin.
And those eyes, they still looked startlingly blue, even in the dim storm light.
She forced herself to look away.
This wasn’t the time. Wasn’t the place. And whatever flickered under her skin whenever he looked at her like that, she didn’t want to give it a name.
She ground her heel into the wet soil, anchoring herself, then she clenched her jaw and turned her back to him, fingers fumbling with the tent’s zipper.
“Fine,” she muttered. “We’ll wait. Until it stops.”
And without another word, she turned and reentered the tent, zipping the flap shut behind her with a firm, almost angry tug.
But he storm hadn’t let up.
Rain had continued its merciless rhythm well into the afternoon, drumming against the fabric of the tents like impatient fingers tapping on glass. By the time the sun vanished behind the curtain of clouds, the sky had turned from dull silver to charcoal, and the campsite was swallowed by darkness. There were no artificial lights to guide them. No streetlamps. No glowing dashboards. Nothing but the occasional flicker of lightning carving jagged scars into the sky—too brief, too erratic to count on. Driving back through the forest in those conditions was out of the question. Too dangerous. Too reckless. Even Natasha had agreed.
Jane hadn’t slept. Not really.
She had laid in silence, wrapped in a borrowed sleeping bag. Wanda’s. Natasha had told her with a shrug and a faint smirk. “She won’t mind. You need it more than she does.” But wrapped in a stranger’s scent and the muffled confines of the tent, she had stared into the dark with eyes that wouldn’t close.
The call, of course, was gone. Whatever Tony had meant to say, whatever message he wanted to share with her—it had been lost. And now, she could only wonder. Had he tried again? Had he waited, confused, staring at the absence of her reply? Had he worried?
Or had he just… given up?
She closed her eyes, tried to block those thoughts out. But every time she drifted near the edge of sleep, something dragged her back.
A sound.
Not thunder this time, but something quieter. More human.
A broken sigh. A fragmented phrase. A low, wounded groan that drifted from the adjacent tent like a ghost.
Bucky.
She didn’t need to see him to picture it. His body, twisting in the confines of the sleeping bag. The sweat, clinging to his brow despite the cold. His fists clenched so tightly the knuckles turned bone-white—if not for the fact that one of them was vibranium. His voice muttering disjointed names and memories. Some he couldn’t place. Others he probably wished he could forget.
She knew that kind of night. Intimately.
And a part of her, some foolish, aching part, had wanted to get up. Not to say anything. Not even to touch him. Just… to be there. The way he had been for her, those long, silent days when she couldn’t sit up, couldn’t eat, couldn’t do anything but exist under the weight of fever and memories.
But the idea was absurd.
What would she do? Crawl into his tent and watch him twist in the dark? She couldn’t save him from his demons. Just as he couldn’t save her from hers.
So she stayed still. And eventually, night passed.
The rain had slowed to a whisper, and in the quiet hours before dawn, Jane slipped out of the sleeping bag and crept to the tent’s zipper. She peeled it open cautiously, careful not to wake Natasha, and stepped outside.
The air was heavy with moisture, thick and cool against her skin. She hugged her borrowed hoodie tighter around her body and sat down on one of the logs surrounding the fire pit. It was still damp. Everything was. The wood, the grass, the soil beneath her feet. A fine mist curled from the treetops, kissed by the pale light of the morning.
She exhaled slowly, watching the steam rise from her breath like a ghost being let go.
The forest around them was still. No birdsong yet. No voices. Just the slow, steady dripping of rain sliding from leaves and tents and branches above.
Jane rubbed her hands together for warmth and rested her chin in them. Her eyes burned. Not from tears, but from sheer exhaustion. Her mind felt like a wire pulled too tight, humming with static and questions. Every minute that passed felt heavier than the last. Her thoughts refused to untangle themselves. They just spun and spun—Tony’s message, Bucky’s sleep-torn murmurs, the mission, the secrets, her own betrayal of everything she used to believe she stood for.
She had never felt more like a fraud. Or more tired of pretending she wasn’t.
A squirrel darted from one branch to another, its small shape barely a blur through the morning fog. Jane blinked, startled by the sudden motion, and shook her head.
She wanted to leave this place. This forest. This camp. This moment in time that felt suspended between things said and unsaid. She wanted noise again. People. Light. Something to anchor her.
But more than anything, she wanted that stupid phone to turn back on.
She wrapped her arms around herself and stared into the misty woods, wondering if the sun would ever bother to rise fully, or if the day would just remain gray and half-born. It felt appropriate, in a way.
Somewhere behind her, a tent zipper dragged open with a tired rasp. But Jane didn’t turn. She stayed exactly where she was, trying to gather the pieces of herself before someone came to ask for them.
Bucky’s footsteps were soft over the damp earth. Jane heard him before she saw him—boots brushing wet grass, the quiet rustle of his jacket. Then he appeared beside her, folding his arms as he stood a step away, watching the morning fog drift between the trees.
“I’m sorry we got stuck here,” he said after a moment, voice low. “Believe me, it wasn’t what I planned. I meant what I told you. I wanted to keep my word.”
Jane turned her head slightly toward him, her expression unreadable. “Well… it didn’t work out that way, did it?”
He didn’t answer. Neither did she.
She rubbed her arms, the air still damp and cool against her skin. “It’s clear now,” she added, nodding toward the sky. “We can head back.”
Their eyes met briefly, just a flicker of shared silence, before they both looked away.
“Did you sleep?” she asked, almost casually. “It was cold last night. Not exactly comfortable.”
“Not much,” Bucky admitted. “You?”
Jane shook her head, exhaling. “I don’t know how Rogers and Romanoff do it. Sleeping out here like it’s normal. I just… I want to get back to Paris. Honestly.”
As she said it, a thought crept in—uninvited. It had been the first night they hadn’t slept in the same bed for weeks.
She hesitated, then added, “It’s not them. I just—want to go back. That’s all.”
He looked at her then. For a second, it seemed like he might say something. Like something real was pressing at the edge of his mouth, demanding to be let out.
But then he just nodded.
“Yeah,” he said simply. “I’ll go tell Steve we’re leaving.”
And just like that, he turned and walked away.
The goodbyes were brief.
Natasha was the first to speak, her voice low and even. “Take care of yourselves.” she said, offering Jane a half-smile that, despite its restraint, felt oddly sincere. There was no forced warmth in it, no performative kindness. Natasha Romanoff wasn’t the type to fawn or gush, but in that moment, Jane saw something she hadn’t before: respect. Maybe even a kind of protective solidarity. It wasn’t enough to erase Jane’s wariness, but it softened the sharp edges.
She gave her a small nod in return. No words. Just that. And it was enough.
The same couldn’t be said for Rogers. No matter how polite he was, how trustworthy he may have been in the eyes of others, to Jane he remained Captain America. A symbol wrapped in too many contradictions. After everything he had done, trust wasn’t something Jane could give freely.
He stood a little behind Natasha, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He gave Jane a polite tilt of the head, as if recognizing her presence without quite knowing how to address it.
She looked at him, and he looked back. Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be.
Bucky’s voice cut through the stillness. “I’m happy we were able to meet.” he said, his tone neutral, but Jane noticed the subtle smile on his face.
Steve reached out, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “Keep each other alive.” he said simply.
“We’ll try.” Bucky replied.
With that, they left.
The ride back was a quiet one. French radio hosts murmured between soft bursts of pop music and piano ballads, but the car remained mostly still, save for the occasional glance between Jane and Bucky that neither of them acknowledged out loud. With every mile that put distance between her and that suffocating forest, Jane felt a bit more air return to her lungs. Her clothes were dry now, and her skin had finally stopped feeling clammy. But it was more than that. It was the weight of something unseen, slowly lifting. She didn’t know if it was relief or guilt.
When they stepped into their suite, the quiet luxury of the hotel felt like another planet entirely.
And that’s when they saw it.
There, perfectly centered on the table in the sitting area, was a folded note. An elegant, cream-colored cardstock with gold embossed letters. At the top, in calligraphic ink, it read:
Mr. and Mrs. Young.
Jane’s breath caught as Bucky stepped forward to open it. Inside was a single sheet, thick and perfumed faintly with lavender. The writing was precise, clean, almost mechanical in its elegance:
We are delighted to invite you to our special event. The exact location will remain confidential until arrival. However, you are required to present yourselves at:
Aéroport de Toussus-le-Noble, Private Gate 3
Saturday, April 29th. 6 p.m.
Your presence is not only expected, it is essential.
Thank you for your continued friendship.
The Vogels.
No signature. No additional instructions. Just a date, two days from now, and a time.
Jane’s heart skipped. This was it. The auction.
She looked up at Bucky, who exhaled through his nose with something that might have been relief. Or tension. Maybe both.
“We’re close,” he said, voice low. “Really close. This is what we’ve been waiting for.”
Jane nodded, but her gaze was already drifting. Her heart was pounding. It was all happening. They were almost at the end of the mission. They were almost at the point where all of it—the false names, the games, the lies—would lead to something real. A confrontation. A choice.
“I know,” she said, keeping her tone neutral. “The Vogels wouldn’t call us in like this if they weren’t ready to move. It means the deal is real. It means it’s happening.”
He nodded once, then looked at her, longer than necessary. “And it means we don’t have time to be distracted.”
That word hit something raw in her. She blinked.
“Was that aimed at me?” she asked quietly, folding her arms.
Bucky shook his head, but it wasn’t quite a denial. “I’m just saying… you’ve been somewhere else lately. Distant.”
She gave a bitter half-smile. “I could say the same about you.”
He took a breath, jaw tight. “We need to be perfectly on sync. Especially now. If you need to tell me something, Jane—”
“I don’t.” she cut in, sharper than she intended. “I know what we have to do. What I have to do”
Their eyes met, tense. Then she softened, just slightly. “I just need a minute, now. I need to get changed.”
Bucky looked like he wanted to say more, but he held back. “Alright,” he said quietly. “I’ll wait for you.”
She hesitated for half a second. “Thanks.”
And before he could respond, she turned on her heel and slipped into the bathroom, closing the door behind her with a soft but decisive click.
But she didn’t change. Not yet.
Instead, she leaned back against the door and drew in a shaky breath. Her fingers moved quickly, almost frantically, as she reached into the hidden lining of her bag. The charger was still there, tucked away beside an old lipstick and a half-empty pack of gum. She yanked it out and plugged it into the outlet by the sink, then into her phone.
Nothing happened. The screen stayed black, unresponsive, lifeless. Jane remained crouched on the tile floor, eyes locked on the phone as if she could will it to wake.
It was only a minute. Maybe two. But to Jane, it felt like an eternity.
She could feel her pulse in her throat, loud and uneven.
And then, finally—
A faint vibration. A soft blue glow. The screen flickered weakly to life. And when the phone finally unlocked, her heart stuttered in her chest.
Six missed calls. Three messages.
Tony.
Jane stared, motionless.
She hadn’t expected that many. Maybe a message or two, if he was worried. But six calls?
Her grip tightened around the phone as if afraid it might vanish. He must’ve been worried. Or angry. Or both.
Either way, he cared. And for a moment, just a moment, Jane didn’t think about the mission. Didn’t think about the Vogels, or the auction, or the carefully constructed lies.
She thought of him. Of his voice on the other end of the line. Of how it might have sounded when he realized she wasn’t picking up.
She opened the messages first. The words were rushed, scattered with emotion even through a screen.
Are you okay?
Is something wrong?
I tried to ping the suit. No trace of it. Either you’re off-grid or it’s not active. Please. Just say something.
Jane’s throat went dry. Her finger hovered over the keyboard, uncertain, until finally she typed:
I’ll call you soon. I hope you’ll be able to pick up. I couldn’t reply earlier.
She sent it. Then sat, motionless, watching the battery level inch up just enough. Once it reached a decent percentage, she took a breath, re-tucked the phone into a new hiding spot in her purse, zipped it, and stepped back out.
Bucky was still standing near the table, eyes on the invitation. He turned when he saw her.
“I need to go out, but I’ll be back soon.” she said, tone light. Almost too light.
Bucky frowned. “Now?”
His eyes flickered over her, scanning her clothes. She hadn’t changed and he noticed it.
“I won’t be long.”
“We just got back.”
“I know,” she said, stepping toward the door. “I just need to take care of something.”
“Jane…”
She stopped, turning slightly. “I trusted you,” she said, softly but clearly. “When you told me to wait in that camp. I trusted your word. Now I’m asking you to trust mine. I’ll be back soon.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. He looked like he wanted to ask more. Like he already knew there was something unsaid. But in the end, he only nodded.
“Fine.” he said. “But don’t take too long. And don’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t.” she promised.
But before she turned to leave, their eyes met, just for a moment. A breath suspended between them.
There was something in Jane’s gaze, a flicker of hesitation, like she had words waiting at the edge of her tongue.
But whatever it was, it never came. She didn’t find the right words, maybe because they didn’t exist.
So, instead, she just gave him a faint, unreadable look… and walked out the door.
On the ground floor, the lobby doors slid open with a faint hiss, swallowing her into the Parisian spring air. It was early afternoon now, the sky a pale, milky blue, and the streets buzzed with quiet life: footsteps on pavement, the distant trill of a bicycle bell, the low hum of traffic. Jane walked without direction at first, hands deep in her coat pockets, eyes set ahead but not really seeing. The cool breeze caught her hair and scattered it around her face, but she didn’t bother to fix it.
Her steps grew faster once she turned the first corner, then slower, until she stopped near a wrought-iron bench beside a line of shuttered boutiques. She stood there, heart thudding, hands searching in her bag until her fingers curled around the burner phone. She stared at it for a moment, thumb brushing the scratched plastic, then finally pressed the call button.
Once. Twice.
By the third ring, she was almost certain he wouldn’t pick up.
And then—
“Jane?”
His voice hit her like a warm wind from another lifetime. Slightly hoarse. Familiar. Real.
“Jane, is everything okay?” he asked again, rushed. “I tried calling. You didn’t answer. I thought—God, I thought something had happened.”
She pressed her lips together in a faint smile. “No,” she murmured. “No, everything’s fine. I was just… somewhere with no service. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. I didn’t have a chance.”
A pause. She could hear him breathing on the other end.
“It’s okay,” he said at last. “Maybe I overreacted. I just—” He trailed off. “I’m glad you’re alright.”
She glanced up toward the pale sky, her smile a little more evident now. “I’m glad to hear your voice.”
Silence bloomed between them. A full, weighted silence. Jane could hear her own heart, the faint honk of a car somewhere in the distance, the murmur of a couple walking past her. Tony’s voice broke it.
“I’ve been trying to find the words.” he said. “I’ve been thinking about this for days and I still don’t know how to say it. So I’ll just say it.”
He hesitated. Then, “Pepper and I… we’re getting married.”
Her world stilled. For a moment, everything else went dim—the cars, the noise, the sky.
“We picked a date.”
He said it so simply. Like it wasn’t the end of something. Like it didn’t crack her wide open.
She couldn’t breathe. Her fingers clenched around the phone. She was still standing, still in the middle of a street in Paris, and yet it felt like her body wasn’t hers. Like she was watching herself from above, somewhere far away.
Of course, she thought. Of course it was coming.
She was losing him all over again. Even if he had never truly been hers. Even if, deep down, she had always known this moment would come. No matter what happened between them, no matter how real it felt to make love with him again, his heart had always been with Pepper. That had never been in question. So why did it hurt like this?
“Jane?” His voice again, softer now. “Are you still there?”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m here.”
A beat.
“Congratulations.” she added, and the bitterness in her voice surprised even her. Sharp, dry. Like blood from a too-old wound.
Tony exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry for what happened between us. I never meant to hurt you. And it wasn’t—what we had—it was never just physical. I need you to know that. I—”
“I know.” she interrupted, though she wasn’t sure she did. Or if it mattered now. She just didn’t want to hear any of his excuses. They just made her feel more pathetic and stupid.
”I’m sorry.” He repeated, and she hated the sound of those words.
”I know.”
None of them spoke for a while.
“I think…” he hesitated again. “I think maybe it’s better if we don’t talk for a while. Just until things settle. I guess you feel the same.”
Jane nodded before realizing he couldn’t see her. “Yeah. I think that’s probably best.”
“I have to go,” he pronounced, but his voice was barely above a whisper now. Thin and shaky. “They’re waiting for me.”
“Me too.” she murmured, as neutral as possible. She had always been a good actress.
Another pause.
“Please, try to stay safe.”
“Goodbye, Tony.”
And then, before she could second-guess herself, she ended the call.
Her hand dropped to her side. The phone slipped into her bag like it weighed ten pounds. Her eyes were glassy. Her feet moved before she could think. She walked. One block. Then another. The tears came without warning slipping down her cheeks.
A bar appeared at the corner of her vision. Dimly lit. Music spilling out.
Her feet slowed. She could go in. One drink. One oblivion. But then Bucky’s voice echoed in her head.
We need to be in sync. We need to work well. We’re close.
She closed her eyes, clenched her fists. Her nails dug into her palms. Pain bloomed sharp and grounding, but she turned around.
Back at the hotel, moving like a ghost. Past the reception desk. Into the elevator. Her reflection caught her eye. Her cheeks blotched, her eyes red. She wiped them quickly, angrily, as if it would undo the call.
Inside, the room was steeped in a thick, padded silence. The plush carpet muffled even the sound of her footsteps as Jane crossed the entrance, still wearing her coat, her heart a heavy stone lodged deep in her chest. Her hands were trembling, just slightly.
She dropped her bag on the armchair and peeled off the coat with mechanical slowness, her body sluggish, the fatigue wrapping around her limbs like wet wool. She hadn’t slept well in the tent. Not really slept at all. The only thing that had kept her awake this long was the adrenaline fueled by the hope—no, the need—to hear from Tony. But now her head was pounding and her eyes ached—dry, irritated, swollen from too many tears and too little rest.
The room was empty. Bucky wasn’t back.
For a brief second, she wondered if he’d followed her. If he had watched her leave, watched her call. Watched her fall apart in the middle of a side street with a phone in her hand and Tony’s voice in her ear.
She wasn’t sure she’d care if he had.
There was something terrifying about being this tired.
She walked to the bed, toeing off her shoes with slow, uncoordinated movements. Her fingers fumbled at the buttons of her shirt, but halfway through she gave up and just lay down on the bed fully clothed. Her phone, now silent, lay beside her on the nightstand like a dead weight. She didn’t want to look at it again.
Didn’t want to see the name. Didn’t want to remember the words.
She curled onto her side, the blanket pulled only halfway over her body, and closed her eyes. It wasn’t sleep, not really. More like surrender.
And eventually, her body gave out.
She drifted into a restless, fragmented slumber, her mind clawing at consciousness even as her muscles melted into the mattress. She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep when the door clicked, or how long he’d been standing there after.
Her eyes fluttered open just a second before she heard the voice.
“Jane.”
She blinked. The room was dim, painted in late afternoon light filtered through the curtains. Bucky was standing next to the bed, his frame tense. His eyes flicked to her face, then to the nightstand.
Then to the phone.
“You left this out.” he said, his voice quieter than usual. Almost flat.
Jane sat up slowly, her body stiff, her heart already quickening.
“I know.” she murmured, brushing her hand over her cheek. Her skin felt dry and raw.
“You got calls.”
She swallowed. “I know.”
Silence.
He took a step closed, taking the phone in his hand. “Stark called you.”
It wasn’t a question. She didn’t deny it.
“So it’s kind of obvious that you’ve been talking with him. During the mission.”
Jane’s lips parted, but no words came out. Her body felt heavy again, her chest tight. She nodded once. That was enough.
“You’re risking everything.” Bucky said, sharper now. “This mission. Us being here. You don’t know who could be listening on that phone. Smartphones are not safe. Damn, Jane—”
“And you didn’t risk the mission when you went to meet Steve and Natasha?” she cut in, her voice hoarse. “You didn’t think that might draw attention? Or suspicion?”
Bucky stared at her. She saw the flash of something behind his eyes—guilt, maybe. Or anger.
“I didn’t say anything I wasn’t supposed to,” she added, quieter now. “But you’re right. You shouldn’t trust me. Because clearly, you don’t.”
The silence that followed was different. It wasn’t tense or heated. It was hollow. And Jane, usually so ready to fight back, to spit out something cruel or defensive, just… broke.
Her shoulders slumped. Her gaze dropped to the duvet. Her voice, when it came, was thin and frayed.
“I’m just so tired.”
He didn’t move.
“And I know I fucked up. I know it was something so stupid to do. I shouldn’t have used that phone. But I swear to you—I didn’t say anything. Nothing I shouldn’t have. Not a word about the mission. Not a name, not a location, nothing that could compromise us. I swear it. I’ve never broken that line, I never would.
And you know that. You know what I’ve given for this mission. No one knows better than you.”
More silence.
And then, slowly, she lifted her head—only to find that he was still staring at her. But his expression had shifted. There was something softer there. Something uncertain.
Her eyes were glassy now, despite her best effort. She blinked once, trying to wash the burn away. It didn’t work.
One tear slipped down her cheek. And then another.
Bucky took a breath. He didn’t move right away.
His eyes searched her face, her stillness, the way her shoulders had folded inward, how her mouth trembled despite the silence she clung to. He could see it now, more clearly than ever: the weight she was carrying. It sat on her like a shadow. And in that instant, something cracked open in him, something he’d been trying so hard to keep sealed shut.
He took one step forward. Then stopped. His hand lifted halfway before he caught himself. Fingers curling, hovering in the air between them.
For a moment he just stood there, hand suspended, unsure. He didn’t know if she’d let him. He didn’t even know if he deserved to.
She didn’t look at him. But she didn’t move away either.
Slowly, he let his hand continue the path forward, until his fingers hovered just a breath from her skin. He could feel the warmth of her cheek before he even touched her. Could see the tear trembling there, clinging to her lashes, about to fall.
When his thumb made contact, it was featherlight. A careful, tentative sweep. Just enough to catch the tear before it could slip any farther. The pads of his fingers barely pressed into her skin, as if afraid he’d bruise her with too much pressure, or worse—scare her into retreat.
But she didn’t flinch.She didn’t pull away. And that, more than anything, undid him.
His palm lingered against her cheek for a second longer than necessary. Just long enough to feel the heat beneath her skin, the faint quiver of her jaw, the uneven rise of her breath. He watched her eyes, waiting for the moment she’d recoil, say something sharp, break the spell they were tangled in.
But she didn’t.
So he stood there, thumb still resting against her skin, caught in the unbearable quiet between them.
Neither of them spoke. Neither of them dared. And yet the room felt loud with everything they hadn’t said and everything they couldn’t yet.
Something in him shifted.
It wasn’t logic. It was something deeper, instinctive. Before he could talk himself out of it, Bucky sat beside her. His hand still lingering against her cheek, still holding her gaze.
And for once, there was no anger in her eyes. No accusations or masks or half-swallowed resentment.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, still glassy with unshed tears, and the vulnerability in them stripped her bare. There was no armor for her now—no deflection, no sarcasm. Just pain. Naked and quiet and offered without shame.
He knew this was a mistake. Knew this would only end one way. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t cross this line again. And she… She had said it too. That it shouldn’t happen. That it wouldn’t. But neither of them moved. Neither of them pulled away.
Instead, Bucky gave her a moment. A pause. Space to refuse him. A breath to recoil, to shake her head, to push him off. He waited for it, half-hoped for it. But it never came.
So he leaned in. Slowly. Carefully. He only moved once he was sure she wouldn’t stop him. Only when he could feel her breath against his lips, warm and trembling.
He searched her eyes once more, like a final question hanging in the silence between them. And she answered it not with words, but with stillness. With surrender.
So he cupped her face with both hands now, one metal, one flesh, and kissed her.
It was soft at first. Almost tentative. A question instead of a statement. Her lips were warm beneath his, unmoving for a heartbeat, then two, and then she kissed him back.
And everything shifted.
What started slow turned deeper, fuller. Her mouth opened under his and the taste of her, familiar and electric, hit him like a wave. A shiver ran down her spine. She could feel it, the way the kiss pulled something visceral out of her. A hunger she hadn’t let herself feel in days. Weeks.
This wasn’t like the kiss they’d shared before, the one born of rage and defiance and desperation. That kiss had been a storm. This one was something else entirely. Slower. A tide. More dangerous in its quiet.
His hands trembled against her skin. She could feel it, feel the restraint in him, the way he held back like he wasn’t sure she really wanted this. So her own hands moved now. One slid over his shoulder, steady and grounding, the other lifting to tangle in his hair. She gripped lightly, not to pull him closer, but just to feel something solid. Something real.
His scent wrapped around her and it filled her like memory.
She wasn’t sure when she ended up lying back. Maybe she shifted. Maybe he did. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the way he followed her, gentle and careful as if the weight of his body might shatter her. He hovered, touching her with his mouth, his hands, his breath.
And then her hands were under his sweater, pulling it upward. Bucky stilled. Just for a second.
He looked at her again. Eyes wide, dark, searching.
Are you sure? he didn’t ask aloud, but Jane saw it anyway. In every line of his face. Every slow, hesitant blink.
Jane didn’t answer with words.
She kissed him instead, soft and deliberate, her lips saying yes in a language older than speech.
She was so tired of holding back. Of pretending.
He let her lift the sweater off, tossed it aside. The room was quiet but humming with something volatile. She reached out, her hands grazing over his bare shoulders, across the cool, unmistakable metal of his left arm.
And she froze.
Her stomach clenched, just for a moment. The memory hit her uninvited—who he was, what he’d done, what this arm meant. She could see the glint of moonlight on the vibranium. Could feel the scar of everything they weren’t saying.
But this time, she didn’t pull away.
Instead, her fingertips brushed the metal gently, tracing along the smooth, foreign lines until they reached his hand. The surface was cool beneath her touch, alien. For a split second, the old instinct flared: to recoil, to remember, to push him away.
But something else was louder now.
She lifted it—his vibranium hand—and placed it firmly against her waist.
And kissed him again.
In that moment, her desire to be touched, and to be touched by him, surpassed everything else. It overwhelmed the anger she’d carried like armor. It softened the years of bitterness that had kept her upright. Her need was louder than the revulsion, stronger than the memory.
The pain was still there. Of course it was. That would never fully leave her. But in that precise second, it didn’t matter.
All that mattered was the press of his palm against her body, the way his fingers tightened, just slightly, when she didn’t pull away.
She could feel the hesitation in him. The way his hand trembled, even through the strength of metal. As if part of him was bracing for her to retreat.
But she didn’t. She leaned into his body instead.
This wasn’t forgiveness, but again, it didn’t matter.
He inhaled sharply while pressing against her body, lips at her jaw now, her neck, his breath boiling against her skin.
Their bodies aligned. Friction and warmth and the soft sounds of a shared hunger. She didn’t know how they’d gotten here, only that they had. And that some part of her, no matter how damaged, had been waiting for this.
She arched into him. He groaned softly into her skin, his hands everywhere and nowhere all at once.
They were still wearing too much, but even through the fabric, she could feel the tension in his body. The way he moved like he wasn’t sure he had the right. Like every touch was a question.
Jane answered with her body.
With her hands sliding under the waistband of his pants, with fleeting caresses—still shy, but that made him moan shamelessly against her neck—with her lips parting in another kiss.
And in that moment, it didn’t matter what came next. Not the mission. Not the past. Not Tony.
There was only this. This impossible thing between them. This tangled, aching feeling.
Now, with her body pressed beneath his, with her hands tugging him closer, anchoring him on her, something in Bucky broke loose.
He kissed her again, harder this time. With no hesitation. And when she tilted her head to the side, granting him access, it felt like his last traces of restraint had completely vanished. One of her legs hooked around his, pulling him further in, and the low sound that escaped his throat was half a growl, half a gasp. It made her shiver.
Every part of him responded to her touch. His control slipping further with each second. He shifted slightly, kneeling between her legs now, his hands sliding beneath the hem of her shirt, palms hot against her skin. She gasped, trying to stop herself from moaning.
“You have no idea.” he whispered hoarsely against her ear, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath shaking. “You have no idea of how much I waited for this.”
He had wanted this for too long. Too deeply. He had dreamed about this moment for years, since the first time they had met during the war.
And yet, he hadn’t realized how much he needed it—needed her —until she was beneath him, gasping and moaning under his touch.
Unable to linger any longer, Bucky's fingers settled on the row of buttons on Jane's shirt.
The piece of cloth soon ended up on the floor without delicacy.
Seeing her now, breasts totally exposed and covered in shivers, dark eyes, lips parted. Bucky was finding it harder and harder to stay in control. To keep his clarity. To not fill her up immediately and without preamble.
But he didn’t. No matter how painfully hard he was now, he took his time.
He leaned over her, his hand gliding slowly across her stomach before slipping behind her back. She arched up slightly, their foreheads touching, and finally—his hands still trembling—he managed to unhook her bra.
And now, in her, he could still see that shyness, that uncertainty. It was there in the way she avoided his gaze, in how her fists clenched the sheets tightly.
Bucky leaned over her again, whispering against her ear, “Tell me I can touch you.”
Jane didn’t speak, but she pressed herself against him, her breasts brushing his chest, his hardness pressing between her legs.
He started moving against her, groaning as he bit at her neck, unable to hold back. Unable to stop.
Bucky’s hands were frantic now as he unbuttoned her jeans, then tugged them down without ceremony. The rough motion pulled her panties slightly aside, leaving part of her already bare and exposed.
The sight sent a rush of heat down his spine, mixed with a sharp pang of aching need between his legs.
It was no longer desire; now being inside her was becoming a physical need. A necessity.
His fingers traveled along the smooth path of her thigh, of her groin, until they grazed the wet knot between her legs.
Now Bucky looked her in the eyes.
It was going to be hard to stop, but before going any further, he needed to be sure.
Sure that she was still with him. That she still wanted this.
At his touch, even if brief, she clung to his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin—and her eyes told him everything.
There was no hesitation. She wanted him. Just as much as he wanted her.
And after that, after knowing it with such aching certainty, Bucky knew he would never be able to stop himself again.
Slowly, he slipped a finger inside her. He moved it in a circular, measured rhythm. Feeling how wet she was for him clouded his thoughts and sent a new electric wave between his legs. By now he was so hard it hurt. But she came first. He had to focus.
"More. P-Please." Jane whispered, her voice row and shaky against his chest, while thrusting her hips into his touch. Hearing her voice so full of want and desperation made his member throb between his legs.
It was just too much.
Maybe he should have waited, maybe he should have given her time to get used to that intrusion with another finger, but by now he was at the end of his rope. He feared to cum just like that, inside his pants like a teenager.
So, despite her protests, he removed his finger and began fiddling with the buttons and zipper of his own pants, until—with a sigh of relief—his hardness was finally free, released from the constriction of the fabric.
He made space between her legs, rubbing the tip of his member against her tender flesh, and she moaned again, threading her fingers through his damp hair and pulling hard.
“Tell me you want this. N-Need to hear it.”
Bucky’s voice was a mess—low, hoarse, unraveling.
Jane didn’t make him wait.
She buried her face in the crook of his neck before whispering with a shaky voice,
“Please. Inside.”
And he obeyed.
He filled her slowly, giving her time to adjust. To feel him. To moan and bite his skin. And for the second time, Bucky feared he could cum in that moment, without needing to do anything else.
The second thrust, however, was stronger. The pace quickened, more greedy, and he found her mouth again.
They were both too desperate, Bucky thought, too caught with the way they kept touching and biting and feeling, even when Bucky started fucking into Jane, even when he heard her moaning getting louder against his neck.
Too frantic and desperate, but Bucky could still feel tenderness in their touches. He felt it in the way Jane held him close, making their foreheads touch, when he kissed the soft spot under her jaw, when Jane rested her hand on his hip the whole time.
When Bucky cums, he does it biting down his bottom lip, muffling a moan that sounded too dangerously similar to Jane’s name. He then stayed still, catching his breath until his arms felt sore, his right shoulder aching sharply.
And when they’re lying next to each other, skin damp, breath still too quick, Jane’s eyes were still glassy.
She didn’t move. Just stayed there, quiet, her cheek pressed against the pillow. The sound of her breathing mixing with the echo of something too big, too quiet, stretching between them.
Bucky shifted slightly, only to curl an arm around her waist. A loose, tired gesture. One he didn’t think through, just did. Like instinct. Like need.
She let him. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t lean away. And it should be enough, that stillness. That silence. That closeness. But it isn’t.
Not when his chest tightened the way it did.
Not when he felt her warmth like it was something slipping through his hands.
Not when his own eyes started to burn.
So he squeezed them shut. Hard. Forced the pressure behind them, refused to let anything fall. If she turned to guard her own silence, then he’d guard his, too. He wouldn’t let her see.
The fact is: Bucky loved her.
Bucky loved her, and Jane didn’t. And that was okay. Really.
He couldn’t force her. He knew she was broken in places he’d never reach. That her heart had been shaped around someone else. Someone who still lived in her silence. In her hesitation.
And he knew—God, he knew—she didn’t mean to do this to him.
But he was there. And he loved her.
And she didn’t.
And it made him feel like he was drowning in something he asked for.
So he held her tighter. Just a little. As if he had any right to.
And beside him, Jane didn’t say a word.
Notes:
I know I’ve made you wait more than 10 days for this one—and I’ve never made you wait that long before 🥹
Unfortunately, my personal life has been quite unpredictable lately, and, well… this chapter ended up being over 22k words. So… yeah.
I really hope the wait was worth it.As I promised, this chapter had a bit of everything.
We even got Steve and Natasha making an appearance 👀
(I had so much fun writing those scenes)And now… the elephant in the room.
Yes. *That* happened between Bucky and Jane.
I know many of you have been waiting for it, dreading it, hoping for it…
Whatever camp you’re in, I truly hope it lived up to your expectations.
It was such a challenge to write, both emotionally and narratively, but it felt like the right moment. I’m curious to know what you think about it!Thank you so much for sticking with this story and for reading all the way through.
Your kudos, comments, and theories honestly make my day, so please feel free to share your thoughts. I always read them with a huge smile (and sometimes a nervous gulp, haha).See you in the next chapter! I’m already working on it! ❤️
Chapter 16: More pain
Notes:
TRIGGER WARNING: SA
Hi everyone,
before you dive into this chapter, I want you to know that it contains a scene involving sexual assault, which may be upsetting or triggering to some readers.The scene begins with the sentence:
Her limbs didn’t obey.
and ends with the sentence:
Somewhere deep inside, Jane screamed. But the sound never broke the surface.Please know that you can absolutely skip this scene. It is not essential to follow the plot. What matters is simply knowing that such an event has occurred. If reading it might make you uncomfortable or bring up difficult emotions, I strongly encourage you to prioritize your well-being and skip ahead.
Thank you for being here. I hope the rest of the chapter resonates with you, and I’m always grateful you’ve chosen to spend time in this story.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The cabin was dimly lit, with muted sunlight filtering in through the oval windows of the private jet. The engine hummed beneath them, low but constant. Everything about the interior radiated quiet opulence: deep mahogany leather seats, polished steel fixtures, and an atmosphere so deliberately sterile it felt curated.
Jane sat upright, her posture rigid, her fingers lightly tapping the armrest. Across from her, Bucky stared out the window, one hand clenched on his knee, the other resting still beside him. Between them sat a folded table and a silence that was far too loaded to be called peaceful.
They hadn’t really spoken in two days. Not since that night.
Two days of pretending. Of polite distance and controlled expressions. Of shared meals and rehearsed smiles while seated side by side at bars, galleries, and the kind of rooftop lounges designed to make people feel rich just for breathing the air. They had done their job. Played their part. But beneath the polished surface of their cover, something was irreparably cracked.
Jane had woken up before him that morning after, her body sore in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. She’d stood under the shower until the water turned way too hot, letting the burn of it chase the memory from her skin. Then she’d emerged, wrapped herself in indifference, and carried on.
It had to mean nothing. She told herself that over and over again.
When she spoke to him, it was with professional calm. “We should head out soon. Christian mentioned that cocktail bar near the marina. They could be there.”
Bucky had looked at her like he’d been expecting something different. But he only nodded.
“Right.”
No mention of what they’d done. No hesitation. No grief. But the silence between them wasn’t empty. It was full.
Full of the things they didn’t have the courage to say. The heat that hadn’t dissipated. The imprint of her name in his breath, and the memory of his hand trembling against her skin.
Jane let her gaze drift to the others on board. There were five of them. Two men in sleek gray suits speaking quietly in French, a woman with angular features and jet black hair flipping through a file, and two others whose presence felt too casual to be casual at all. None of them matched any of the profiles they’d been given.
That made her uneasy.
She tugged at the edge of her sleeve, a useless, restless motion that did nothing to settle the discomfort building under her skin. Her dress was extravagant, made of deep crimson silk with a plunging neckline and an intricate beaded design that shimmered with every breath she took. Her heels were sharp, her jewelry heavy. A pair of diamond earrings that caught the light too easily. A statement bracelet that looked older than she was. Everything about her appearance screamed wealth and poise, because that’s what the role required now. This was the moment where both she and Bucky had to dazzle. Had to impress. Had to prove they belonged.
And she hated every second of it.
Looking like this had never bothered her before. Wearing beautiful things, being under the spotlight, it had once been a game she knew how to win. But now the rich fabric clung to her like artifice. The gold and glitter felt like a poorly made costume. Lately, Catherine Young had started to feel more like a prison, than a cover. A mask that clung to her too tightly, suffocating her.
She crossed her legs, adjusting the fall of her dress so it flowed just right. From the outside, she was effortless grace. But inside, she felt ridiculous. Hollow. She was tired—tired of the lies, tired of the games, tired of pretending she was still in control when all she could feel was the weight of uncertainty pressing on her chest like a second skin.
She was tired of not knowing where they were going, literally and figuratively. Tired of pretending that her world hadn’t been knocked off its axis two nights ago.
Across from her, Bucky shifted slightly. His eyes flicked briefly toward her before drifting back to the window. He wore a fitted charcoal blazer over a navy shirt, his vibranium arm invisible under his cuff and glove.
Jane bit down on her lower lip, holding her breath for just a moment. Neither of them looked at the other for too long, now. It had become a silent agreement, a defense mechanism.
That night had changed everything. And they were desperately pretending it hadn’t.
She’d told herself it was about grief. About anger. About needing a distraction from the pain Tony had left behind in her chest like broken glass. And maybe it had been. Maybe it was all of that. But the lies she kept telling herself were beginning to fray.
Because grief doesn’t make you crave for more. And anger doesn’t imprint the exact feeling of having him inside you in your memory.
She blinked and looked back out the window, forcing the thought away. The mission was nearing its final phase. There was no room for anything else now.
“ How close do you think we are? ” she asked, her voice quieter than intended.
Bucky glanced toward her, caught off guard. “I don’t know,” he replied after a second. “It’s been hours. No one’s said anything.”
She nodded slowly. “I don’t recognize any of them.”
“Neither do I.” He hesitated. “That woman—black hair, reading something—she wasn’t in the files.”
“No.” Jane’s voice was sharper now. “None of them is. Which means either S.H.I.E.L.D. missed something, or something’s changed.”
Neither of them liked either option.
Bucky leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “We need to be ready. Whatever this is, we’re walking in blind.”
Jane said nothing. Her eyes flicked to the band on her finger. It glinted under the soft cabin light.
She hadn’t taken it off.
She could have, there were other rings in the case Maria had prepared for her, but she hadn’t been able to swap it out. Even if the man who had placed that ring on her finger didn’t exist anymore. Even if looking at it no longer brought her the comfort it once did.
A sudden chime echoed softly through the cabin, followed by the pilot’s calm, measured voice over the intercom.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We are now commencing our final approach to the private helipad of the Norðurljós Resort, Iceland. Local temperature is currently minus six degrees Celsius with light snowfall. Please ensure your seatbelts are fastened and remain seated until we’ve come to a complete stop. Thank you.”
Jane blinked slowly. Iceland.
She felt the shift beneath her feet as the plane tilted into descent. Outside the small oval window beside her, now the world was shifting from sky to snow. A vast expanse of blinding white sprawled beneath them, broken only by dark, jagged rocks and curling ribbons of icy river. There were no buildings in sight, no roads, just snow, stretching endlessly in every direction, like the edge of the world.
Her first thought was immediate and petty: none of them were dressed for snow.
The Vogels, she thought bitterly, would be pleased with this little twist. Amused by the idea of their guests freezing while pretending they weren’t. She could almost hear Annalise’s voice in her mind, sweetly venomous “You should always be prepared for the unexpected, darling.”
The jet’s wheels touched the ground with a smooth thud, the kind that vibrated faintly through her heels. Jane’s fingers clutched the armrest for a second too long before she let go.
The plane taxied toward a landing pad carved into the snow, a small private airstrip adjacent to what looked like an enormous glass-and-stone structure in the distance. From above, it looked like a mirage. Modern, remote, and absurdly luxurious against the starkness of the Icelandic landscape. A resort carved into wilderness.
As soon as the engines cut, a uniformed attendant opened the cabin door, and a gust of frozen air sliced through the warm space.
Jane flinched.
It was immediate, unforgiving. A shock to the lungs.
She stepped out after Bucky, descending the narrow stairs of the jet with one hand tight on the railing. The snow beneath her heels crunched with an icy resistance. Her breath fogged the air in front of her, lashes already catching bits of frost.
A sleek black vehicle waited near the edge of the landing strip, its lights casting golden halos onto the snow. A group of staff moved quickly to greet them, led by the woman in charge of their arrival—tall, elegant, with a clipboard in hand and hair pulled into a smooth twist. She swept her gaze over the small group of passengers like a hawk, but when her eyes landed on Jane and Bucky, she paused. Not long, only a few seconds, but enough. Enough for Jane to feel it.
She wasn’t just checking them off a list. She was watching. Assessing. And Jane had the distinct impression the woman saw something she liked.
Maybe it was the way Jane’s jaw clenched, how her arms remained still at her sides as the cold gnawed at her bones. Or maybe it was how Bucky stood closer behind her every time the wind picked up. Maybe it was the discomfort, the tension, they were both trying to hide.
Because the woman gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. As if she’d found exactly what she expected. Satisfied.
Jane’s stomach twisted.
Her eyes met Bucky’s just for a second, but it was enough. A silent, mutual recognition of the absurdity of the situation.
Then she noticed how his shoulders twitched. His hands moved. The start of a familiar instinct. He was about to take off his coat to give it to her. But Jane reached out, pressing one gloved hand firmly to his chest before he could move any further. Her eyes locked on his. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to.
Don’t. They’ll see your arm.
And he understood. He always did, even without words, when it was needed.
His jaw tensed, frustration flickering across his features, but he didn’t argue. He simply let the motion fall away. Let the urge die. He couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk exposing the metal beneath.
But he wasn’t done.
Without saying a word, Bucky brought his palms up to her arms, rubbing them briskly, rhythmically, over the fabric of her dress. The contact was fast, like he was trying to summon warmth by sheer force. The friction sent a low, burning heat through her limbs.
Jane flinched slightly, but she didn’t move away. She couldn’t. Because a moment later, he pulled her closer.
She felt his body press against hers, the thick fabric of his coat surrounding her like a shield. His arms folded gently around her frame, his hands continuing their motion up and down her arms. She felt the rough drag of wool against silk, the sudden warmth of his breath as he leaned in.
“Stay close.” He whispered, but despite the quiet tone, Jane knew it was an order.
His face brushed against the side of hers. She felt the prickling sting of his stubble against her temple. Not painful, just there. Real. And that warmth, his warmth, seeped into her skin, even through the layers.
Even through the cold.
She didn’t dare lean into him. But she didn’t pull away either.
The elegant woman began to call names from her list, confirming identities. Their names were ticked off, efficient and impersonal, before she informed them, “Your luggage will be waiting for you in your private suite. The vehicle to the resort is just ahead. Please follow the lights.”
Jane blinked as if waking from a daze, taking a careful step forward. Bucky didn’t move far.
They followed the others across the helipad, where the snow had been cleared just enough to allow a path to the waiting transport. The vehicle was sleek and long, black with frosted windows and wide tires, clearly designed for the terrain. An attendant opened the doors, revealing a warm, softly lit interior and rows of leather seats.
Inside, Jane sank into the furthest one, cold air still clinging to her skin like a second dress. Bucky followed, sitting beside her. Their shoulders touched. Then their thighs.
A week ago, she would have shifted away. Now… she didn’t move. She was still. Rigid, maybe. Her posture upright, her hands folded over her lap.
But she stayed.
The heat of him radiated beside her. It made her feel strange, unsettled, but not in the way it once had. This was something else. Something she wasn’t used to. Something heavier.
She turned her head, slowly, and looked out the window. The world outside was nothing but endless white.
Snow stretched in every direction, broken only by the thin black thread of the road and the distant glow of the resort lights. The sky above was steel gray, heavy with clouds, and the sun hung low, casting an otherworldly pale gold glow over the frozen landscape.
She focused on the frozen view outside, as if staring long enough could silence everything inside her. And stop her from glancing his way.
The moment they stepped inside the resort’s grand entryway, the heat hit them like a wall. Her damp skin prickled with sweat beneath her thin dress, and a sudden pressure bloomed behind her eyes, sharp and pulsing. An early headache brought on by the shock of temperature. She stiffened, blinking rapidly to adjust.
The heavy glass doors had opened with a hydraulic hiss, swallowing Jane and Bucky into the opulent warmth of the resort’s lobby. It was like stepping into another world, one that smelled faintly of cedarwood and citrus oil, humming with low instrumental jazz and cloaked in a golden glow diffused from sconces that mimicked candlelight.
The space around them was cavernous. High vaulted ceilings framed by dark beams stretched above, while sleek black stone floors reflected the firelight from a sunken hearth at the center of the room. Plush velvet armchairs circled it like petals, empty for now, though she caught glimpses of distant silhouettes retreating into adjoining halls.
The woman who had checked their names at the airstrip was already waiting inside. Still pristine in her tailored cream uniform, still unmoved by the cold, or the heat, or perhaps anything at all.
“You are expected at dinner,” she said, her voice as polished as the marble behind her. “Unfortunately, your group was the last to arrive, and the evening has already begun.”
Before Jane could speak, another guest raised a hand with a faint grimace. “I’d prefer to be shown to my room,” she said sharply. “The flight was interminable. Surely we can have a moment to rest.”
The hostess didn’t blink. She smiled, cool and tight. “I understand, madam. However, Mr. and Mrs. Vogel have instructed that all guests attend the opening dinner immediately upon arrival. It is a long-standing tradition, and the evening has already commenced.”
The hostess’s voice was courteous, but it held an edge. Soft pressure under silk. “The weather delayed your landing slightly, but I assure you, a hot meal and some live music will do wonders to lift your spirits.”
Beside her, Bucky shifted slightly, and Jane caught the faint narrowing of his eyes. He was seeing it too. The illusion of leisure was cracking. This wasn’t just a welcome dinner.
As the woman collected coats, folding each one with unnerving care, Jane felt Bucky hesitate beside her. She noticed the shift in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. He didn’t like this either.
The hallway they followed was softly lit and eerily quiet, the sound of their footsteps muffled against deep green carpet. Just as Jane began to wonder how deep into the mountain they were walking, they reached the restaurant. It opened before them in a sudden flare of warmth and sound.
A single table stretched down the center, set with candles and crystal, dishes already being passed between guests. The hum of conversation swelled as they entered. Heads turned. Conversations paused.
Jane’s gaze locked immediately on the head of the table, where Christian Vogel sat like a king, Annalise at his side. His smile bloomed the moment he spotted them.
“Ah, enfin! We are all here!” he called, rising with theatrical joy and lifting his glass. “Come, come, sit! We’ve been waiting for you!”
Two seats remained conspicuously empty near him, too close for coincidence.
“Benjamin! Catherine! Come, we saved your places.” he added, beckoning them with a wide sweep of his arm.
Jane’s feet moved before her mind did. She registered the names—Benjamin, Catherine—as if spoken in a play she’d forgotten she was performing. She could feel Bucky at her side, his presence like a current at her shoulder, always steady.
As they approached the table, she recognized several faces—the countess and her husband, Christian Vogel’s old preceptor, a tech CEO she’d once glimpsed in a tv show. But strangely, none of the individuals tied directly to the darker trades she and Bucky had been sent to uncover. None of the dangerous names present in their S.H.I.E.L.D reports.
And yet, the tension in her spine refused to ease.
Christian gestured to their seats with a grand flourish. Annalise offered a nod of acknowledgment, the barest twitch of her lips passing for a smile. Her eyes lingered on Jane for a fraction longer than polite interest.
They sat. And the moment their bodies settled into the velvet-upholstered chairs, Christian raised his glass again.
“Every year,” he began, “this gathering becomes harder to arrange. But as you know, nothing stops me and my beautiful wife.” A pause for effect, then a grin. “We are all here for business, of course. I won’t insult you with talk of pleasure trips. But I do hope your time here will be… enjoyable.”
His smile widened, and a ripple of laughter ran through the table. Jane forced herself to smile.
“This year, we chose something a little… colder.” he continued. “A stark beauty, don’t you think? Something raw. Untouched. Fitting, for what we have in store.”
Another round of soft, cultivated amusement.
“Tomorrow, the auctions begin,” Christian said. “And as promised: what’s on offer is unlike anything we’ve ever seen.”
The applause was polite, subdued. Immediately, servers began placing steaming bowls in front of each guest: a creamy soup with what seemed pieces of chestnuts in it.
Christian leaned toward Bucky. “So, Benjamin. Tell me, how was the journey?”
Bucky met his gaze with a practiced smile. “Long, but smooth. The view made up for the cold.”
Christian chuckled, lifting his spoon. “Good, good. I hate turbulence. Nothing worse than a spoiled arrival.”
Jane stared down at her bowl, fingers wrapped around the spoon though she hadn’t touched it. The heat from the porcelain seeped into her skin, and she let it anchor her. Around her, conversations resumed. Glasses clinked. Laughter punctuated murmured exchanges.
She scanned the room again.
There were more guests than she had expected, at least fifty people, maybe more. All seated around this single, serpentine table. The air buzzed with carefully maintained charm, but something about it set her on edge. Too many strangers. Too many possibilities.
The space itself was beautiful, in a cold way: high ceilings of polished stone, pillars that reached toward arched beams. There were no windows here. Just firelight and candle glow.
And beneath it all, the gnawing sensation that this was no celebration. It was a show. A performance. One they’d walked into willingly, but not freely.
She glanced sideways at Bucky. He hadn’t touched his soup either. Their eyes met for the briefest second. And in that moment, without a word, they understood the same thing.
That was the real beginning of their mission.
The dinner stretched on for hours, each course bleeding languidly into the next like the slow unraveling of a silk ribbon. Jane had long stopped paying attention to the food itself. Somewhere between the third glass of wine and the fourth change of cutlery, time lost its edges. The voices around her became background noise, the clinking of silverware a repetitive lullaby. Her focus narrowed to her own breath, the pulse at her wrist, the occasional glance Bucky threw her way when he thought she wasn’t looking.
What had begun as a formal banquet—polished, composed, all quiet jazz and neatly aligned crystal—was slowly warping into something else entirely. And Jane could feel it. In the shift of posture among the guests. In the way the laughter began to rise in volume, less restrained, less civilized. In the faint sheen of sweat forming on the brow of the man across from her, who hadn’t touched his glass until halfway through the entrée and was now on his third refill.
It started subtly. A tremor in the atmosphere. A breath being held just a second too long.
The music changed first. The soft, classic jazz that had been lilting gently in the background, pleasant and ignorable, gave way to something sharper, faster. The melody snapped into syncopation, no longer content to drift lazily between sips of wine and murmured conversations. It darted like a nervous animal through the air, jittery and unpredictable. Piano keys hammered in off-beat rhythm, and the saxophone curved upward in quick, high-pitched trills that felt almost manic.
Jane’s hand stilled on the stem of her glass. She tilted her head just slightly, a muscle tightening at the base of her neck. Around her, the chatter had quieted, just for a beat, enough to make space for what came next.
The lights dimmed.
Not dramatically. No grand spotlight or sudden plunge into darkness. Just enough for the gold of the chandeliers to become more honey than flame, more opium haze than candlelight. Shadows curled into the corners of the hall. And then, from the far end, near the double doors Jane hadn’t even noticed before, a procession began.
Figures emerged. First one. Then three. Then seven. Women. Dancers.
At first, Jane thought they were performers hired for a formal display. Perhaps a cultural moment, something coordinated and tasteful. But the illusion didn’t hold. The women were draped in glittering fabric that shimmered with every movement, but the fabric was sparse. Feathers hung from their arms, their hips, the crests of their shoulders like birds in heat. Their makeup was theatrical, sultry eyes and crimson mouths that smirked without needing a reason.
They didn’t glide in, they strutted. They owned the floor the way soldiers own battlegrounds.
They moved among the guests with intimate ease, brushing fingertips across suited shoulders, whispering low in ears. One perched herself onto the lap of a man at the edge of the table as though it had always been her place. Another leaned so close to whisper that her lips grazed a neck.
And the room changed.
Laughter, real and raucous, broke out like a ripple. Chairs scraped back. The clinking of glasses returned, more frenzied this time. The smell of perfume—thick, sweet, synthetic—mingled with the warmth of roasted meats and spiced wine.
Jane glanced at Bucky across the table. He hadn’t moved. His jaw was tight, his hands folded in front of him with military precision. Despite his efforts to seem at ease, he looked undeniably uncomfortable.
She shifted her gaze again, now slower, more measured. She caught sight of one of the older guests, a man she vaguely recalled being introduced as a retired diplomat, laughing with wine dribbling down his chin as a dancer tugged playfully at his tie. A few seats down, a woman sat like stone, her fingers white-knuckled around her fork as the man beside her openly flirted with a girl who couldn’t have been older than twenty.
Everywhere Jane looked, there was some form of indulgence. And yet, beneath it all, she sensed something more disturbing than pleasure.
Compliance.
Jane scanned the faces of the women, what few there were among the guests. Most kept a passive expression, detached and practiced. Their bodies remained still, their lips politely curved. Not a single one protested. Not a single one seemed surprised. As though this was not the first time. As though they all knew the rules of this charade. And now… so did she.
A sharp clink of glass startled her. She turned just in time to see Christian Vogel on his feet, swirling his champagne with theatrical delight. A dancer had her arms around his shoulders, and he was moving with her in a staccato rhythm that bordered on ridiculous. His face was flushed, teeth gleaming as he laughed openly. Annalise, hadn’t moved. She sat like a statue, her eyes fixed on the pair while gripping her flute of champagne so tightly that Jane half-expected it to shatter.
It was too much.
Too loud. Too bright. Too absurd.
Jane had seen worse kinds of vulgarity. In all the lives she had lived—disguised as nobility, servant, celebrity—she’d moved through brothels dressed as salons, sat at banquets where laughter masked cruelty, and danced in ballrooms where every gesture was a transaction. She had learned to stomach filth wrapped in gold. This wasn’t shocking because of how explicit it was.
It was the speed.
The way the room had shifted, like someone had flipped a switch. One second it was a refined, composed evening, a symphony of glass clinks and hushed conversation. The next, it was spectacle. Plumes of feathers, bare skin, artificial smiles stretched too wide. Laughter that rang hollow. Greedy hands reaching, grabbing, claiming.
It was how naturally the room had followed their rhythm. How quickly the mask of decorum had slipped, revealing the truth beneath: that this place had never been about elegance. That it had always been teetering on the edge of this grotesque display, waiting only for permission.
“God,” she muttered, leaning toward Bucky, her voice barely audible over the din. “What even is this?”
Bucky gave a slow shrug, eyes following the chaos on the floor. “I don’t know,” he said under his breath. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
Neither of them were. The mission file hadn’t said anything about parading showgirls or midnight masquerades of excess.
Jane’s eyes narrowed, tracking the way the crowd swelled and contracted like a living thing. This was no longer just a dinner. It was a display. A test, maybe. A provocation. And they were being watched.
Every part of her training screamed that this was something carefully orchestrated. The dancers weren’t just entertainment. They were a catalyst. And whoever had designed this scene wanted reactions. Wanted tells. Wanted to see who leaned forward eagerly, and who recoiled.
Her gaze flicked to Bucky. Rigid. Unmoving. Still seated beside her while half the room dissolved into glitter and flesh and champagne foam.
“Maybe you should…” she started, then paused, hesitant. “Maybe you should go. Dance. Blend in.”
He turned to her sharply. “Are you serious?”
“It’s going to look strange if you don’t,” she said, voice flat but firm. “They’ll notice.”
He didn’t answer. For a moment, it seemed like he wouldn’t move at all. But then, with a sigh, Bucky rose. He grabbed the untouched champagne from the table and turned away from her.
Jane followed him with her eyes. Watched the moment he reached one of the dancers, a redhead in rhinestones and pearls who looked barely older than Peter. He said something. A joke, maybe. Whatever it was, it earned a laugh. The woman threw her head back, the motion so rehearsed it almost sparkled. Then her hand landed on his shoulder, possessively. Her nails glinted as her fingers splayed over the fabric of his jacket, dangerously close to the scar where skin met metal.
Jane’s breath hitched. She blinked and looked away. Only then did she realize her hands were still in her lap, twisting the corner of her linen napkin into a mess of tight, tortured knots. Her knuckles ached. Her forearms had gone stiff. She forced herself to release the fabric, letting the crumpled napkin fall, limp and useless.
The air felt too warm all of a sudden. Too thick.
Jane didn’t care about her. She didn’t care about the glint in her teeth, or how she leaned too close, or how Bucky’s body curved slightly in response. She knew what this was. Knew why it was necessary.
Don’t be pathetic, she told to herself.
She reached for her own champagne and took a sip, more for the ritual than the taste. The bubbles felt sharp against her tongue.
“Come now,” said a voice beside her. Smooth. Familiar. Dangerous. “You should be enjoying yourself.”
Christian was watching her, still slightly flushed, a sheen of sweat collecting at his temple.
“Go on,” he coaxed, offering a hand. “Your husband is already enjoying the company. Why not join?”
She felt Annalise’s eyes on her like a blade.
Jane stared at Christian’s hand. For a heartbeat, she considered saying no. She considered standing up and walking out. But then she remembered her own words to Bucky. There was no room for hesitation.
She stood.
His fingers wrapped around hers and pulled her into the center of the chaos. The music was frenzied now, spinning through horns and sharp percussion. Christian’s hand landed on her waist, fingers pressing too low, too firm. His other hand gripped hers tightly, guiding her through the steps with a confidence that made her skin crawl.
He was too close. His cologne was overpowering. His breath too warm against her cheek. And then it hit her, the memory of the kiss he’d stolen in the garden during their last visit. The one she hadn’t wanted. The one she’d forced herself to forget.
Her stomach churned. Her body stiffened.
She kept moving, but every step felt mechanical. She didn’t speak. She didn’t smile. Her skin was crawling.
“See?” he said in her ear, smug. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Jane didn’t answer. Her gaze shifted, an unconscious motion at first, but the moment it landed on him, she froze.
Bucky was still dancing with the red-haired girl, his posture rigid, his movements minimal. But his eyes weren’t on the woman in front of him.
They were on her. Just her.
For a second, she couldn’t breathe. Then she looked away.
The rhythm of the music pulsed like a second heartbeat in Jane’s temples, sharp and insistent, as if it were echoing inside her skull. She could barely hear herself think over the clamor of the party—bodies pressed too close, laughter too shrill, lights too bright. Everything was exaggerated, soaked in a layer of decadent, artificial glamour that made her skin itch.
Christian’s hand on her waist had grown bolder, sliding lower each time they moved. His breath was hot against her temple, words slurred only slightly from the champagne—or maybe something more. Jane tried to step back, to create some space, but he matched her movements too easily, keeping her trapped in his orbit.
Then came the shift.
She noticed it first when his hands moved too slowly, too deliberately. Then, as if conjured from nowhere, a tiny, round pill appeared between his fingers. It gleamed pale pink in the low light, innocent in shape, obscene in context.
Jane froze.
Christian caught her reaction and grinned, cocking his head like a man about to share a secret. “Why don’t we take the fun to the next level?” he said, almost sing-song. “I’ve already taken one. Don’t I seem… fantastic?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. He leaned in, their faces uncomfortably close. “Come on,” he coaxed. “You’ll like it. I promise.”
Jane shook her head, heart thudding against her ribs. “I’m already having fun,” she said, forcing her voice into a higher, more cheerful register. She cupped his face between her hands, trying to anchor his gaze. “Can’t you tell? I don’t need anything else.”
But he wasn’t listening.
His smile didn’t falter. In fact, it sharpened, thinned. “I think you should try,” he said, and this time it wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order.
He raised his hand, pressing the pill firmly against her lips. Jane’s breath hitched.
No. She couldn’t. But he pushed harder.
This wasn’t just about her. She couldn’t ruin everything now. They were so close. If she resisted too much, if she made a scene, it could all collapse. Everything they’d worked for. Everything they were risking.
So she opened her mouth. Let the pill slip past her lips. She swallowed.
Christian laughed, pleased with himself, and pulled her back into motion before she could find her balance again. He spun her in time to the music, and she clung to the illusion that maybe it wouldn’t take effect. Maybe nothing would happen. Maybe she’d just pretend long enough to get through the night.
But time didn’t move right anymore.
She couldn’t tell if it was five minutes or half an hour later when her body started to betray her. Her legs felt heavy. Her arms, sluggish. Her head was floating above her like a balloon, tethered only weakly to her spine. The lights swam and multiplied in her periphery, and the music warped, first too loud, then muffled. Everything around her shimmered with a surreal, off-kilter clarity.
Then came the nausea.
Not in her stomach, but in her brain. A sick, spinning sense of displacement.
She stumbled.
Christian caught her elbow before she could fall. “Maybe,” he whispered, far too close now, “it’s time we found somewhere a little more… private.”
She wanted to say no. Wanted to pull away. But her voice wouldn’t come. Her limbs didn’t obey.
He tugged her gently, but insistently, through a side door, into a dim corridor where the music faded into a distant throb. The warmth of the dining hall dissipated into cooler, quieter air. She didn’t know where they were. Only that the hallway felt wrong. Isolated. Lit in pulses by flickering sconces.
Then came the wall.
She hit it back-first with a muffled thud. Christian’s hands were on her waist again, but firmer now. And then, his mouth.
It landed on hers with a greedy pressure, wet and insistent. She turned her face, but he followed. She tried to say stop, but her voice caught in her throat. Her limbs were leaden, useless. Her hands pushed weakly at his chest, but there was no strength behind them.
She wanted to cry, wanted to fight, but the dizziness was growing unbearable. She was losing her sense of up and down. The wall behind her didn’t feel real anymore. Nothing did. She was slipping.
His fingers slid under the hem of her dress.
No. Her mind screamed it.
No. But the word never made it to her lips. It stayed lodged in her throat, trapped behind the pressure of breath that refused to come.
His hands, rough and insistent, traced the curve of her hip with a sense of ownership that made her want to retch. Her head lolled slightly to the side, vision swimming, edges of the corridor warping like melting film. The world was slipping out of focus, but his touch remained—too sharp, too real, cutting through the haze.
He pressed closer. The wall bit into her shoulder blades. His weight was a force, pinning her in place.
And still, her body wouldn’t move.
Somewhere in the spinning fog of her brain, she knew exactly what was happening.
She felt the fabric of her dress shift again. His grip tightened. His mouth found her neck. She winced. She wanted to scream. To shove him back with both hands. To drive her knee into him and break him apart. To summon her powers and hurl him across the room with enough force to make him feel her pain. But there was no strength. Only heat and noise and the dull ache of powerlessness wrapping around her like wet cloth.
Then came the pain.
It was sharp and sudden—an elbow jammed too hard against her ribs, or maybe a knee, It didn’t matter. It made it hard to breathe.
And then more pain. But this time it burned between her legs. It felt like having sandpaper scrub against raw skin. Her breath came in uneven, stuttering gasps, as if she were drowning in the very air she was trying to breathe. But he didn’t care. Jane felt it pushing harder. Faster. And it burned even more. It burned so much it was unbearable.
She whimpered. Her mouth moved before she could stop it.
“Please…”
A whisper. Fragile. Slurred.
A plea.
But he didn’t hear it for what it was. Or he didn’t want to.
His mouth curled into a grin she couldn’t see, only feel. “You want more, mh? Good girl.” he breathed, the words slick with satisfaction.
No.
No, that’s not what she meant.
Her vision was dimming now, edges closing in. The lights above her pulsed too slow, too warm. And still, he was moving—pressing, tugging, shaping her silence into consent that wasn’t there.
She blinked hard. Tried to ground herself. To hold on. But her knees were trembling, her hands trembling, and her voice—
Gone.
Somewhere deep inside, Jane screamed. But the sound never broke the surface.
When she opened her eyes, the world didn’t crash back all at once. It slid into her consciousness in pieces, like sunlight bleeding slowly through cracked shutters.
Sound came first. Not the silence she’d hoped for, but the chaotic muffled thrum of bass bleeding through the walls, pulsing like a second heartbeat against her skull. Each beat brought a fresh ripple of nausea, but it was duller now. Bearable. Distant voices filtered in next—laughter, clinking glasses, a violin’s nervous trill swallowed by electronic rhythm. The party was still alive. Still close.
Then came the weight. Her own weight, dragging her limbs down, but no longer entirely paralyzed. Her fingers twitched. Her legs shifted slightly on the hard, unforgiving floor. She winced as sensation returned to her skin—raw, sore, stiff in places she didn’t want to examine. Her breath caught in her throat.
The ceiling above her was flat, white, low. It wasn’t spinning anymore, but it trembled at the edges, pulsing faintly with each surge of sound. She turned her head slightly, a motion that sent a sharp ache down her neck, and saw the wall. Pale. Empty. It took her another few seconds to realize she was still in the corridor. Not far from the ballroom. Not far from the people who had been dancing, drinking, laughing. No one had noticed she was gone. Or maybe no one had cared.
The realization settled like lead in her stomach.
She forced her elbows under her, tried to push herself up, but her arms buckled. The hallway tilted dangerously, shadows stretching along the floor. Her body felt sore in too many places, but she knew where she was now. She wasn’t safe, but she wasn’t in the dark anymore. And that difference mattered.
Cold air licked at her skin where her dress was torn. Her thighs, her shoulders, her side. She didn’t dare look down. Didn’t want to see what it looked like. What he had done. The scent of his cologne still clung to the fabric near her collarbone, cloying and sour.
She closed her eyes again, just for a second. Just to quiet the panic.
Then—Footsteps. Fast. Echoing. Heavy enough to carry purpose.
Something touched her shoulder. She flinched, the reaction instinctive, weak. Her limbs barely moved. She was still trapped in her own body, drowning in it.
Hair brushed her temple. A scent. Clean. Familiar. A tremor of recognition stirred in her chest. Then, Eyes. Blue. So vividly blue they looked surreal in the dark.
“Jane,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Jesus. Jane—”
It was him. It was James.
Bucky knelt beside her, hands trembling as they hovered over her body. Not touching at first. Afraid. Then, cautiously, he gathered her into his arms. She was limp. He moved her with difficulty, adjusting the angle of her head so it wouldn’t slump. His jacket came off in a clumsy motion and was wrapped around her shoulders, hiding what was left of her torn dress. His jaw clenched when he saw the smudged mascara on her cheeks, the redness around her mouth, the tear in the hem of her dress.
She had been crying.
“Shh, I’ve got you.” he murmured, voice tight. “I’ve got you, okay?”
Her arms barely responded, but she curled, instinctively, into the warmth of his chest. Her cheek found the hollow at the base of his neck, and she breathed him in. Through the chaos in her blood, through the nausea and confusion, she felt it: safety.
His arms were strong. Solid. Anchoring.
He lifted her gently, cradling her against him like something fragile. Like she would break. Maybe she already had. The hallway they moved through was dim, lit only by faint sconces along the walls, each step jostling her head against his shoulder. But she didn’t care. She was moving away from that place. From that man. From that music.
The tears started again before she even realized. Hot. Silent. Streaming along the curve of her cheek and disappearing into the fabric of his shirt. She didn’t know what she was crying for—pain, shame, rage, relief. It was all the same now.
He carried her down endless halls, until they reached the room.
He pushed the door open with his shoulder, walked inside, and knelt at the edge of the bed before laying her down, carefully. His breath was ragged. His hands shook as he removed her shoes and tried to smooth the blanket beneath her, then tucked it over her body with more gentleness than she thought possible.
Then his voice came, low and hoarse, like gravel dragged across asphalt.
“What did he do to you?”
She flinched. Her eyes fluttered closed. She didn’t answer.
“I saw you—I saw your dress, your face—Jane, I swear to God—”
He stood abruptly, paced a short, angry circle. His fists clenched and unclenched. The light caught on metal, his left hand gleamed with a cold, brutal sheen.
“I’m going to kill him.” his voice was strangled. “I swear to God, I’ll kill him.”
Jane stirred. “No…”
Her voice was a rasp, barely audible. He stopped. His eyes locked on her as she reached out, grabbing the fabric of his shirt. She tugged, barely. Just enough.
He dropped to his knees beside the bed. His human hand reached for hers.
“No,” she whispered again. “Don’t go.”
He stared at her.
Her fingers, small and trembling, wrapped around the edge of his sleeve. She didn’t know when they had shifted, but now her palm was over his forearm. The metal one. She didn’t mean to. She just—
The cold of it, under the fabric, shocked her. Hard and unnatural beneath her fingertips.
She froze. Her hand recoiled. His breath caught.
But she didn’t pull away completely. She just moved her hand closer to his neck, lightly. Only enough to keep him there.
“Please,” she said. “Stay with me.”
His shoulders sagged.
“I’m not leaving.” he promised.
He sat there, beside her, unsure if he should touch her. His hand hovered close to her face, hesitating. He wanted to brush the hair from her forehead, to clean away the smudged makeup, to do something, anything, but she flinched before he even made contact.
She shook her head. Eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t.”
His hand dropped.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. I won’t touch you. But I’m here.”
And he stayed. Despite the sharp edges in his voice, despite the way rage made his breath stutter and catch in his chest.
Jane lay there, motionless, curled beneath the blanket like a broken bird. Her breath came in shallow drags, her body limp, spent. He still didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even breathe too loudly. He just sat beside her, silent and steady.
She didn’t want words. She didn’t want touch. She wanted the absence of fear.
And he gave it to her.
She didn’t know how long they stayed like that. Minutes. An hour. For a while, she resisted. Stayed on the edge, mind fluttering like a moth in a jar. But the room was warm now. And the drug was still too strong in her veins.
So she gave in.
Not completely. Not to comfort. But to the aching weight behind her eyes and the blur still swimming in her skull. She let her muscles go slack again. Let the trembling ease from her fingers. Let her lashes lower, slow and heavy.
And then she let go, into something that wasn’t quite sleep, wasn’t quite unconsciousness. A quiet grey limbo. A mercy. And in that half-place, that muted space between waking and not, submerged in the irregular rhythm of his breathing, the world finally stopped spinning.
_____
The pain came first.
A deep, throbbing ache bloomed behind her eyes, wrapping around her skull. Jane blinked, slow and uncertain, as if her eyelids were coated in glue. The ceiling above her was pale and too bright, a distorted white glow that made her temples throb harder. Light poured through the wide windows, unfiltered, glinting off the frost-lined glass and painting the walls with a sterile brilliance that only made the ache worse.
She groaned, pressing her palm to her forehead.
Her throat burned, every swallow a scrape of sandpaper down her esophagus. Her tongue felt thick and dry. The air she breathed was too sharp, the cold slipping inside her lungs like splinters. Slowly, she tried to sit up. Her limbs felt heavy, sore, like her bones didn’t quite belong to her. It took effort to drag herself upright, the blanket slipping from her shoulders with a soft whisper.
The curtains had been left open, offering an unobstructed view of the mountains. A vast, endless landscape of white. It was snowing again, thick flakes swirling against a sky that held no sun, only a flat, oppressive gray.
She couldn’t tell what time it was. Morning, maybe. That kind of light gave nothing away.
She turned her head, wincing as the motion tugged at something tense in her neck, and that’s when she saw him.
Bucky.
He was crouched beside the bed, head leaned against the corner of the nightstand. His body slumped in a rigid angle that couldn’t have been comfortable, one shoulder raised, arms folded across his knees. His eyes were open, blue and glassy beneath the shadows of exhaustion etched into his face. Dark circles carved under them like bruises.
She stared. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just watched her like he had been doing so for hours.
“You didn’t sleep?” Her voice was barely audible, just a rasp in her scorched throat.
He shook his head slowly. “Couldn’t.”
Jane brought both hands to her temples and massaged gently, trying to breathe through the ache. That’s when it hit her. Not the headache, not the cold.
Memory.
A wave of nausea rose up sharp and sudden. Her stomach turned, and she clenched her jaw. Images of the night before came crashing down in a sickening rush—hands, lips and the terrifying powerlessness that had knotted her limbs like dead weight. The way her body hadn’t listened to her. The way her voice had vanished when she’d needed it most.
She felt sick. She felt tainted.
Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. Crying would only make the headache worse. She couldn’t afford that. She needed control. She needed something solid.
Kicking the blankets off her legs, Jane forced herself to stand. Her body protested, knees weak, muscles stiff. She stumbled slightly, catching herself against the edge of the nightstand.
Bucky didn’t move to help her.
“Where are you going?” His voice was low, hoarse.
Jane kept her gaze locked on the window, on the white beyond it. “To take a shower.”
There was a pause.
“You know what time it is?” She continued.
He checked the small analog clock on the nightstand behind him. “It’s almost noon.”
That made her freeze. Her eyes widened. “Noon? It’s almost lunchtime—why the hell didn’t you wake me up?”
She turned abruptly, moved toward the suitcases left by the door. She yanked one open and began pulling out random clothes. Underwear, a sweater, a pair of black slacks. Her movements were quick, not careful. Mechanical. Like if she just moved fast enough, she wouldn’t have to feel anything.
Behind her, Bucky stood. “It doesn’t matter.”
His voice had changed. Calmer, colder. Quieter in a dangerous way.
“This mission—it’s gone too far. We should be done. I say we drag that bastard into one of these rooms and tear the truth out of him. Find the vials. Get out.”
She stopped, a pair of leggings clutched in one hand. Her heart skipped a beat.
“I’m serious.” he added. “I don’t want to spend another day in this place.”
Jane turned slowly to face him. That’s when she realized—she was still wearing the dress. The one from the night before. The strap had fallen, baring her shoulder and part of her chest. The hem was frayed, riding high up her thighs. Her makeup had probably melted all over her face, her hair a tangled mess.
She felt exposed. Violated all over again. Her arms moved up instinctively to cover herself.
How had she not noticed?
“I—” Her voice cracked, barely more than a thread of sound, and she looked away. Her throat tightened, her chest rising and falling in shallow waves. “That would be stupid.”
“Stupid?” His voice was sharp, incredulous.
Jane didn’t flinch, not exactly. But she took a breath before speaking again, bracing herself like every word she was about to say was a step across a minefield. “We don’t know what he has,” she said, teeth catching the inside of her cheek. “We don’t know how many vials, or what condition they’re in. We don’t even know if he’d give us the real ones. He could hand us a fake set and alert security while we’re walking out the door. It could be a trap.”
She looked up at him then, eyes wide and rimmed in red, her voice starting to tremble despite her best efforts. “We’d blow everything.”
Bucky stared at her like she had just spoken another language. As if the words didn’t compute. “You want to stay?” he said slowly, his voice almost hollow. “You really want to—”
“I’m not a victim,” she said suddenly, cutting across him, her voice louder than she intended. The air stilled around them. “I won’t be one. I won’t let that be what I am.”
There was something raw in the way she stood. Arms hanging rigid at her sides, fingers curling in and out of fists like she couldn’t decide if she needed to punch something or hold herself together. Her body was still shaking, almost imperceptibly, but her spine was straight.
Her gaze didn’t waver this time.
“I’ll make him pay,” she said, quieter now, but every syllable laced with venom. “He’ll suffer. But not like this. Not out of blind pain. That would mean he still has power over me.”
She swallowed hard, and her voice cracked again as she went on. “We came here with a purpose. If we abandon it now, if we throw this mission to hell because I lost control, then everything I went through will have meant nothing. It’ll just be… empty. Meaningless. A wound that never mattered.”
Her chest rose sharply with a breath that barely made it out.
“And I can’t—” her voice faltered, shaking, “I can’t let that be true. I need this to mean something. I need it to have a reason. Otherwise… how can I look at myself in the mirror?”
For a long moment, the room held its breath with her. Her eyes shimmered, the light from the window making them look even more glassy, more fragile, and she bit her lip to keep it all in. Her jaw was tight. She wasn’t sure if she was going to scream or collapse.
Bucky didn’t speak. But something shifted in his face. Something small, dark.
He wasn’t just silent. He was still. Too still.
Jane blinked, realizing something was wrong. His face had gone blank. But not in a soft, peaceful way, but like someone had thrown a sheet over the furniture. His mouth was a hard line, his eyes cold and distant. And yet, beneath that stillness, there was something simmering.
Rage. Held tight like a blade against the throat. She suddenly realized she had never seen him like this. Not really. Not like this.
There was a tension in his body that wasn’t just exhaustion. It was restraint. Every line of his frame was drawn tight like a wire stretched to its limit. His jaw twitched once, but he didn’t speak. His fists were clenched at his sides, and his shoulders barely moved with his breathing.
He was right there in front of her, but not entirely.
It was like he had stepped into another version of himself. A darker one. One she’d met a long time ago.
Now, looking at him, something primal in her recoiled. He didn’t look like the man who had helped her into bed the night before. He didn’t look like the man who had watched over her all night, silent and still.
He looked like the ghost of what Hydra had made him. He looked like the Winter Soldier.
She felt it in her gut, something cold and ancient, something like fear. It wasn’t that she was afraid of Bucky. Not really. But the thing standing in front of her wasn’t just him. It was a shadow that clung to his skin, that shaped his silence and sharpened his anger.
He stared at her for a long moment, his breathing shallow, nostrils flaring. Then, quietly, he looked away.
“Don’t come down for lunch.” he said. “Allow yourself at least that. I’ll go alone. I’ll make something up. Say you drank too much last night or whatever they’ll believe. You can join me later for the start of the first auction.”
Jane didn’t respond immediately. Her fingers twisted against each other, knuckles white. Her first impulse was to argue, to insist she could handle it, that she wasn’t weak. But the idea of going back down there, of seeing Christian’s face, of pretending none of it had happened, made her stomach churn so violently she thought she might throw up right there on the carpet.
So instead, she nodded. A small, tired gesture. “Okay.” she whispered, barely audible.
Bucky straightened with visible effort. His body moved like it had forgotten how, stiff and slow. The white shirt he still wore from the night before was rumpled beyond recognition, sleeves creased, collar limp. He looked older than he had that morning. Older, and impossibly tired.
“I’ll use the comms Barton gave us.” he added. “I’ll keep them on the whole time. If you need me, for anything… say it. I’ll be here. I’ll come back to you.”
She met his gaze for just a second before looking away. That promise, that quiet insistence, settled somewhere deep inside her, like a pebble dropped in a still lake. She didn’t know what it meant. Not yet.
“I—” she began, then stopped. Her hand lifted slightly, hovering. “I’m going to…”
She gestured vaguely toward the bathroom. Bucky nodded once, wordless now. He didn’t ask anything more.
Jane crossed the room without looking back. Her suitcase was half-unzipped where she’d left it, and she pulled out a fresh change of clothes with mechanical efficiency. Once inside the bathroom, she turned the lock with a click that felt louder than a gunshot.
And only then, only once the door was shut, did she let herself collapse.
The sob hit her in the ribs first. Not loud. Not dramatic. But deep and shaking and suffocating. She pressed the heel of her hand over her mouth as hard as she could, so hard it hurt her jaw, just to keep the sound in. She bent over the sink, not even bothering to turn on the water, and let her weight fall against the porcelain like it might hold her up better than her own bones could.
Her knees gave out, and she slid to the tiled floor in silence.
It took a long time before the sobs subsided enough for her to move. When she finally stood again, her limbs trembled. Her reflection loomed in the mirror, pale and hollow-eyed, but she didn’t look. She couldn’t.
The shower was hot, almost scalding. Steam filled the room so fast the glass fogged before the water even hit her skin. She scrubbed her arms first, too hard, too fast. Then her shoulders, her stomach, her thighs. She didn’t count how many times she dragged the sponge across her skin. Again and again. Until it hurt. Until it burned. Until the skin reddened and her arms ached from the pressure.
It wasn’t enough.
There was something underneath all of it, something she couldn’t wash away. The feeling of being looked at. Touched. The loss of control. She didn’t cry again, not that she noticed. But her chest hurt like she had. She wasn’t sure if the water on her cheeks was from the shower or something else.
When she stepped out, her movements were robotic. She dried herself quickly, avoiding the mirror once more. She pulled on a soft sweater, dark and plain, and black slacks. Her hair was still wet when she combed it through, but she didn’t care.
She opened the door slowly, fingers still damp. The light in the room had shifted; snow was falling again beyond the wide window. Pale afternoon light bathed the bed in white. And he was still there.
Bucky was sitting on one of the armchairs, elbows on his knees. His gaze was somewhere near the carpet, distant. Jane blinked, unsure if she was imagining it.
She glanced at the clock. 12:47. The lunch had surely started by now.
She crossed the room slowly and sat down on the edge of the bed. Her hands folded in her lap, then unfolded again. They wouldn’t stop moving. “You should go.” she said after a while. Her voice cracked slightly, but she pushed through it. “It’s late.”
Bucky nodded, rising to his feet. But then he paused at the door, his fingers hovering just above the handle. He didn’t look at her at first. Then, with a breath, he turned.
“It’s my fault.” he said, quietly.
Jane’s head lifted. Her hands stilled.
“I should’ve been with you. I should’ve been watching you, protecting you. That’s what we’re supposed to be doing. It’s exactly why they sent us together. To Look out for each other.”
His voice was steady, but the tension in it betrayed him.
“I let that happen to you because I was too busy pretending to enjoy myself. Laughing like any of this is normal. I let my guard down. And I’m sorry. I know this won’t change anything, nothing will. But I’m so fucking sorry I wasn’t there.”
She didn’t answer. Didn’t know how to.
“From now on,” he said quietly, eyes lowered, voice a shade too calm to be casual, “I’ll do whatever you ask. Whatever you need. If there’s something you want taken care of… you don’t even have to tell me how. Or why.”
He didn’t meet her gaze, and maybe that was the point. There was no pride in his voice, just a worn-out kind of promise. But he meant it. Every word of it.
Jane felt the unspoken weight in his words, the way they hovered on the edge of something darker. If she asked him to hurt Christian, he would. She could see it. He didn’t have to say it. He would.
“Just say the word.” he continued. “I owe you that. And even if I didn’t, I’d still do it.”
She wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault. Because it wasn’t. Not really.
This wasn’t about failing to protect each other, not in the way he thought. This wasn’t about partners in danger, watching each other’s backs in the middle of a firefight. This was strategy. Calculated risk. A mission designed to manipulate, to infiltrate, to seduce. And Jane had always known what her role would be.
Maria Hill hadn’t needed to explain it out loud. Jane remembered the sound the zipper of her suitcase when she opened it the first time. The glint of soft silk catching the light, the intricate lace lingerie laid out in layers. She remembered the heels, tall and fragile—meant to be seen, not to be run in.
Everything in that suitcase had been chosen for a reason. Her body had been part of the plan from the very beginning.
And she’d accepted it. Not because she was naïve. But because she was prepared. Because she’d trained herself not to flinch at the unspoken. Because she knew how these missions worked, how deep you sometimes had to sink to get what mattered. She had done it before, for centuries. She had smiled when she didn’t want to, played roles that made her skin crawl. This was just another role.
Except it wasn’t.
Because now it wasn’t pretend. Because this time, she hadn’t been able to keep the lines straight between performance and reality. Because no amount of planning or steel in her spine had prepared her for the way it had actually felt. The powerlessness. The violation. The way her skin still felt raw beneath the clothes she’d changed into.
And none of it, not the silence in that hotel room, not the months of training or the hours of compartmentalization, made this feel any less wrong.
She twisted her fingers in her lap again, then she stared at them like they didn’t belong to her, like if she could just keep them still enough, the rest of her wouldn’t fall apart.
Across the room, Bucky hadn’t moved.
He stood stiffly by the door, his shoulders tense. Even though he’d changed into clean clothes—his shirt pressed, his hair combed neatly back—he still looked terribly tired.
And so goddamn apologetic.
She looked at him and felt something catch in her throat. Because she knew what he was thinking. What he believed. That he should’ve stopped it. That somehow, by not being by her side in that exact moment, he had failed.
But he hadn’t.
He hadn’t put her in that corridor. He hadn’t given her that dress, or told her to smile, or asked her to make herself small so the mission could advance. He hadn’t handed her the suitcase in Paris and implied quietly, that seduction was part of the job.
And yet, he blamed himself.
Her lips parted. She wanted to tell him. Not to comfort him. Not to let him off the hook. But because it was the truth. Because the truth mattered. Because she needed him to understand that this wasn’t on him. But when she tried to speak, no sound came. Her breath hitched, her chest tightened, and the words died before they ever reached her tongue. She just sat there, hands trembling, throat burning, staring at him across the quiet room.
Jane stayed silent, hands in her lap, and Bucky waited a moment longer. Then, quietly, he dropped his gaze, opened the door, and slipped out.
The click of it closing behind him was too soft for how loud it felt inside her chest.
And suddenly the room was too big. Too empty. The cold crept back in, not from the snow outside, but from within her.
She hadn’t realized how safe she’d felt with him there, not until he was gone. And now, she wasn’t.
Not even close.
____
Jane stepped into the auction hall just as the doors closed behind her with a hiss of pressurized air. The room was dim, cloaked in golden half-light that pulsed from antique chandeliers above and the sharp spotlight on the central stage. The air buzzed faintly with static, expensive perfume, and hushed voices. Her steps made no sound on the velvet carpeting as she paused at the threshold, blinking while her eyes adjusted.
She scanned the room.
The space had been arranged like an exclusive supper club: small, private tables scattered in perfect symmetry around the stage, champagne chilling in silver buckets beside every seat, dark wood glinting under soft light. At the front, directly beneath the dais, were the Vogels. Christian lounged with that same practiced ease, one arm draped casually behind Annalise’s chair as if nothing in the world could touch him.
Jane froze.
It was just a glimpse, just a fraction of a second, but it felt like being shoved into ice water. Her stomach clenched. Her lungs refused to cooperate. Her throat tightened around air that suddenly weighed too much to swallow.
She had prepared for this moment, in the few hours she had. Rehearsed it, over and over, in the privacy of her mind. She hoped she’d built enough armor to withstand it. But nothing had prepared her for the way her body betrayed her, how the simple sight of him sitting there made her knees go weak.
Her fingers gripped the strap of her small purse. She could feel the tremor starting in her hands, could feel the telltale prickling at the base of her spine, the kind that used to warn her she wasn’t safe.
But she couldn’t let it show.
No.
She straightened, forcing breath back into her chest in shallow sips. Her face remained blank. Blank enough, she hoped. Her gaze swept past him, unflinching. If anyone looked at her now, they’d see a composed woman entering a room. Not a woman reliving a moment she barely survived. Not a woman who, for a heartbeat, had forgotten what year it was.
Christian didn’t see her. Or if he did, he made no sign.
Jane swallowed hard and took one step forward, then another. One breath at a time. She moved as if her heels were planted in wet concrete, but she moved. That had to count for something.
She fixed her eyes on a column ahead, refusing to let her gaze flick back toward the front. Her heart was beating so loud she was certain someone would hear it. Her skin itched with heat beneath the sweater, suddenly too heavy. Her jaw locked. She counted her steps, clung to the rhythm like a lifeline.
One-two-three. Don’t stop. One-two-three. Keep breathing.
It was all performance now. Controlled gestures, impassive mask, posture measured to the inch. Because if she let herself feel, truly feel, what it was like to be in the same room with him again, she would fall apart.
And she couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not tonight.
And then she saw him.
Standing near the edge of the crowd, half-turned toward the stage but clearly scanning the room—Bucky. His posture was tense, shoulders drawn tight beneath his jacket, but the moment their eyes met, something in her chest loosened. A flicker of relief, quiet and unexpected, threaded through her chest.
It was ironic, really. Of all people, it was him who made her feel that.
Bucky stood near the back, leaning against a marble column as though trying to blend with the architecture. He straightened when he spotted her, then made his way through the crowd without hesitation.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, as he approached. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”
“I almost didn’t,” Jane admitted, her voice equally soft. “But I’m here now.”
They didn’t hug. Didn’t touch. But something in the way they looked at each other made space bend slightly around them.
Bucky gestured toward a small two-person table set near the left wing. “I kept us a spot. Decent view of the stage, and far enough from Vogel’s circle.”
Jane nodded and followed. As they sat, she noticed the details: the champagne already uncorked and sweating in its bucket; a plate of ripe figs and chocolate truffles untouched; the discreet number tag perched beside the candle in the middle of their table.
“You okay?” Bucky asked. He was trying to look casual, but his eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her.
“I’m fine.”
She lied.
She was still wearing the same wide sweater and soft slacks from earlier. No makeup. No jewelry. Nothing performative. She hadn’t even considered changing. For once, she hadn’t wanted to be seen. Hadn’t wanted to be beautiful, desirable, or polished. The very thought of slipping into one of those silk dresses, of painting her face for show, made her stomach turn. She couldn’t bring herself to play that part again, not this time.
But none of that mattered now, because the auction had already begun, and every second that passed pulled her deeper into a game she could no longer stomach, yet couldn’t afford to walk away from.
Bucky didn’t press her. He just nodded once and looked back toward the stage.
He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t try to comfort her with empty words or reach for her hand like someone who didn’t understand the relief of silence. He simply gave her what she needed, space. And he knew she needed it. Knew it in a way that didn’t require explanation or justification. Because he had been there.
Maybe he’d never say it aloud, maybe he couldn’t, but during the long years when his body was not his own, when Hydra had twisted him into something sharp and hollow, there had been moments. Moments when he, too, had been used. Violated. Again and again. And each time, a little more of him had disappeared. Each time, he had felt less like a person, less like a man.
He didn’t need to hear what had happened to Jane to understand it.
The lights dimmed further. A ripple of quiet spread across the room as a tall woman in a black velvet gown stepped onto the platform. Her voice, when it came through the hidden speakers, was silk wrapped in steel.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, “we welcome you to the first round of the Velvet Collection. Tonight’s selections have been curated with the highest discretion and the rarest access. You are here because you’ve earned the privilege.”
She paused, letting that sink in, and then tilted her chin toward the Vogels.
“A special thanks, of course, to our gracious patrons—Christian Vogel and his lovely wife Annalise—for their generosity and oversight. Without them, this event would not exist.”
A smattering of polite applause followed. Christian raised his glass, basking.
Jane exhaled slowly through her nose.
The auction began with a piece of adaptive drone armor. A StarkTech prototype, fourth-generation, tagged as destroyed in 2016. The opening bid was set at five million euros.
Jane’s heart stuttered. She leaned closer to Bucky, her voice barely a whisper, but he didn’t need to hear the words to feel the shift in her breath, the sudden stillness in her body.
On the screen behind the presenter, the display flickered. A high-definition projection of the armor rotated slowly, glossy and intact. Beneath the serial number, in sleek silver font, was the unmistakable name:
STARK INDUSTRIES.
It was printed clean and proud, etched into the plating like a signature.
Jane blinked. That name hit her like a whisper against the skin, soft and sharp all at once. Stark. Tony.
She had tried so hard not to think about him.
From the moment they’d left for Iceland, from the moment she’d heard his voice through that phone and felt the air shift around her ribs—she had tried. She’d locked that part of herself up and swallowed the key. Because thinking of Tony meant remembering. Remembering meant hurting. And God, the last thing she needed now was more pain.
But now he was here. Not in person, but in presence. In design. In legacy. His fingerprints were all over that armor. His mind, his brilliance, his name. It made her dizzy.
It made her ache.
For a moment, she allowed herself to feel it. Just a fraction. Just enough to remember the curve of his voice when he used to say her name, the smell of his workshop, the way his fingers would brush against hers absentmindedly while he was thinking. She could almost taste it, like something warm pressed to the roof of her mouth. Like the edge of his name held on the tip of her tongue.
Tony. She didn’t say it.
Instead, her fingers curled in her lap. She glanced down at her left hand, at the thin golden band still wrapped around her finger. She brushed her thumb against it. Once. Softly. A silent goodbye. Then she exhaled, slowly, and let it go.
Because this wasn’t about him. This was about the mission. About survival. About the ache that needed to be quiet so she could move forward.
She lifted her head and looked back to the stage. The bidding had already begun.
“They really have his weapons.” she murmured.
Bucky’s jaw tensed. “And this is just the start. If they follow their usual pattern, they’ll wait to show the vials. Save the good stuff for the grand finale.”
Jane nodded. Her eyes were fixed on the screen behind the stage, where a rotating holographic render of the armor spun slowly, displaying schematics. One bidder raised their hand. Then another. And another. The price climbed fast—6.5, 7.3, 8 million. It finally went to a heavyset man in a navy pinstripe suit who looked like an aging Russian oligarch.
One after the other, more weapons followed. Sonic rounds, high-caliber kinetic disruptors, a surveillance satellite beacon sold under the table for a price not even announced aloud. Each item brought with it a new wave of hungry murmurs and raised hands.
Jane felt her stomach twist.
“We need to do something.” she whispered.
Bucky shifted closer. “There’s something else. I overheard the Count talking to Christian earlier. Something about an archive in the lower levels. Sounds like it might hold important data… possibly even some of the auction items.”
Jane turned toward him, eyes sharp. “Then we need to go.”
“I was thinking I’d go,” he said quickly. “You should stay here. Watch the crowd. Keep eyes on Christian.”
She shook her head. “No. That’s a mistake.”
“Jane—”
“No.” She leaned in, firm but not loud. “It’s better if I go. With my powers, I can get through any locks. And think about: everyone’s here. Including Christian. They’re all distracted. If both of us leave, someone will notice. But if I slip away…”
She let the thought hang.
Bucky didn’t like it. That much was clear from the way his brow furrowed, the subtle twitch in his jaw.
“Still,” he said, “you shouldn’t have to—”
“Don’t say ‘shouldn’t.’” Her voice caught slightly, then steadied. “I need to do something. Let me do this.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then slowly reached up and tapped his right ear. “I’ve got the comms. Clint’s frequency. They’re working.”
She nodded. “I’m wearing mine too. I’ll check in every five minutes.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose, looking away for a moment. “You’re sure?”
“No.” A faint smile. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
He gave a short nod, then turned back toward the stage as the next item, a pair of cryo-pellets developed in Sokovia, was announced. The price started at three million . Jane noted how a man in a crimson scarf raised a single finger with a flick, and another bidder across the room countered by clinking their fork against their glass. It was all theatrical, all rehearsed.
She waited for a lull. Then, slowly, she rose from her seat.
Bucky reached out, brushing his fingers against the edge of her sleeve. Not to stop her, but simply to anchor her, briefly.
“Be careful.” he said.
Jane didn’t answer. Just gave a small nod, scanned the room to be sure no eyes were on her, and slipped away into the dim.
The moment the crowd swallowed her absence, Jane lowered her gaze and adjusted the small earpiece hidden in her right ear. The SHIELD communicator was already active, the subtle static whispering like a breath just behind her heartbeat. In her left ear, dormant until now, sat a second device—thin, sleek, nearly invisible beneath the fall of her pale hair.
She had sworn not to use it. Not unless things got desperate. But now…
Her voice was barely a whisper. “S.A.S.S.I., online.”
A moment’s pause, then a soft chime. “Hello, Jane.” came the smooth, synthetic voice. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.”
“Not now.” she muttered. “I need you to locate this resort’s full schematics. Blueprints, ventilation, service tunnels. Anything. And try to identify the location of any subterranean structures. I’m looking for an archive.”
S.A.S.S.I. didn’t waste time. “Understood. Beginning scan.”
Jane moved with swift purpose through the corridor behind the ballroom. The music and voices from the auction became muffled the further she walked, until they were little more than distant noise. Her footsteps were nearly silent over the thick carpet, and for the moment, the hallways were empty.
A corner. A locked door. A left turn. She passed a service elevator and ducked into a narrow stairwell that spiraled down. The further she descended, the colder the air became, and the more industrial the environment looked—less glass and gold, more concrete and pipes.
“I’ve found something.” S.A.S.S.I. said into her ear. “A restricted sublevel, not listed on the resort’s public schematics. Its entrance is twenty meters ahead of you, on your left.”
Jane emerged from the stairwell into a dim corridor. At the far end, a smooth black metal door interrupted the wall, flush and severe, with no visible handle, only a discreet panel glowing red. She approached, tension coiling in her chest.
A retinal scanner. Of course.She exhaled slowly and lifted a hand. The scanner blinked, searching for an eye that wasn’t there. Jane narrowed her focus. A current of pressure gathered in her chest, flowed through her fingertips. The metal around the scanner began to vibrate. She coaxed it, manipulated the inner mechanisms. Not by brute force, but by intention, by will.
A soft click. The door hissed open.
Cold, sterile air spilled out, tinged with something older. Dust, maybe, or disuse. She stepped inside, letting the door seal behind her.
The archive was not what she expected.
It was vast, and old-fashioned in the way secret things tend to be. Rows of filing cabinets lined the walls, the steel tarnished and scuffed. Shelves held thick binders and unmarked boxes. In the center, a long table with several computers blinked with slow, intermittent lights.
Jane crossed the room, pulled one of Clint’s data extractors from her purse, and slid it into the port of the nearest machine. The screen flickered. Then the feed changed.
Dozens of folders appeared, labeled in clean type: Phase III Trials. Serum Titration. Subject Logs. Proprietary Enhancements.
Jane’s heart kicked in her chest.
“S.A.S.S.I.” she murmured, “start copying everything.”
“On it.”
She clicked on a video file. The screen lit up with static. Then an image.
A man—bare-chested, muscular, restrained at the wrists and ankles. He was screaming. His body arched violently as a clear liquid was injected into his veins.
For a moment, Jane almost looked away.
The footage continued. The man thrashed, veins darkening under the skin. His muscles spasmed, eyes rolling back. Then she saw his face. It was familiar.
One of the guards. Not just any guard. The tall one, always near Christian, the one with the hollow gaze and brutish stance. She’d seen him since their arrival to the resort, standing sentry like a wall of silence. She had thought him dull, perhaps cruel. But now—
“S.A.S.S.I., identify that man.” she ordered.
“Cross-referencing facial recognition.” the AI replied. “Subject: Ivan M. Sladkov. Listed as security personnel for the Vogel estate. No prior military enhancements registered. Current scan indicates anomalous physiological markers.”
“They tested the serum,” Jane muttered. “They didn’t just steal it. They perfected it. Or something close enough.”
The man on the screen had stopped screaming. His body was still now, his eyes open but unfocused. The camera zoomed in on his vitals. Everything—heart rate, oxygen saturation, neural activity—was rising.
Not failing. Evolving.
She leaned back in the chair, stunned. The screen kept playing, but the sound blurred in her ears.
The AI’s voice returned in her ear, interrupting her thoughts. “Behind you, there’s a concealed access panel. It was shielded until the main system activated. Its content is unknown.”
Jane turned slightly, and there it was: a seam in the metal wall caught her eye. Barely visible, just a thin line of disruption in the cold steel.
“There’s a heavy-grade cable conduit running through it.” S.A.S.S.I. continued. “Its locking mechanism is not retinal or biometric. It requires a specific analog key. The composition unknown, possibly metallic alloy, non-standard cut. Visual scans did not yield definitive shape or measurements.”
Jane narrowed her eyes at the wall. “A key?”
“Yes. A physical object. The mechanism surrounding it is reinforced and shielded. If tampered with improperly, it triggers a failsafe. Nerve agent release.”
Her stomach twisted.
“Infrared scans show at least two internal cameras trained on the panel. Recommend no attempt at forced entry. Even your powers might not be sufficient to disable the system without alerting the compound.”
Jane exhaled slowly, throat dry. She wouldn’t risk it. Not now. But she couldn’t stop staring at the wall.
Then her gaze drifted back to the screen, and she flinched.
The man in the video was moving again. This time with intent. His eyes were no longer vacant. They were focused. Calculating.
His breathing had slowed, grown even. The restraints creaked as his muscles tensed and pulled.
She watched as the camera panned slowly toward his face, closer now, close enough to catch the subtle tremor in his jaw, the flicker of awareness returning like a match catching flame.
They were making soldiers. Again. Quietly. Under everyone’s nose. And one of them had been standing a few feet away from her, just minutes ago.
She reached for her communicator. Tapped once.
“Barnes,” she whispered. “We’ve got a problem.”
The words had barely left her lips when a voice rang out behind her—low, male, and unmistakably amused.
“You know,” it said, almost conversational, “Annalise was right in the end. Between the two of you, you’re the dangerous one.”
Jane froze.
Her breath caught, sharp and sudden. The air turned viscous in her lungs, and for a moment, just a moment, she forgot how to move. She turned, slowly, and there he was: the Count.
He stood casually by the door she’d entered, as if she hadn’t just crept into the most guarded corner of this twisted place without a sound.
Her first instinct was to run. Her second, to fight. But what she did was straighten. Smooth. A breath, a blink, and she was Catherine Young again, the careless wife, the flirtatious opportunist.
“You caught me.” she said lightly, forcing a laugh past the dryness in her throat. “The auction was getting a bit dull. I thought I’d poke around. Maybe get ahead of the crowd. But I suppose I pushed my luck.”
She smiled, all teeth, and took a step to the side. “I should go. My husband’s probably wondering—”
“You’re not going anywhere.” he cut in, stepping forward. His hand was sudden and heavy against her sternum, not pushing but stopping. His palm splayed over her chest, proprietary, cold.
“Violet Wing.”
Jane blinked. Hard.
The name hit like a slap. Her stomach dropped. Her hands stayed loose at her sides, but her pulse kicked wildly in her throat. He knew. He knew everything.
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“Oh, save it.” he said, almost fondly. “You insult me, my dear. I know exactly who you are. We all do. Christian. Annalise. Even my wife. You were never really invisible to us, Miss Russo.”
There was no smirk now, no pretense. Just a quiet satisfaction, the look of a man who had laid a trap long ago, and was finally seeing it close.
Jane swallowed nervously.
“Our original plan was simple.” he continued, circling her slowly. “Lure you both here and eliminate you. Painless. Clean. The fewer S.H.I.E.L.D. agents around, the better . But Christian…” His eyes gleamed. “Christian had a different idea. He said you were special. Said there was more to gain than to lose by keeping you alive. And he’s right. I see it now.”
He stopped in front of her again. “You could be one of us. Join the real architects of this world. Power like yours doesn’t belong in petty crusades. You could be respected. Worshipped.”
Jane was already channeling. Deep inside, her powers stirred, pulled tight like a coiled muscle. Electricity tingled beneath her skin. Her hands twitched.
“You know nothing about me.” she said quietly.
He didn’t laugh. He only stared.
“I’ve been where you are,” he said. “I’ve seen what you’re trying to be. But it’s not who you are, is it?”
And then—Bucky’s voice, crackling in her ear.
“Jane? What’s going on? I heard something. That voice—who is that? Talk to me, Jane.”
Her breath hitched.
The Count stepped closer, one eyebrow arching in amusement. “Tell your pet soldier I said hello.”
Jane didn’t wait.
She moved. Swiftly, decisively. Her right hand sliced through the air, no contact necessary. The telekinetic force slammed into the Count’s chest, sending him crashing backwards across the room.
He hit the far wall with a brutal crack. She bolted.
Jane was halfway to the door when she heard it, the click. The unmistakable rasp of metal sliding against leather.
She spun—too late.
One, two, three, four shots fired in rapid succession.
Instinct roared through her. Her hand flew up. The bullets curved midair slamming against the wall, the floor, spinning off into the shadows.
But one—one she didn’t fully redirect. It flew sideways, ricocheted, and when she turned back—
The Count stood, swaying. A crimson bloom was spreading across the center of his crisp white shirt. He looked down at it, confused, almost curious. The deep, wine-dark stain was like ink through parchment.
“No.” Jane breathed.
He staggered. One hand reached for the wall, the other clawing at his chest. And then he crumpled.
Jane stood frozen.
She hadn’t touched the trigger. Hadn’t meant to kill. She’d meant to defend. To escape. But he was dying.
Her body moved before her mind caught up. She dropped to her knees beside him, pressing her hands to the wounds. Blood soaked through her fingers. Sticky. Hot.
“Shit. Shit. No, no, no—”
The Count gasped. His eyes bulged, lips moving with no sound. Then a horrible wet rattle left his throat.
Jane tried to hold the pressure. Her fingers, slippery with blood, dug desperately into the soaked fabric of the Count’s shirt. She pressed down harder, as if sheer willpower and force could keep his life from slipping away beneath her hands. His chest heaved shallowly once, twice, but it was erratic, broken. His eyes, once cold and calculating, were now wide and unfocused, blinking up at the ceiling with a strange, vacant stillness.
She tried to remember… What had Clint said? Compress the wound. Apply pressure. Keep them conscious. Keep them talking.
But he wasn’t talking. He wasn’t even looking at her anymore.
He then made a sound. Not a word, not even a groan, just a wet, rattling breath, bubbling somewhere in his throat. His fingers twitched against the floor. Jane’s hands shook violently as she pressed harder, her whole body leaning into the effort.
But it was useless.
The blood wasn’t stopping. It soaked through his shirt, her sleeves, her hands, the floor beneath them. A metallic scent flooded her senses, sharp and nauseating. It coated her tongue, stuck in the back of her throat.
The damage was too deep. She knew it. She felt it. He was going.
No—he was gone.
She felt it before she saw it. That subtle shift. That final stillness. The tension in his limbs vanished. His chest stopped moving. The flicker of something like anger or fear drained from his face and left behind only a slack, empty shell.
Silence fell like an ax.
It wasn’t just quiet, it was cut . A brutal, sudden severing of sound. Her breath hitched. The air around her felt wrong, too heavy and too thin at the same time. She blinked, and for a moment she wasn’t Jane Russo, infiltrator, asset, Avenger. She was just a girl kneeling on the floor of a freezing archive room with blood on her hands and a dead man beneath her.
She didn’t even realize she was shaking until she tried to pull her hands back. They were stuck. Stuck to him. To his blood.
When she finally managed to pry them off, they came away with a horrible sound, like tearing fabric. Her palms glistened with red, smeared and sticky. She stared at them, dumbfounded, as if they belonged to someone else.
There was a roaring in her ears now, low and rhythmic, like waves crashing in her skull. Her pulse, or her guilt. Maybe both.
Her knees scraped against the cold floor as she sat back slightly, just far enough to let his body rest fully against the ground. She couldn’t bring herself to close his eyes. She couldn’t touch him again.
Her mind raced, but her body stayed frozen. She had killed someone. She had killed a man.
Not by accident. Not entirely. She had used her powers, directed them at him. She’d meant to push him away, to stop him, but what she hadn’t accounted for, what she had failed to control, was the world spinning too fast around her.
She hadn’t meant to kill him. But she had. And nothing, nothing, was going to change that now.
Behind her, the archive’s monitors still flickered, forgotten. The test subject’s face loomed in frozen pixels, his transformation paused mid-contortion. The quiet hum of the extractor Clint had given her continued ticking, oblivious to the weight pressing on her chest like stone.
She wanted to vomit.
But all she could do was stare. Breathe. And blink against the blur in her eyes.
“Jane.” Bucky’s voice again, sharper now. “Jane, I heard shots. What the hell is going on? Jane. Answer me. Are you hit?”
She couldn’t move. He was dead. She had killed him. Even if it was accidental, even if he’d fired first, it didn’t matter. It didn’t change what had happened. She hadn’t meant to kill anyone. She had come here to gather data, to find the serum, to get out.
Not this. Never this.
“Jane,” Bucky’s voice again, frantic. “Talk to me. Please. Are you okay? Are you hurt? Jane, please—”
Her voice cracked when she finally answered. “He’s dead.” she whispered.
“Who? Jane, what do you mean—who’s dead? Are you safe?”
“He shot at me. I—I stopped the bullets. I didn’t mean to—Bucky, I didn’t mean to—”
“Jane, listen to me, where are you? I’m coming to you. Tell me where you are.”
She looked at her bloodied hands. At the still form on the floor. Everything spun.
“James…” Her voice was a breath now, nothing more. “Please. Come get me.”
It took Bucky at least twenty minutes to find her. Jane’s voice over the communicator had been faint, disjointed. Like she wasn’t entirely present, like every syllable had to fight its way through whatever haze had taken over her mind. He’d followed the directions she managed to give him, supplemented by what little S.A.S.S.I. could still pick up, but the deeper he moved into the bowels of the facility, the stronger the knot in his chest grew.
The moment he pushed open the final door, a metallic screech echoing through the dim hallway, he froze.
The scene looked like something ripped out of a war zone, or worse, a horror movie.
A man, the count, lay crumpled on the floor in a pool of blood so vast and vivid it looked almost theatrical under the flickering overhead lights. Eyes wide open. Fixed. Unmoving. Lifeless.
Jane was on her knees beside him, motionless. Her hands were slick with blood, dark and drying now, and her eyes were wide, unblinking, locked on the crimson stains that covered her palms. Her posture was rigid, spine too straight, shoulders unnaturally still. The only thing that moved was her breathing—shallow, sharp, erratic. Her sweater was soaked through at the sleeves, and blood had dried in fine lines along her jaw, like she’d brushed her face without realizing.
Bucky’s stomach turned. For a split second, panic surged through him.
“Jane?” he said, crossing the room in long strides, dropping to his knees beside her. “Jane, God—are you hurt?”
She didn’t respond. Didn’t even flinch.
His hands flew to her arms, running up and down, checking for wounds. The blood was everywhere, too much to tell what belonged to whom. He found nothing. No injuries, no open gashes. Still, he kept moving, kept checking, because the fear wouldn’t leave his throat.
“Jane, look at me. Look at me. Are you bleeding? Tell me where it hurts.” His voice was low, urgent. He cupped her face between his hands, tilting it toward him.
Finally, her eyes blinked. Once. Twice. Then they found his—and something broke.
“I didn’t mean to.” she whispered. Barely audible. Her voice cracked on the second word.
Bucky let out a breath and nodded, slowly, reassuringly. “You’re safe now. I’m here. It’s over.”
But she didn’t seem to hear him. Her gaze drifted back to her hands like she wasn’t sure they still belonged to her. He watched the tremor start in her fingers, then spread to her arms, her shoulders, until she was shaking like a leaf in the wind.
“Hey, hey—stay with me.” he murmured, stripping off one side of his jacket. He used it to gently wipe the blood from her palms, slow but determined, like he could clean away what had just happened. She didn’t stop him. Didn’t resist. Her body was stiff as a statue, her silence so absolute it felt like glass.
“It’s okay,” he kept whispering, more to fill the air than anything else. “You’re not alone. I’ve got you.”
When she finally spoke again, her voice had changed. Not cracked, not soft—but eerily even, cold and flat like it had been drained of everything. “We need to move the body. We can’t leave him here. Someone might find him. Someone will find me like this. I can’t be found like this.”
Her eyes met his. Hollow. Haunted.
Bucky stared at her for a moment, seeing the sharp shift in her, the way her brain had snapped into survival mode, trying to outrun the horror she’d just lived. He knew that place. He’d lived in that place.
So he nodded. “Okay,” he said softly. “We’ll move him. Just… stay with me, all right? Just keep breathing.”
She nodded once.
He stood and approached the body. Jane rose with difficulty, her movements delayed like every limb weighed twice what it should. When she staggered forward to help him, Bucky stopped her with a gentle hand to her shoulder.
“No. Let me.” he said. “Just… just guide us out.”
She didn’t argue. Didn’t fight him. Her eyes shifted upward for a moment, as if searching for strength. Then S.A.S.S.I.’s voice crackled quietly in her ear.
“There is an emergency exit approximately thirty feet from your current location. Corridor east, first left. The door is unguarded.”
Jane relayed the information, her voice robotic.
Together, they moved. Bucky lifted the body, heavy and limp, over his shoulder without a word. Jane led the way, arms folded tightly around herself, ignoring the cold that clawed through her bones.
The emergency exit led into the snow.
The outside air was a blade. No coats. No gloves. The wind cut through her sweater like it wasn’t there. Snowflakes clung to her hair, to her lashes, to the blood still crusted under her nails. She didn’t shiver.
They trudged through the snow for a dozen paces before Bucky stopped, trying to lower the body into a drift, but it wasn’t enough. The shape of it was too obvious, too visible.
He turned to her, his breath puffing in clouds.
“Jane, I need you. We can’t leave him like this. Can you…”
She looked at him, then at the corpse, her eyes still hollow. Her hands trembled as she raised them.
The ground groaned.
Beneath the layer of snow, the earth cracked open with a violent hiss, parting like lips torn wide. Chunks of ice fractured as soil and stone bent to her will. The body slipped down, swallowed by the land. A final push, and the snow rolled back over it like a tide returning home, seamless, white, and pure. As if nothing had ever happened.
As if he had never existed.
And then she collapsed. Her knees gave out and folded beneath her, hitting the ground with a dull thud. Her hands sank into the snow, fingers spread wide as if trying to hold onto something, anything, that wouldn’t vanish under her touch. The cold burned through the fabric of her sleeves, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her chest barely moved. The world around her went mute.
Bucky was at her side before her body had fully settled. He dropped down beside her, arms catching her from behind, drawing her into him instinctively. One hand around her waist, the other against her head, pulling her up, shielding her.
But she didn’t cry. Not yet.
Her skin was like marble, cold and stiff beneath his touch. Her fingers were locked in half-fists, blood crusted along the creases of her knuckles. Her eyes stayed open, unblinking, fixed on some point far past the snow.
Bucky pressed his lips to her temple, his voice low and steady. “You did what you had to do.” he murmured. “Let me take you back. Please.”
But Jane didn’t answer. It was like his voice existed behind a pane of glass. Muted, distorted, slipping past her ears without catching. The only thing she registered, the only thing that reached her, was his warmth. The weight of him behind her. The steady rise and fall of his chest against her spine. The way his hands moved, not demanding, but holding, careful and present, like he wasn’t going to let her fall again.
A part of her, the part that still remembered how to breathe, clung to that heat like a thread.
Because she didn’t have strength left for anything else. Because even now, surrounded by white, by silence, by the illusion of stillness… the only color she could see was red. That violent, vivid red of blood on her skin. The Count’s blood. Her hands. Her fault.
It was all she could see. It soaked the inside of her eyelids. It blurred her vision every time she blinked.
She felt Bucky shift behind her, rise slowly, pulling her with him. His jacket draped over her shoulders. His voice again, this time closer to her ear.
“We need to get you inside. Come on, just a few steps. I’m right here.”
She moved only because he moved. Because his body was warmth and motion and something solid in a world that had suddenly become unreal.
She followed, half-guided, half-carried. Her boots crunched softly in the snow, but she didn’t hear it. The wind brushed her hair across her face, but she didn’t feel it. She kept walking, because he kept holding on.
Behind her, the land lay untouched again. The snow had closed over the grave like a sigh. The sky remained mercilessly pale, endless.
Still, all Jane could see was red.
Notes:
This chapter was particularly intense to write—emotionally, narratively, and personally. It contains several traumatic moments that I know may feel like a heavy blow to read. Please know it wasn’t easy for me either.
Writing about trauma is never simple. There’s never one “right” way to do it, and I struggled a lot with how to approach these scenes. I wrote and rewrote the most difficult parts more times than I can count, constantly questioning whether I was doing it justice, whether I was being respectful, whether I was saying too much or too little.
My intention was never to romanticize trauma, but rather to explore the psychological impact it has, how it lingers in the body, in the mind, in silence. I truly hope that came through. I don’t know if I did a good job. That judgment I leave to you.
More than anything, I hope this chapter didn’t disappoint you.If you feel like it, please consider leaving a comment or a kudos. Your thoughts always help me grow as a writer, and more than that, they keep me going.
Thank you for reading.
See you soon.
❤️
Chapter 17: Don’t touch her
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
A soft light filled the room. Outside, the sky over lceland was an opaque curtain of navy and steel, thick with the promise of more snow. The wind whispered against the glass with long, slow exhales, but inside the room, the air felt almost too still.
Bucky sat against the headboard of the bed, legs stretched out, a throw blanket crumpled at his waist. The lamp cast a gold hue on the sharp edge of his jaw, highlighting the tension in his brow. His vibranium hand rested on his lap, open, unmoving.
Jane was at the other end of the bed, cross-legged, her back just brushing the cold footboard. She hadn’t changed into anything warmer; her long-sleeved black shirt was wrinkled and stretched, clinging to her like a second skin she couldn’t quite shed. The waistband of her pants was pulled tight by how she sat, knees drawn up. Her posture was closed. Guarded. Her hands clutched the ends of her sleeves, fingers tangled in the fabric like she needed something to hold onto.
They hadn’t spoken in a while. Not since the door clicked shut behind them.
The auction had ended for the night, and for the second time in as many days, they’d walked away intact, but not unchanged.
Jane hadn’t been able to speak the night before. Not after the count. Not after the blood. She’d spent the hours after their return staring at the bathroom tiles while the water in the tub cooled around her legs. She hadn’t cried. Hadn’t slept. When she woke up in the morning, if it could even be called waking, her brain felt like it was operating on emergency power. Thoughts stuttered like broken circuits, and she had to remind herself to breathe.
It had taken every ounce of discipline, of whatever fractured S.H.I.E.L.D. training she had left, to force herself to function. To dress. To smile when appropriate. To keep her eyes on the room and not the floor. And even then every interaction, every glass of wine, every forced conversation with Annalise or any of the others—had been excruciating. Not because they didn’t suspect her, but because they did.
They knew.
Christian knew. Annalise knew. They all knew who she was.
Not “Mrs. Young.” Not “Catherine.” Jane Russo. The infiltrator. The traitor in their home.
And it was worse than that. Because they hadn’t brought her there blindly. The count had said it before he died: Christian had wanted her, specifically her. Bucky was meant to be killed, disposed of, out of the way. But her? She was the prize. The piece to be convinced, corrupted, converted. And if not? Then disposed of all the same.
The knowledge twisted in her gut like a blade. And the worst part, the most dangerous part, was that they were still playing that game game. Christian hadn’t said a word. Not one single accusatory glance. Not even a change in tone. And Annalise had smiled at them with the same hungry amusement she always did. And that made it so much worse. Because if they weren’t confronting them, it meant they were waiting. Planning.
When the count vanished, no announcements were made, no explanations. As if he’d simply slipped through the cracks of the resort and never existed at all. And just as silently, the countess had disappeared too. One day she was there, seated at his side in silks and pearls, and the next, her chair at dinner sat empty, untouched. Officially, no one said a word. Unofficially, the guests whispered behind crystal glasses and closed doors.
Some claimed to have heard her screaming. Others swore they’d seen her wandering barefoot through the corridors, sobbing uncontrollably, her nightgown clinging to her as if she’d just come from the snow. It was impossible to tell if the rumors were true, or planted to justify her absence.
But Jane knew the truth.
She knew why the count wouldn’t be seen again. She had watched him die. Had felt the shift in the room when the life drained from him. Had buried his body beneath ice and dirt and silence. The memory was still raw, bright as blood, sharp as the cold that had surrounded her.
But it wasn’t just the count’s disappearance that had raised her suspicions. It was the countess’ too. Jane didn’t believe for a second that her absence was voluntary. It was too convenient. If the woman had been distraught, if she’d cried or screamed or demanded answers… then it made sense that Christian and Annalise would have locked her away. Out of sight.
Because they couldn’t afford questions. Not while the auctions were still ongoing. Not while money was still flowing. Not while they needed to maintain the illusion of control. Of safety. Of exclusivity.
So yes, Christian had said nothing. Had acted as if nothing had happened at all. He’d smiled at them, laughed even, with the same charm and ease as always. But his eyes were too still. Too sharp. Jane had avoided him all day. Had avoided everyone, really. She hadn’t had the strength to do anything else.
But she felt it. They knew. And Jane and Bucky knew they knew.
That was why they’d barely left each other’s sides since it happened. Jane followed him like a shadow. Did whatever he asked. Spoke only when necessary. Because right now, she didn’t trust herself not to fall apart—and the mission, despite everything, still mattered.
Tomorrow was the final day. The final auction. The day the vials would be shown. Super soldier serum. Enhanced weaponry. Jane knew it. Felt it in her gut. And the thought of those vials being sold to the highest bidder, ending up in the hands of someone like the count, or worse, made her stomach turn.
Across from her, Bucky shifted, breaking the silence.
“We can’t let it happen,” he said. “We can’t let those vials leave this place.”
Jane looked up from the bedspread, the fabric twisted tight between her fingers. His gaze was fixed on her with something between resolve and concern.
“We need to destroy them,” he continued. “All of it. Not just the serum. The whole cache. The vault. The archives. Whatever tech they’re hiding in that room.”
Her throat tightened. “You want me to set it on fire.”
“I want to make sure no one ever walks out of here with that shit in their veins.” he said. The words were solid, clipped. No anger, just a conviction that landed hard. “And you’re good with fire. I’ve seen it.”
She swallowed, then thought of the fire in Alaska, the flames out of control, licking the walls like a living thing. The smell of melting plastic, of scorched skin. The scream of the agent she hadn’t meant to hit. And then the first mission with Peter, when panic had set her hands alight before she could even think, when she’d almost turned a petty thief into a corpse.
She blinked the memory away and straightened, pushing the breath through her nose. “I can do it.” she said. Her voice came out too fast, too light. Bucky didn’t call her on it. But his eyes lingered.
“You don’t have to come with me,” he said gently. “I can do it alone. I won’t force you into anything. I can find another way.”
“No.” Her answer was immediate, firm despite the tremor beneath. “It’s not that. I just… I’ll need time. Concentration. That much fire, that deep underground—”
She paused, exhaled slowly. “I’ll manage.”
He nodded. No smile. Just quiet understanding.
But it wasn’t the end of it. Jane could feel the tension still rolling under her skin. The logistics weren’t clear. Not yet. And if they were going to pull this off, they had to be.
“We need access,” she murmured, almost to herself. “To the vault. The reinforced door—it’s locked through that device, the one S.A.S.S.I. flagged.”
“Yeah. Not facial scan, not print. Some kind of keyed system.”
Jane stilled.
A cold, metallic memory crept in, uninvited. She was back in that hallway. Back in that moment. Pinned. Trapped. The chill of something hard pressing into her shoulder as Christian crushed her against the wall. Something cold and jagged. Something around his neck.
“I think I know what it is,” she whispered. “The key.”
Bucky turned toward her, eyes narrowing.
“He wore it like a pendant.” she continued. “It felt… mechanical. Not just a symbol. It pressed into me when he—”
She stopped, voice caught in her throat. “It was heavy. Like a gear. I think it’s a cipher key. Physical access.”
Silence.
Then Bucky’s entire body stiffened. His jaw clenched so tightly she could hear the grind of his teeth.
“You are not getting close to him again.” His voice was low now, lethal. “I’ll take it. I’ll rip it off his goddamn neck if I have to.”
Jane shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense. For you it would be way more complicated. I can easily get close. I just need a few seconds, Bucky. A breath. I don’t even have to touch him. I’ll use my powers.”
His hands were fists now. “He doesn’t deserve to say your name, let alone stand near you.”
“I don’t care what he deserves,” she snapped. “I care about getting that key and getting out of here before the third day ends. You getting too close to him would mean drawing attention. I can do this with a thought. You know that.”
Bucky stood abruptly, started pacing the small width of the room. “You’re talking like it’s nothing. Like this isn’t dangerous. Like—like you didn’t just bury a body forty-eight hours ago!”
“Exactly,” she said, standing too. “I buried a man. I’ve watched people die. I’ve changed. I’ve killed. Don’t tell me I’m too fragile to do this.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Yes, it is.”
He stopped moving. Turned to her. His voice dropped, soft but raw. “I’m saying I see what this is doing to you. And I know you can carry the weight. I just don’t want it to crush you.”
Her face twisted. Something between a laugh and a sob caught in her chest. Then, he stepped closer. Slowly. Reached for her hand. She let him.
His fingers threaded with hers, warm and solid. The pad of his thumb brushed across her knuckles, slow. He turned her palm upward and ran his thumb across the lines like he was memorizing them. Studying them.
“I know you want to be strong,” he said, voice almost a whisper. “I know you are strong. But don’t burn yourself just to finish the mission. Don’t lose yourself in this.”
For a second, just one second, Jane let herself lean into the feeling. Her thumb moved across his palm in a slow, absent arc, avoiding his eyes. Letting the contact steady her.
She pulled away gently, chest tight. “This is the fastest way. The cleanest. I get the key, we get in, we destroy it all.”
He didn’t try to stop her.
“I want to do it. I need to do it. You have to let me.”
There was a pause. Then he nodded. Slowly. Reluctantly. But he nodded.
Her eyes went back down at her hands. They were trembling now, though she hadn’t noticed until this second.
“Earlier,” she said, almost too quietly to hear, “while I was watching Christian, during the bidding… I thought about smashing a glass into his throat. Just once. Just enough. But, in the end, it would be useless. And it wouldn’t give me what I want.”
Bucky didn’t flinch. “I would’ve helped.”
That, strangely, made her want to cry. She didn’t, though. She wouldn’t. Not yet.
Instead, she looked back at him. He looked so solid, even when she felt like she was floating outside her own body. He was still wearing his shirt from the auction, only now the sleeves were rolled up, veins visible down his forearms. His vibranium hand rested between them, the metal dull in the soft light.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow they’d stop pretending. Tomorrow they’d strike.
Jane curled her knees. The bed creaked beneath them, but neither moved.
She kept her eyes on it. That hand. The one she had spent weeks trying not to look at, not to acknowledge—trying not to flinch from whenever it brushed too close. And yet it had always been there, in the corner of her vision, like a shadow that refused to disappear. The dull sheen of vibranium, unnervingly smooth, impossibly still. Alien.
And now it rested quietly between them, fingers curled just slightly, almost at ease.
Jane stared at it, her breath shallow. It no longer repelled her. Not entirely. It still unsettled her, yes, but something had shifted. Somewhere between everything they had endured together and everything she had been forced to endure alone, that hand had stopped being the hand of a murderer. Or at least, not just that.
Because it had held her. Protected her. Trembled beside her. Lifted her from the snow when her legs had given out. Covered her shoulders when she couldn’t find the strength to do it herself.
And no matter how many times she reminded herself of what he’d done, what that arm had done, the memory of his eyes, those impossibly blue eyes looking at her not with hunger or cruelty, but with something painfully human, refused to leave her alone.
She didn’t think. She didn’t plan. She just moved.
Her hand reached forward with hesitation, fingers trembling, and touched the edge of his metal wrist. She felt him flinch—a twitch more than a jerk, reflexive, as if he expected pain. As if he still feared judgment. But he didn’t move away. He let her.
Jane’s fingertips grazed the contours of his knuckles, traced the faint etched lines in the plating. The cool metal pulsed with silent tension under her touch. It was cold. So cold. And yet it didn’t feel wrong.
It felt like him. Like James.
She lifted the hand a little with hers, inspecting it closely, as though seeing it for the first time. It was heavy, precise, an impossible blend of science and violence. Her thumb brushed against the palm—his palm—and she felt him watching her, unmoving, breath caught in his throat.
She’d touched him before. She’d slapped him. Shoved him. Gripped his collar in anger. Pulled him close in moments of chaos and grief. They had kissed. They had ached against each other in hotel rooms and under false names.
But this was different.
This was gentle. Curious. Vulnerable in a way neither of them ever allowed themselves to be.
And when she finally looked up, his eyes were wide, glassy with something that felt like shame and hope mixed together.
Then he moved.
So carefully she barely noticed, he rotated his hand within hers and then, almost imperceptibly, lifted it—until his palm met the curve of her cheek. She didn’t flinch. Not this time. Her skin rose in goosebumps beneath the contrast of heat and cold.
He was touching her. Not like before. Not like a soldier or a ghost or a man desperate to forget who he was. He was touching her like someone who was afraid to break her. And she let him.
Bucky let his thumb glide along her cheekbone. He couldn’t feel the softness, not really, not through the metal, but his brain told him what it would feel like. Her skin against his hand. Her breath catching beneath it. Her eyes, gray and stormy, fixed on his, unmoving. The memory of touch was sometimes more vivid than the real thing.
And Bucky hated that arm. Hated what it meant. What it had done. People saw it as strength. As power. He saw it as the chain that bound him to every nightmare he’d ever had. No one had ever touched that arm without flinching. No one had ever touched it with gentleness. Until now.
He’d spent years now believing it wasn’t truly a part of him. That it didn’t belong to the man he was trying so hard to become. That it was the mark of what Hydra had made him—a thing, a weapon, a monster. And yet, here she was. Touching it, for the first time, like it wasn’t cursed. Like it wasn’t stained. Like it was his.
And his heart was racing.
There was something deeply unsettling, almost terrifying, in the contrast between the cold metal of his hand and the softness of her cheek. His fingers, forged in war and sharpened by decades of violence, were resting against something fragile, human, impossibly warm. Her skin was pale, delicate, unmarred—and his hand, his hand was none of those things. It was heavy. Hard. Built to kill. And yet it trembled.
He hadn’t let anyone touch him like that. Hadn’t let himself touch anyone like that. Not ever. Not with this part of him. Not with that arm.
He’d kissed before. He’d touched. He’d fought. But never this. He had never traced the curve of a woman’s face with his metal fingers. Had never dared to imagine what it might feel like to offer comfort instead of pain, warmth instead of fear. Not with that hand.
But now… Now she was letting him.
And worse—no, better—she was reaching for it. Reaching for him.
The same woman who had once spat words at him like blades. Who had called him a monster, who had looked at him with eyes full of grief and fury and disgust. The same woman who had made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that she hated him. She was letting him touch her now—not with anger, not in combat, not in desperation—but with something achingly close to tenderness. And it was unraveling him.
He felt something burst open in his chest, something that felt like pain, but deeper, fuller. A kind of ache laced with awe. An emotion too big for a name. A burn that lived somewhere between love and absolution. Because he knew —he knew that he already loved her, in all the ways a man like him shouldn’t be allowed to love. But this? This was something else. This was her letting him love her. Letting him try.
And when she didn’t pull away, when her fingers brushed the edge of his wrist and her thumb moved softly across the grooves and joints of the vibranium, he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from gasping. It was the gentlest thing anyone had ever done to that part of him.
He could feel it—this pressure behind his ribs, this need, this unbearable gratefulness, like she had handed him something precious he didn’t deserve. Like forgiveness. Like mercy. Like a chance.
And it was her. Jane. The woman who should have been the last person on earth to allow this, was allowing it.
And Bucky knew, with a terrible, clear certainty, that he would never forget the feeling of her skin beneath that hand. That no matter what happened next—whether she forgave him, whether she loved him back, whether she stayed or vanished again—he would carry this moment with him forever. Because it wasn’t just her touch that mattered.
It was that she had chosen it. She had chosen him. Even just for this breath in time.
Then she leaned in.
It was small. Barely a tilt. But it was enough.
His other hand rose—this one warm, calloused—and sank into her hair. He felt the weight of her in his arms, the tremor in her breath. And when he finally kissed her, it wasn’t with hunger or urgency. It was with reverence. With restraint. It had started soft—so soft. Their mouths barely touching at first, just breath and hesitation. But then his lips had parted, tentative and unsure, and her had followed. Their tongues met in a slow, unspoken surrender, and for a fleeting moment, everything else—every wall, every weight, every wound—just slipped away.
And he had wanted her—God, how he had wanted her. Not just in the ache-between-the-ribs kind of way, not just hunger or lust. He had wanted to hold her, to bury himself in the warmth of her, to remind himself that they were still alive. That she was still here. That he was still here. That they were something more than the wreckage they’d crawled through to get to this point.
Her hands moved, one curling into his shirt, the other still holding the edge of his metal wrist like an anchor. And then, slowly, his lips left hers and began to travel. The edge of her jaw. The hollow beneath her ear. The column of her throat.
He felt her breath catch. But he didn’t stop. Until she did.
It wasn’t gradual, it wasn’t subtle. It was a switch, sudden and violent. A jolt that surged through her like lightning. Her whole body tensed, as if struck. Her hands shot out against his chest, pushing, scrambling , to create space. She flinched hard, recoiling like she’d been burned, and stumbled backward, breath ragged, shoulders curled inward.
Her eyes were wide. Not with surprise. With panic.
And everything inside Bucky shattered.
He stilled. Every part of him went cold. His hands hovered in the air, surrendering. “Jane—” he said, voice already hoarse. “Jane, I’m sorry—I didn’t—fuck—I shouldn’t have—”
She didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at him. She just wrapped her arms around herself, tight, like she was trying to hold her own body together. Her breathing was too fast. Her chest heaved. And her silence was louder than any scream.
He felt it then. The realization. Heavy and immediate and sickening.
He’d gone too far.
He had been so caught up in the moment, so overwhelmed by the way she touched him, the way she let him touch her, that he hadn’t stopped to think . He hadn’t stopped to see the signs, to remember that it hadn’t even been two nights since she had been hurt. Since Christian had taken something from her. Something sacred. Something no one had the right to touch.
And Bucky—he had touched her.
With reverence, yes. With love. But he had touched her neck. Her mouth. Her skin.
He had been selfish.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he whispered, the words breaking apart in his throat. “I swear, I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t thinking. I just…” He swallowed hard. “Just tell me what you need. I won’t touch you. I’ll stay here.”
He wanted to reach for her, to say something that would fix it, but he knew, he knew, that he didn’t have the right. And the shame burned.
Because he had promised himself that he would protect her. That he would never make her feel like that again. And now here she was—arms around her body, flinching at his breath like he was just another ghost in the dark.
And he hated himself for it.
Then, slowly, she met his eyes. She was still shaking. Barely, but it was there. A tremor under the skin. A terror she hadn’t shown since that night.
“I just need—” she whispered, barely audible, “it’s not your fault—just need a minute.”
She stood, too fast, and crossed the room like it was burning beneath her feet. The bathroom door closed behind her with a soft but decisive click.
Bucky sat there, breathing like he’d just taken a bullet and survived. He looked down at his hands—the warm one, the cold one—and then at nothing.
On his lips, he could still taste her.
But the sweetness was tangled with guilt. And it stayed there, heavy, like something he just couldn’t get rid of.
_____
The scene was absurd. A dreamlike oasis carved into the Icelandic snowfields, where frost clung to every tree branch just meters away from steam rising off a heated outdoor pools. There were strings of warm lights crisscrossing the perimeter, glinting off the glassy surface of the water and the rim of crystal flutes clutched in manicured hands. Somewhere a speaker murmured jazz, but it was lost under the low murmur of rich laughter, the occasional splash, the hiss of wine being poured. A bar stood beneath a pergola heavy with frost, where a bartender ladled out steaming cups of vin brulé, the scent of cinnamon and cloves fighting to mask the sharp bite of the mountain air.
Jane perched at the edge of a lounge chair near the bar, bundled tight in her thick hotel robe, its belt knotted so hard it bit into her ribs. Beneath it, she’d kept her clothes on. She’d refused to wear a swimsuit. The idea of stripping down in front of those people made her stomach twist. She hadn’t undone her hair, either. It stayed pinned up in the same careless twist she’d fixed that morning, a few stubborn strands loose, sticking to her cheek when the chill off the snow found her.
So instead, she sat there, layers hidden under terrycloth armor, clutching her elbows tight, her fingers worrying the hem of her sleeve every time the wind shifted and slipped cold air against her ankles.
Beside her, Bucky leaned against the bar’s low rail, one elbow hooked back to hold his balance, the other hand wrapped around a cup of steaming vin brulé he hadn’t touched. Even under the soft lights strung across the pergola above, you could feel the tension in him—shoulders tight, jaw set, eyes flicking between her and the water, between her and him.
His left hand stayed buried deep in the pocket of his robe. The black glove that usually covered the vibranium was missing—pointless here, too obvious—so instead he hid it, thumb hooked in the pocket’s lining, fingers flexing just out of sight whenever he caught Christian’s voice carrying over the water.
Every time Bucky exhaled, it came out slow, controlled—like he was talking himself out of standing up, crossing that slick stone deck, and ripping the bastard’s throat out in front of everyone. And maybe he was.
Jane’s skin prickled. The steam from the pool did nothing for the cold that drilled into her bones—or maybe the cold came from inside, threading through her like wire.
A roar of laughter rose from the pool. Christian Vogel sat propped on the edge like a king among pets, bare chest gleaming, droplets sliding down his collarbones as he leaned toward a cluster of women who giggled at every word. His grin split wide, too white, too careless. Annalise was half-submerged behind him in the main pool, her dark hair slicked back, head tipped to the sky as another woman whispered something that made her sharp mouth curl into a satisfied, secret smile.
Jane forced her eyes away. Her fingers dug into her knees under the robe, nails biting through the plush terry cloth.
She felt Bucky’s eyes before she turned to him. She caught the corner of his scowl, the tick of muscle in his jaw.
“You don’t have to say it,” she murmured, voice dry as frost. “Your thoughts are loud enough.”
He huffed, not quite a laugh. His thumb tapped the rim of his cup once, twice. “Is it so wrong that I hate this? That I hate that you have to go near him again? That—” He cut himself off, jaw working. “He’s disgusting.”
She turned her eyes back to Christian, who was now tipping his glass toward someone’s lips. “It’ll be quick,” she said, though she couldn’t tell if she was telling him or herself. “No reason to make it bigger than it is.”
It sounded braver than she felt.
Bucky’s hand tightened, the glass creaked slightly against his fingers. She felt the warmth of him beside her and hated that she couldn’t just lean in, let him shield her from the cold knot crawling up her throat. Just for once.
A burst of laughter. A splash of water against stone. The women draped around Christian like living ornaments drifted away in twos and threes—toward the bar, toward the steaming bubbles of the biggest pool, toward the next flute of champagne offered on a silver tray by staff who barely made eye contact. For the first time all afternoon, Christian stood alone in that pool of light at the edge of the water.
Jane’s breath snagged in her throat. The noise around her faded to a high, thin hiss, like her own pulse roaring in her ears. This was it. This was the moment she’d waited.
Her fists squeezed tight inside her robe, nails biting crescent moons into her palms through the cloth. She felt the echo of that small pain like a spark grounding her here, now, because her brain wanted to scatter anywhere else. One last glance at Bucky. He was already watching her, eyes dark and steady under the lights. In that look was every word he wouldn’t say. Every instinct he was forcing down because she’d asked him to trust her.
She pushed herself up off the lounge chair before she could let her mind claw her back down.
But before she’d taken a full step, his hand closed gently but firmly around her wrist. His fingers were warm where they wrapped around the soft terrycloth cuff, but the grip beneath it was all steel.
“Jane.” His voice was so low only she could hear it above the gentle burble of the pool and the clink of glasses. She turned just enough to see him, chin lowered, eyes locked on hers.
He held her wrist, thumb brushing over the thin line of bone beneath. “Listen to me. If you need me, if he does anything, just close your fist behind your back. Just once. I’ll see it. I’ll be there before he knows what hit him.”
She looked at him and for a moment the sharpness in her chest dulled. Her eyes flicked from his, down to where his hand circled her wrist, to the contrast of his skin and the sleeve of her robe, to how carefully he held her.
She forced her voice not to tremble. “I can handle this,” she said. It came out softer than she meant it to. She swallowed and added, firmer, “I have my powers. I’m not… helpless.”
Bucky’s eyes didn’t waver. He studied her face as if searching for the smallest crack, the hairline fracture that might let him take this from her, carry it for her. But there was none. Just her breath coming shallow, the pulse jumping at her throat.
He nodded once, the motion small, almost reluctant.
“I know. But you don’t have to.”
Then, slowly, he let her go. His fingers uncurled from her wrist one by one, like he was peeling away the last thin shield he could give her. The warmth faded the moment he pulled back. The chill returned, crawling under her robe.
Jane drew a breath she hoped he couldn’t hear shake. She didn’t say thank you, she didn’t trust her voice not to break on it. She just met his eyes one last time, nodded once, turned, and forced her feet to move.
One step. Then another. Toward the man waiting for her. Toward the man who had nearly broken her body to break her mind.
She didn’t look back. But she felt him behind her. James. His presence, the promise she didn’t need him to say again— I will come for you if you call.
So she walked.
The snow squeaked under her sandals as she crossed the slick stone tiles toward him. Christian noticed her halfway across the deck—he turned, brows lifted, surprise flickering across his face before he caught himself. The grin snapped back into place.
“Well,” he drawled, voice syrupy with self-satisfaction. “I thought you were avoiding me, my dear. Hard to find you lately.”
She stopped a few feet away, robe tight around her throat like armor. Close enough to smell the chemical tang of the pool water on his skin, the faint metallic bite that made her stomach twist.
“There wasn’t an opportunity,” she managed, throat dry. “You’re always… occupied.”
His eyes flicked to the clusters of guests behind her, then back, slow and hungry. “So you waited your turn?” His smile stretched wider, mocking. “Such a good girl.”
His hand came up, sudden and casual, landing on her hip. Her breath cinched in her lungs. His thumb dragged along the terry cloth belt, a motion so small and intimate it made bile rise in her throat.
He leaned in. She could feel the warmth of his breath at her ear, the slip of wet hair brushing her temple. “I knew you’d come back. Knew you’d want more. I just wondered how long you’d make me wait.”
Jane’s stomach lurched. For a heartbeat her vision swam. She wanted to shove him off the deck and watch the smile crack on the stone. She wanted to set him alight from the inside out. But her feet stayed rooted. She forced herself to breathe. To focus.
The key. The damn key.
She flicked her eyes down, just once, enough to see it—hanging from a thin leather cord around his neck, glinting in the shifting lights like an old clockwork piece. Small, rough-edged, jagged like an industrial gear. Cold metal she’d felt pressed into her when he’d—
No. Not now.
She inhaled once, sharp. Reached deep for the heat, the steady pulse at the base of her spine. Her power thrummed at her fingertips, hungry to obey.
Christian’s hand slid lower on her hip. His fingers flexed, pressing her closer. Her mind blanked out, shrieking, but she clung to the focus. The gear. The necklace. The lock.
Her fingers twitched, she closed her eyes. Somewhere inside her chest she felt the tug—subtle, invisible. The cord trembled. The metal bit at his damp skin.
Then—his other hand. It came up, closing around her jaw, tilting her chin until she met his eyes, his grin now a razor blade.
“Why so shy, hmm? Let me see you. Open those pretty eyes.”
Her control slipped. For half a second the world blurred around him, she almost lost the pull. The gear slipped, sliding against his collarbone, and dropped. It hit the stone with a soft clink, lost under the slap of water and distant chatter.
Her heart lurched. Too loud. Too obvious.
But Christian didn’t notice. His hand was still squeezing her chin. His eyes drinking her in. She forced her lashes low, feeling the warmth bloom behind her ribs again. She could feel the gear on the ground, sense its shape against the cold stone. Too far to stoop for. But not too far for this.
She pulled.
Slow, steady, desperate not to draw attention. The metal scraped the stone, slid toward her robe, hidden by the sweep of fabric and the curve of his arm. Inches. Closer.
His breath ghosted her ear again. “We could find somewhere quieter, you know. You don’t have to pretend you don’t want—”
She fought the wave of nausea that surged with his words, forced herself to smile—weak, sweet, broken enough to look believable. She felt the gear slip into her palm, cold biting her skin through the cloth.
She flinched back a step, breaking the contact. His fingers slipped from her chin.
“Not here,” she breathed, voice trembling. “Too many people. After the auction. We can… talk.”
Christian’s grin sharpened. Victory bloomed across his features. He leaned closer, his lips brushing her hairline. “I’ll find you, then.”
Jane bit the inside of her cheek to keep from gagging. She nodded once—small, mechanical—then turned her back before he could touch her again.
The cold hit her like a slap. She kept her head down, shoulders tight, one hand fisted in her robe pocket around the gear. Each step felt like it might betray her, like she might crumble right there on the stone path.
Behind her, the laughter rolled on. The music drifted over the water. And Jane forced herself not to look back.
She focused on the path ahead, on the sharp bite of the cold air against her flushed cheeks, on the steady shape of Bucky waiting for her near the bar’s edge. He hadn’t moved an inch since she’d left him, rooted there like her anchor in a place that felt determined to unmake her.
She didn’t say anything when she reached him. She didn’t have to. She just pulled her hand from the pocket of her robe and tossed the cold metal shape into his waiting palm. It landed with a faint metallic clink between his fingers. He caught it without looking away from her face.
Her eyes were raw, red but dry. A single glance from him told her he knew she was fighting to keep them that way. So he didn’t say the things he could have said. Didn’t say good job, or I’m proud of you , or I’m sorry . He just closed his hand around the gear-shaped key, the muscles of his jaw shifting, and murmured, “It’s done. This shit is done, Jane. We get this over with, and then we’re gone.”
She nodded, once, the motion stiff like her spine. Part of her wanted to collapse against him like a child, right there in the middle of the steam and laughter and brittle luxury. But she stayed standing, shoulders braced, hands fisted so tight her nails had left tiny half-moons in her palms. They both knew they didn’t have time to break. Not yet.
The two of them drifted away from the bar, merging with the thin streams of people moving back toward their rooms to prepare for the final event of the day. The third and last auction, just hours away now. In the hush of that moment, Jane’s brain replayed every word the count had said before he’d bled out on the floor. Every look Christian had pinned her with. They knew. They all knew. And if they were going to get out of this alive, the time for pretending was over.
In the hallways, Jane felt the shift the moment they stepped inside the warmth of the building. Her robe clung damp to her arms, too heavy with the heat of her body and the cold of the snow that had crusted at the hem. Beside her, Bucky’s steps were so quiet she could hear her own heartbeat. When they reached the elevator that would take them back up to their suite, she turned her face to the polished metal of the doors, staring at her own reflection: hair loose now from where she’d pinned it too tight, skin pale under the harsh overhead lights, eyes that didn’t look like hers.
You did it, she told the girl in the metal. Now finish it.
Upstairs, the suite felt too small. Too silent. Bucky shut the door behind them with a click that sounded final. For a heartbeat they both stood there in the middle of the living room, steam rising from their bodies, wet footprints trailing across the expensive rug. Jane’s fingers curled around the gear key in Bucky’s hand before he could pocket it, needing to feel the weight of it, proof that it was real. Proof she’d done it.
Then she let it go, turned on her heel, and crossed to the table where Clint’s equipment still sat. All of it ready and waiting, like this moment had been waiting for them to catch up.
Bucky was at her shoulder in silence, checking through the inventory, snapping together pieces, examining a pair of small shaped charges they’d kept as a last resort. Jane slipped the ring Tony had made her from the side pocket and fastened it around her wrist. The metal was cold, she ran her thumb over the edge, remembering the day Daniel had handed it to her, at the Avengers Tower, before her first mission with Peter .
Her chest twisted. She forced it down. Not now.
This was a new version of it, or at least that’s what Clint had said. But it felt the same under her touch.
She shed the robe, still damp with poolside humidity, and underneath she wore the simplest clothes she owned: black leggings, a close-fitting thermal shirt, dark socks. Something that would feel comfortable under her suit.
His eyes locked on her for a fraction, then he nodded at the bracelet. “Ready?”
“Yeah.” Her voice came out raw. She cleared her throat. “Let’s do it.”
They moved in sync, almost silent, like they’d been rehearsing this forever instead of a few desperate days. They packed up Clint’s devices—mini transmitters, data worms, signal jammers. Bucky shrugged into a plain black coat, tugging the sleeve down over the edge of his glove to hide the vibranium hand. He caught her watching him and gave her that half-smile—grim, apologetic, protective.
When they slipped out into the corridor, Jane’s mind raced through every hallway they’d memorized, every possible escape route. They descended quickly, too quickly, and the hush that wrapped around them as they pushed deeper into the belly of the estate felt heavy as stone.
It was only when they reached a deserted stretch of concrete corridor, one level above the archives, that Jane paused. She flexed her fingers once, feeling the bracelet hum faintly against her skin. The nanotech responded instantly, winding up her arm like quicksilver, sealing around her chest and legs, shaping itself to her body until the loose clothes vanished beneath the sleek, armored weave Tony had designed for her alone.
Bucky turned, caught the final flicker of the suit settling into place—dark as oil, faint violet accents catching the low light. For a second he just stared. And she realized: he’d never seen her like this. Not fully armored. Not as Violet Wing.
Jane looked down at her gloved hands. The soft purple sheen at the knuckles. The way the fabric shifted when she flexed her fingers. It felt like slipping into someone else’s skin. Someone stronger. Someone who couldn’t be broken so easily.
She drew a breath, forced her voice steady. “S.A.S.S.I.” she said, low, into the open air.
The A.I. pinged to life in her earpiece, its tone as calm and polite as ever. Online and ready, Agent Russo. Full support engaged.
“Good,” Jane murmured. “I’ll need you fully active from now on.”
She felt Bucky shift closer. His shadow fell over hers on the concrete. “We’re close. I remember this corridor.”
Jane didn’t look at him—couldn’t, not when retracing these steps brought back flashes of the count on the ground, the blood. She pushed it down, focused on her boots hitting the floor. Focus.
“Yeah, I know.”
But the tone in her throat caught his attention.
“You good?”
She almost lied. Almost said fine. But the word tangled in her throat. She nodded instead. Just nodded.
And that was when S.A.S.S.I.’s voice interrupted, clear and neutral in her ear. “ Agent Russo, I have an incoming priority message. Origin: Tony Stark. Would you like to hear it?”
The name hit hard. For a heartbeat she forgot how to breathe. Bucky took another step, frowning when she didn’t move. “Jane?”
She swallowed. Her tongue felt thick, her mouth dry as ash. “Play it.”
There was a soft click. Then—God, his voice. That voice.
“Hey, Jane. I know I said I wouldn’t do this—Clint made me promise I wouldn’t. But when S.A.S.S.I. pinged the activation, I… I tracked your location. I swear I won’t show up. I promised Clint, and knowing you, you’d hate it if I did anyway.
I know you’re strong. Tougher than half the people I’ve ever fought beside. You always figure it out, always have. That’s… that’s what makes you you. So I’m not saying this because I think you can’t* handle it. I’m saying it because—because I need to say it.
If things go bad—if something turns sideways, if you need an exit, if you need anything —just tell S.A.S.S.I. I’ve got a quinjet on standby, fueled, ready. From here, from New York, it’s what, two hours? Less if I push it. You just have to say it, Jane. That’s all.
I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re safe. I hope… I hope you come home soon.
And—”
The recording cuts for half a second, a breath, like he’s holding something back, swallowing it down.
“Never mind. Doesn’t matter.
That’s all. Take care of yourself. Stay safe. And come back.
See you soon, Jane.”
The message cut off with a soft click. Jane realized her hands were shaking. She’d curled her fists so tight that the seams of her gloves dug into her skin, a dull bite through the fabric.
She hadn’t expected to hear him. Not after everything. Not after he’d said it was better, healthier, not to speak for a while. Not after she’d told herself she didn’t want him to. And yet here he was, his voice filling this concrete hallway like it belonged there, like it belonged with her.
But it wasn’t just that he’d spoken, it was what he’d said. Over and over: Come home. He’d called New York home . And for a second, a flicker that felt like a cruel joke, she almost laughed. Home. That word was too heavy for her tongue now. She hadn’t had a home for years. Not a real one. Not a place that meant safety, or warmth, or permanence. She’d stopped expecting that kind of belonging long ago.
And yet, he had said it. Like it was obvious. Like that city, that tower, that roof, should mean something more than coordinates on a map. New York wasn’t her home. She didn’t know what was. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was them. Maybe it was just her past.
And it wasn’t just the word—home. It was that pause. That cut, that silence hanging right before his final goodbye. That something he hadn’t let himself say. What was it? She’d never know. But maybe it didn’t even matter. Maybe she was just letting herself spin circles over ghosts and guesses, fooling herself all over again.
A cold laugh tried to claw up her throat but died halfway. Jane flexed her fingers, forcing blood back through her knuckles, trying to ground herself in the weight of her suit, the quiet hum of S.A.S.S.I. still alive in her ear. There was no room for this now. No time to chase a voice recording. There was only the vault ahead. The fire waiting in her veins. The mission.
When she looked at him again, Bucky was closer, searching her face. “What was that? Is something wrong?”
She sucked in a breath. The weight of Tony’s voice still curled in her chest like a live wire. But all she said was, “Nothing. It’s—nothing.” She shook her head, clearing it, forced a tight, small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Come on. We’ve got a vault to burn.”
They reached the final corridor in silence, boots soft but steady on the cold concrete. Ahead, the narrow passage opened into a wider landing flanked by reinforced doors. The lighting here was different, sharper, whiter, meant for cameras and security logs, not for human comfort.
Jane clocked the guards before Bucky did—eight of them, positioned with precise spacing. Their posture was tense but lazy enough to suggest they didn’t expect trouble. Not down here. Not with that much concrete and arrogance between them and the guests above.
But arrogance was exactly what would cost them.
Jane’s eyes swept the line of armed men, and one thing stood out immediately: the supersoldier—their supersoldier —wasn’t among them. He’d been glued to Christian’s side since the night the count disappeared, hovering like a loyal hound, never more than a few steps away. Jane had come to think of him as part of Christian’s silhouette—an extension of his arrogance.
It didn’t surprise her. Of course Christian would cling to his new pet monster. Of course he’d decided that his own skin was worth more protection than the serum vault buried under meters of reinforced concrete.
Jane felt a spark of something bitter flicker behind her ribs. It didn’t surprise her, no. Not in the slightest. Christian Vogel’s brand of ego had always been too large for reality to contain. She’d seen it up close. She still felt it on her skin when she let herself remember.
She flexed her hands once, forcing the thought away. Fine, she told herself. He can keep his dog close. It would make what came next that much easier.
Jane’s pulse flickered, a quick stutter in her throat. She could almost taste the adrenaline in the back of her mouth. She turned slightly, just enough to catch Bucky’s gaze. The hum between them was so quiet they didn’t need words, just that look, solid and shared. They were here. This was it.
“Finally,” Jane murmured under her breath, flexing her gloved fingers. She felt the familiar spark catch in her chest—warm, dangerous. Finally, she thought, I get to burn some of this out.
Bucky’s eyes flicked to hers. For a heartbeat, he saw it too—that glint behind her exhaustion. That current of raw, coiled rage that lived just under her skin these days. It struck him like a shard of recognition. Because he felt it too. That hunger to let it out, to tear something apart just to quiet the noise inside for a while. It wasn’t something to be proud of, but it was true. He felt it in the way his flesh hand flexed unconsciously, in how his shoulder twitched under the weight of the arm he’d once used to break men like they were nothing.
And then they moved.
The first guard never got the chance to raise his rifle. Jane’s hand flicked out, invisible force ripping the weapon sideways with a sharp clang that smacked the barrel into the man’s temple. He dropped like a stone, out cold before he hit the ground. Bucky was already on the next, stepping in close to jam an elbow into the man’s throat, spinning him around and driving his head into the wall with a dull crack . He didn’t waste time checking if the man was breathing—he would be, Bucky knew. He just wouldn’t be getting up for a while.
The others reacted quickly, but not enough. Jane felt the heat unfurl inside her ribs like a flare. She lifted her palm, and the air around the guards shifted . She’d learned to keep the damage controlled, to push and pull with precision rather than brute force. One man’s feet lifted clean off the ground as if jerked by a rope. Another stumbled sideways, crashing into his partner, rifles clattering to the floor.
A shot went off, echoing in the narrow hall. Bucky ducked low, pivoted, felt the wind of the bullet whistle past his ear. His metal arm snapped out like a battering ram, catching the shooter across the ribs. He could feel bones crack under the vibranium. The man folded with a grunt, gasping for breath.
Bucky spared Jane a glance. She was moving like water, like fire, like something untamed. Her powers danced at her fingertips, thin streams of purple shining force that caught weapons mid-air, turned them on their wielders. But it wasn’t just the powers. It was the way her eyes locked onto her targets. The way her mouth was set. Tight, merciless. For a second it unsettled him. Not because she was strong. He knew that. He’d always* known that. But because watching her like this, watching how easily she could end a man, reminded him of something too close to himself.
One guard lunged at her blindside, knife out. Bucky’s body moved before his mind did. He intercepted, metal hand wrapping around the man’s wrist, twisting until bone gave with a sickening pop. The knife clattered to the floor. Jane didn’t thank him, didn’t need to. Her focus was fixed ahead, where two more men were raising their weapons again. She swept her hand, a sharp gesture, and the guns bent like they were made of tin, barrels warped useless.
A fist caught her in the ribs. She staggered back, teeth bared. The guard lunged again, emboldened, but her power surged out like a whip, slamming him backward so hard he bounced against the wall and stayed down.
Too much, she thought suddenly. Too easy.
And then came the last one. Taller than the rest, bulkier. He’d stayed back, maybe the smart one, waiting for an opening. Jane turned on him, power humming in her teeth. The man’s eyes widened as she advanced—one step, another—and she could have snapped him sideways. She could have shattered his spine where he stood.
But she didn’t.
Because in the half-second when she pulled the power tighter, something inside her eyes flicked. She saw him, saw the fear, saw the way his hand trembled on his useless weapon. And then, like a gut punch, she saw the count again. That same moment, his eyes wide, the blood, the choking gasps.
The force faltered. Her outstretched hand dropped a fraction.
The guard lunged at her in that slip. Bucky was there first—he caught the man by the collar, slammed him sideways into the wall with enough force to rattle the fixtures. The guard slumped, dazed. Bucky’s breathing was harsh in her ear as he steadied himself, bracing one shoulder against the concrete, eyes flicking to hers.
“Everything alright?” he rasped, worried.
Jane’s chest heaved. She forced herself to nod, teeth digging into her lip to stop the shake. She could feel the tremor in her bones, that edge where her anger could so easily spill past control. She’d been so close. Too close.
Bucky’s eyes darted over her face. For a heartbeat, he wanted to say something— pull back, don’t lose yourself —but he didn’t. He just squeezed her arm, a silent I’m here , then turned, boot crushing a stray rifle on the floor as he kicked the last unconscious guard away.
And then it was just them, just Jane and Bucky and the echo of their breath in the vast, still air of the archive. They stepped in together, the burn of adrenaline still pulsing in their blood.
Jane’s eyes swept the room automatically—rows of old filing cabinets, data consoles, crates half-opened and forgotten. And there, near the far corner, the stain her mind refused to forget. The place where the count had fallen, where his blood had pooled beneath her knees. For a heartbeat her vision snagged on it, the ghost of red on gray.
She forced her gaze away before the memory could root itself deeper. Not now. Not now.
She looked back at Bucky, then past him, toward the far wall. There, at first glance, just brushed steel blending with the rest. But to the eye that knew what to look for—the faint outline, the seam no larger than a vein beneath paint. And just beside it, the narrow slit, waiting patiently for its key.
Jane exhaled, steadying herself. The vault. The final door. The last thing standing between them and the fire they were ready to set loose.
Bucky’s palm opened. There, cradled against the skin-tight fabric of his glove, the gear-shaped key Christian had worn like a trophy. She held Bucky’s gaze as he placed it in her hand. His fingers lingered, brushing his metal knuckles on hers. Not hesitant. Just real.
“Ready?” she asked, voice steady, even as her chest still rose and fell too fast. Bucky gave the smallest nod.
They turned together to face the vault door.
Jane’s palm pressed the key into its hidden reader slot. She let her breath out in a slow shudder when the locks engaged, one after another, in a deep, mechanical groan that echoed down the corridor like a living thing waking up after years asleep. Then, as the bolts retracted, she flicked her wrist and the final magnetic catch twisted free under her telekinesis.
The massive vault door hissed open. A wash of cold, sterile air hit them first, mixing with the acrid stink of old oil and weapon lubricant. Inside, the chamber unfolded like the belly of some monstrous creature—huge, cavernous. Racks of Stark-grade weapons and black market armaments glinted under rows of harsh fluorescents. There were prototype drones in stasis, cases of adaptive armor, crates of ballistic rounds stamped with the insignia of manufacturers who shouldn’t even exist.
But Jane’s eyes snagged on the far wall: a long stretch of reinforced security drawers stacked floor to ceiling. Tiny vaults within the vault. She didn’t need to ask Bucky what was inside. She knew. Somewhere in there were the vials. Their entire nightmare bottled and stored like fine wine waiting for the right monsters to uncork it.
She took one step forward, chest tight. Then the world exploded into sound.
A siren—piercing, shrill—howled through the room. Red emergency strobes pulsed from the ceiling, carving the steel chamber into violent flashes of light and shadow. Jane doubled over, her hands clamped to her ears, her vision fracturing under the noise. Bucky grunted beside her, dropping to one knee, metal fingers curling into the grated floor to anchor himself.
Somewhere in the chaos, she understood. They’d missed something. A sensor. A hidden trigger. Whatever it was, they’d walked straight into its teeth.
Move. She forced the word through the pounding in her skull. She staggered upright, her palm snapping out. Sparks bloomed where her power struck the nearest security cameras, frying lenses to black. One after another they popped and fizzed, but the damage was done. Someone up there had seen them.
“Jane—” Bucky’s voice rasped through the alarm. His eyes were on the drawers now, reading her mind before she spoke.
She nodded once. No words left. She didn’t need them. She hurled herself forward, boots clanging as she lifted both hands. Drawer after drawer ripped open under invisible force, metal doors screeching on hinges as she flung them wide. Vials. Cases. Test tubes—empty. She cursed, flicked the next row open. Empty. Another. Empty.
Her chest burned from holding her breath. Her ears screamed with the siren’s relentless screech. Beside her, Bucky pushed to his feet, pivoting to shield her flank, gun raised and vibranium arm braced in front of his chest.
When she finally found the crate—black, foam-lined, a neat row of frosted glass tubes inside—Jane’s breath caught hard in her throat. There. She grabbed it, clutching it to her chest like a bomb she was willing to swallow.
A door at the far end slammed open, metal on metal. Jane’s head snapped up just in time to see the first wave of security flood in—riot helmets, rifles raised, shock batons humming like hornets. Behind them, boots thundered on the steel stairs. The alarm wailed through her bones.
“Jane! behind me!” Bucky’s voice was a rasp, already moving. He was a blur, shoulder lowered, he slammed into the first guard so hard the man bent around him like wet paper. Another swung a baton at Bucky’s head—he ducked low, pivoted, drove a knee into the man’s gut, then spun the baton from his hands and threw it like a spear at the next soldier charging through.
Jane forced herself to breathe. Focus. She dropped the crate at her feet, braced her hands over it like a witch calling fire from the earth. The glass glowed under the vault’s harsh lights.
“Bucky—!” She didn’t take her eyes off the new wave spilling in. “Cover me. I need thirty seconds!”
Bucky’s vibranium hand crushed a rifle barrel flat. “You’ll have it!” he barked, and then his fist shattered a man’s visor with a sickening crack.
But there were too many men around her now. She had to flung her hand up, palm wide—force slammed out of her like a tidal wave. Three men lifted off their feet, slammed backward so hard they left dents in the far wall. She curled her fingers. Something inside her snarled. Metal buckled, armor cracked.
More came. Climbing over their own like a nest of bodies. Gunfire spat in flashes. Sparks showered the vault floor.
“Jane—on your left!” Bucky’s shout was sharp. She pivoted just in time to see a guard raise his weapon at her. She threw her hand up again, an arc of flame whipped forward, engulfing the man’s chest, turning the shout in his throat to a gurgle.
Bucky was close now, back to back with her, boots slipping on splintered crates and smeared blood. His human hand caught her elbow, steadying her for half a heartbeat.
“Is that the last of them?” Jane rasped, eyes flicking to the stairs—more shadows. Always more.
“Not even close,” Bucky grunted, throwing a guard off him so hard the man slammed into a rack of drone armor. Metal shrieked and toppled. “Tell me you’ve got enough fire left to torch this place down.”
Jane’s laugh cracked out, wild—part fear, part rage. “I’ve got plenty.” She flung her other hand out, and a fresh wave of fire burst from her palm, coiling like a serpent along the vault’s ceiling. Sparks showered down. Racks of munitions caught. Shells popped like fireworks.
“Jane—!” He grabbed her shoulder, spinning her out of the way as an armored guard lunged with a shock baton. Bucky intercepted the man mid-strike, twisted the baton away and slammed his vibranium fist straight into the guard’s chest—bone cracked wetly.
Jane staggered but didn’t fall. She panted, heat rolling off her skin like a second shield.
“Bucky—” she forced out between breaths, “—where the hell’s their pet superman? He should be here by now.”
Bucky’s teeth bared in something that was not quite a smile. “I’m counting on it.” He pushed her gently behind him as another pair rushed in. “Stay on the vials, Jane!”
She ignored him. Flames curled down her arms—she spun, sent a whip of fire along the ground that exploded under a cluster of advancing feet. Screams, gunshots, so close she tasted the metal tang in her mouth.
“Jane!” Bucky barked, shoving his shoulder into another guard’s ribs. “Jane—focus! The crate— now !”
She snarled, forced herself to pivot back to the vials. Her hand trembled over the glass tubes. So delicate, like bones. She could destroy them now. End it now.
A sound— too close. Jane twisted, saw the blur of motion too late. The vault’s far doors blew open again. The supersoldier. Bigger than she remembered, eyes flat and cold as the vault’s steel walls.
“Down!” Bucky bellowed. He threw himself sideways as the supersoldier lunged at him. The force of impact cracked concrete—Bucky hit the floor hard, rolled, came up swinging. Metal met flesh. The vault rang with the sound of fists.
Jane’s pulse hammered. She turned just in time to see the supersoldier’s arm whip out. Bucky slammed backward into a rack of weapons with a snarl.
“James!” Her voice tore from her throat. She flung out her hand, force coiled, snapped.
The supersoldier skidded a few feet but didn’t fall. He twisted toward her, and for a moment Jane saw him fully—veins bulging, skin pale as wax, eyes like cold knives. A half-made monster.
He charged. Jane’s scream ripped out of her as she flung both palms forward. Fire erupted, a wall of it that should have stopped him, but he powered through it like a bull through smoke. His shoulder smashed into her ribs. She slammed into the vault’s wall so hard her vision burst white at the edges.
Something hot dripped down her neck. Her breath caught, caught again, thin and ragged.
“Jane,” S.A.S.S.I.’s voice cut through the haze in her head, painfully clear in her ear.
“Your vitals are dropping fast. Internal bleeding is probable. You are destabilizing—”
She sucked in a breath, tasted iron. Her eyes found Bucky’s through the blur—he was saying something, but she couldn’t hear it over the rush in her skull. She swallowed against the burn in her throat.
“S.A.S.S.I.—” She coughed. Her voice came out small, broken around the edges. “Contact Tony. Tell him… tell him we need that quinjet. Now. We’re not making it out without it.”
There was the faintest pause, then the A.I. answered, calm but edged in something that almost sounded like urgency.
“Message sent. Emergency extraction request confirmed. Estimated flight time: two hours. Hold position, Jane. Help is on its way.”
Through the ringing in her ears she heard Bucky, his roar tearing through everything else. “Don’t touch her!” His boots pounded on the scorched concrete. “You don’t touch her!”
He slammed into the supersoldier from the side, knocking him away from Jane. The impact echoed through the vault. Bucky didn’t pause, he drove his vibranium fist straight into the man’s temple once, twice. Metal on bone. The supersoldier staggered, swung wildly, but Bucky caught the punch in his metal grip, twisted—there was a sickening snap. The monster howled.
Jane forced herself upright, ribs burning, her shoulder screaming. She pressed one hand to the wall to steady herself. The supersoldier reeled backward, but Bucky didn’t give him space. He hit him again, and again, every blow a promise, a threat, an unleashed storm.
“Stay away!” Another blow, so hard Jane heard the crack over the alarm. Bucky grabbed the supersoldier by the throat with his human hand, slammed him back against the vault wall, and drove his vibranium fist straight through his chest armor.
A wet, ugly sound. The man convulsed—once, twice—and went limp.
Bucky let the body drop. For a moment, he just stood there, breathing hard, chest heaving, blood and smoke clinging to him like a second skin. He turned to Jane then, wild-eyed, scanning her for wounds, for something worse. His mouth moved, but no words came.
Jane didn’t hear him anyway. Her gaze dropped to the crate. They were half-spilled, vials rolling free like beads on marble. She pushed off the wall, ignoring the way her knees buckled under her. Her ribs protested with every breath, but she kept moving.
The reason for all of this. The reason they were still alive. She reached out, dragging the crate closer, her bloody fingertips slipping on the cold glass.
“Jane—get down!” Bucky’s shout again, too late. A crack of sound— different . She spun just in time to see Christian smirking, gauntlet raised, StarkTech repulsor flaring blue-white.
The blast hit her arm. Lightning pain, sharp and searing. Her scream tore the vault open like a wound. The world blurred. Her knees hit the ground.
Not again. She wouldn’t fall. She wouldn’t. She forced her eyes open, her hand, the vials—Now.
She ripped the crate open, grabbed the remaining glass vials and threw it together with the ones already on the floor. She lifted her shaking boot, and slammed it down. Once. Twice. Glass shattered. Liquid spread across the scorched floor like acid.
Christian’s scream rose ragged through the roar of the vault. Bucky now had him pinned against a wall of scorched crates, one metal hand clamped around his throat, the other fist ready to crush bone. But Christian’s eyes—wild, bloodshot—weren’t on Bucky. They were locked on Jane, burning with venom and something like disbelief twisted into hate.
“You—” He choked on his own breath, spat blood, then forced the words out through gritted teeth. “ You. I should’ve known. I should’ve broken you when I had the chance. Thought I could save you—make you one of us—”
Jane stood her ground, one hand still outstretched, telekinesis flickering like heat in the air between them. Her knees trembled but she didn’t lower her arm.
Christian twisted, trying to shove Bucky off him. He failed. Bucky’s grip only tightened, metal joints whirring. But still Christian sneered through the pain, spitting words like poison.
“You think you’re strong? You’re nothing. nothing! You should’ve bowed your head and stayed where you belonged. Now you—” He snarled at Jane, eyes wide with hatred. “— and this bastard you cling to— you’ll both die here! You hear me? You’ll burn for this! ”
Bucky didn’t even flinch at the words, didn’t look away from him, didn’t care about the spit and the snarling. He leaned closer, voice like iron scraping stone.
“Yeah?” He bared his teeth, eyes glinting. “You first.”
He slammed his vibranium fist into Christian’s side—one sharp, brutal blow that folded him in half with a wet, choking sound. Jane’s focus tightened like a blade. Her hand jerked, ripping the Stark gauntlet clean from Christian’s wrist. It flew across the vault, skidding in sparks.
Christian’s last roar of rage broke off in a gasp as Bucky grabbed him by the collar and dragged him bodily toward the roaring flames swallowing the back of the vault. The fire popped and danced like a living thing hungry for more.
“Now you pay for what you’ve done.” Bucky growled. He didn’t shout, didn’t need to. His voice cracked through the smoke, cold and final.
Christian tried to spit one more curse, some half-formed threat, but Bucky didn’t wait to hear it. He hurled him forward with everything he had. Christian’s scream split the vault as his body struck the blaze—engulfed, lost in the roar, smothered in the flames Jane had fed with her rage.
Silence slammed into the space between them when his scream cut out. The crackling fire devoured what was left.
Bucky turned, chest heaving, sweat and smoke clinging to his skin. He found Jane’s eyes—wide, stunned, her fingers still curled in mid-air, trembling with what she’d done and what she’d almost lost.
He stepped to her—one step, then another—and when she sagged, knees going slack, he caught her. Held her tight against his chest while the vault burned down around them like a funeral pyre for everything that had tried to break them. Hands on her face. Blood on his knuckles, hers, everywhere.
Jane slumped, vision tunneling. Smoke bit her throat. The vault walls cracked under the heat. The whole world felt like fire.
His breath ghosted her cheek as he whispered, “ Stay with me, stay with me, Jane. ”His arms scooped her up—metal, flesh, warmth.
They staggered out together, pushing through the emergency door just beyond the wrecked archive—shoulder to shoulder, breath ragged, half-carrying each other. The metal slammed open under Bucky’s boot and gave way to a shock of night air. Past walls folding in flame. Past bodies unmoving on the concrete floor behind them.
When they stumbled into the snow, the cold knifed into her skin so sharp it felt like fire, the white glare stinging her eyes after the dark, choking heat of the vault.
Bucky knelt in the drift, cradling her in his lap. His hands pressed to her shoulder again, desperate to stop the bleeding. His face was so close, forehead pressed to hers. “ It’s over, ” he whispered, voice cracked and raw. “ It’s done. You did it. You’re safe. ”
She felt the heat from the burning resort behind them. Felt the ice under her spine. And his hands—one warm, one cold metal—holding her together when she could not. Her breath hitched.
“ James… ” She gasped it more than said it.
His lips brushed her temple. A broken, choked laugh. “ Yeah, love. ” he murmured, voice trembling against her hair. “ It’s done.” He repeated.
Around them, the sky snowed ash.
Jane blinked hard, fighting the weight dragging at her eyelids. Beyond Bucky’s shoulder—past the fire, past the ruin of stone and steel—she caught the distant shape of something cutting through the clouded sky. Sleek. Black. Familiar. The Quinjet.
She felt the ghost of a smile twitch at her lips. Safe. Or something close enough.
The last thing she saw was Bucky’s face, streaked with soot and snow, bent so close she could feel the warmth of him trying to keep her tethered there. One final breath shuddered out of her lungs, then her eyes fluttered shut, the world slipping away into the hush of falling ash.
And the burning ruin behind them crackled on.
Notes:
And so, with this chapter, Jane and Bucky’s mission arc finally closes. I’m really curious to hear what you think. Especially because, if I’m being honest, the last chapter didn’t get quite as much feedback as usual, and I’ll admit that put me a little on edge. The scenes from it were so delicate to write, and part of me keeps worrying I didn’t handle it well enough, or that it didn’t land the way you needed it to. I’d genuinely love to know your thoughts on it, too—what worked for you, what didn’t, anything you’d like to share means a lot to me. ☺️
This mission arc has been a big narrative milestone, and from the next chapter on, many things will shift. Some major characters will return or appear again, and I can’t wait to see how you’ll react. We’re officially deep into the core of this story now, but there’s still so much to come. We haven’t even touched the timeline crash that’s waiting at the gates of Endgame, and honestly, I haven’t decided yet how many chapters that part will need, but we’re slowly crawling closer to the heart of it all.
More than anything, I’m really eager to hear your feelings on this chapter! How you feel about how Jane and Bucky’s bond is evolving, how those lingering echoes of Tony keep shaping the space between them. Did it feel right? Did it feel true to them?
Thank you for reading, for being here. Words can’t describe how grateful I feel. I hope this chapter stayed with you, and I wish you a beautiful weekend ahead.
See you soon❤️
Chapter 18: Sweet lies (or I can’t kill him)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Jane floated up from the dark like she was swimming through tar. Every thought came heavy, thick, each breath dragging at her ribs like the air itself was too much to carry. The first thing she felt was pain. Deep, dull, blooming through her chest and shoulder and curling cold around her spine. She flinched, eyes flickering open only to be stabbed by too much light. It was sterile, clinical. The smell of antiseptic bit at her nose. Machines hummed and clicked somewhere to her left.
For a moment, she didn’t know what she was seeing. The white ceiling above her swam, haloed by the ring of some overhead lamp. She turned her head—slow, so slow—until a shape swam into view beside her. It was just a silhouette at first. Tall. Broad shoulders hunched as if bracing for something. A hand, warm, was wrapped around hers. Fingers tracing along her palm, slow, steady, grounding.
She tried to speak but her throat scraped raw. She tried again, her voice a cracked whisper. “James…?”
The shape stilled. The hand stilled too. Then the silhouette moved closer, resolved itself under the harsh ceiling light—dark hair, familiar lines in the face, an edge she knew too well.
“No,” the man said, voice softer than she expected, but not soft enough to hide the tension underneath. “He’s not here. He left once you got here. Which… he should have. It’s insane they sent him in there with you at all.”
Jane’s brain caught up a half-second later. She knew that voice. She’d spent years tracing the shape of it in her memories. She blinked against the sting in her eyes until it sharpened into focus: the deep set of his eyes, the faint lines carved by stress and years and bad sleep, the mouth she’d memorized, once. Tony.
Her chest hitched. Something hot and stupid swelled up behind her eyes, made her vision swim all over again. She tried to speak but it came out broken, just air. A tear slipped out before she could drag it back. He was there, with her, and it felt comforting and painful at the same time.
She wanted to ask Where’s Bucky? The thought knifed through her foggy mind so sharp it hurt worse than her bruised ribs. She needed to know, if he was hurt, if he was alive. But she didn’t say it. Not with Tony here. Not with the raw edge in his voice when he said he like it was a curse he had to spit out. Jane knew that tone too well. The disgust, the hatred. The man who’d once been Bucky Barnes would never be anything but the Winter Soldier to Tony Stark, and she didn’t have the strength right now to rip that wound open.
Instead, her voice rasped out the only thing she could find. “Where… where am I?”
Tony’s face changed, something flickered behind his eyes, a hundred things unsaid. He swallowed, and she felt his thumb brush the back of her hand again, gentler now. “You’re at the new Compound. The Avengers’ new base. You’re in the Medical wing. You got here about eight hours ago. We got you stabilized fast—turns out you’re more stubborn than the doctors gave you credit for.”
His attempt at a smile was hollow. The skin around his mouth stayed tight, like it hurt him to hold it there. Jane blinked back another tear. She hated that she was crying at all, hated the weakness of it. But his hand was warm and real and she felt so breakable under all this light.
Eight hours ago. Her brain shuffled the pieces. Bucky must’ve gotten her to the extraction point, like he promised. He walked away. He’d been strong enough to walk away. That was something. That was… enough. He’s alive. The thought anchored her in a way she didn’t dare show on her face.
Pain lanced through her shoulder when she shifted. She gasped, teeth clicking. Tony’s hand on hers flexed tighter.
“Hey. Don’t—don’t move, okay? You’re still recovering. Just… stay still for me, huh?”
She obeyed, because her body gave her no other choice. She tasted iron at the back of her throat. Her whole chest felt like a bruise. But she forced her eyes back to his, grounding herself on the line of his jaw, the lines she knew.
“Why…” Her voice cracked apart. She swallowed. “Why are you here?” Her brows knit together. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”
Tony’s laugh was soft, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked older than he had in her memory. The beard was neater, trimmed close. But there were lines there now that hadn’t been there before, dark circles around his big and expressive eyes. His other hand came up, hovered near her knuckles, like he wasn’t sure if he should touch her twice. Then he did, pressing his thumb against her wrist like he needed proof she was solid under his fingers.
“Jane,” he said, voice careful. Too careful. “There’s… there’s something I have to tell you. And maybe I should wait until you’re more awake, more… well, just more you, but—” His voice cracked. Just once. He swallowed it down like glass. “But I can’t. I don’t want to wait anymore.”
Her pulse skittered. The machines nearby beeped in a rhythm that betrayed her. Her brain tripped over the fear before she could clamp it down. Something wrong.
The sterile light above them hummed. Jane’s free hand curled into the blanket at her hip. She felt so small under the blankets, so small in this too-bright room where Tony Stark’s eyes were cutting through her like he could see every terrible thing, every betrayal she’d done since the last time they stood this close. Her lungs ached around the words she didn’t dare say.
He didn’t break her gaze. His eyes were so dark when he said it, so dark and so full of something she hadn’t let herself hope for in a long time.
“Are you in pain?” he asked suddenly, softer, after looking at her reaction. His thumb brushed along the side of her wrist again. “Tell me. Jane. Are you hurting? Do you need me to get the doc? I can—”
She shook her head before she even thought about it. The motion tugged at something in her shoulder. Pain flared. She winced, hissed out a breath. Tony moved instantly, his hands hovering as if he could catch the pain before it landed.
“Don’t move, okay?” His voice frayed. He made it sound like an apology, like a prayer he didn’t know how to finish. “You just need to rest. You don’t need to worry about anything right now. Nothing else matters. I just—” He stopped himself. Bit the inside of his cheek. Jane watched the fight behind his eyes and didn’t know what to do with it.
Outside the window, the skyline caught the late sun in sharp slices of glass. It felt impossibly distant. Another version of New York she could almost pretend to reach for, one where none of this had happened. One where her ribs didn’t ache and her skin didn’t sting and her heartbeat didn’t flutter like a moth trapped behind bone.
She realized she was staring too long at that thin wedge of sky, so she forced herself to blink, to drag her eyes back to him. To Tony, sitting at her bedside like he’d anchored himself there. His thumb pressed against her knuckles, back and forth, back and forth, like she might disappear if he let go.
She swallowed around the dryness that had settled in her throat. Her lips moved before her mind caught up. “What… Tony, what did you have to tell me?”
Her voice cracked on his name.
Tony’s eyes dropped to her hand. He turned it over, tracing the lines in her palm like he could read something there. For a second she thought he might not answer. That maybe he’d pull back and leave whatever it was buried under a hundred other unsaid truths. He didn’t.
He dragged his lower lip between his teeth, like he might chew right through it. Then his eyes lifted—brown and tired—and locked on hers.
“Jane,” he breathed. Soft. Careful. Like her name might break if he said it too quickly. “Jane, you’re pregnant.”
It didn’t hit her like an explosion. It didn’t even sting like a cut. It landed slow. The weight of the words pressed down on her chest so thickly she felt her heartbeat change, felt her lungs pull tighter against her ribs like they were trying to hide.
Pregnant. Pregnant.
He said more, she knew he did, she saw his lips move, saw the shape of him blur and refocus around her vision. Too soon for exact dates, he was saying, but we both know.
We both know.
The room tilted. She caught it in the ceiling tiles, the glare of the overhead lamp. Everything dulled at the edges, like someone had dipped the world in water. She could hear her own pulse, a drumbeat louder than Tony’s voice.
She felt the truth slam through her, raw and immediate. Tony didn’t know. He didn’t know about Bucky. He didn’t know about their Parisian suite, about the fumbling, about that cold metal that dug into her skin like a brand. Desperate need that shouldn’t have happened but did. He didn’t know about Christian’s hands. His mouth. About the part of her that had wanted to forget every second of that damn corridor.
She turned her face to him, found his eyes shining. He was crying. Not loudly, not messily—Tony Stark didn’t fall apart like that. But his lashes were wet and the edge of his smile trembled, and the way he held her hand tighter told her all the things he couldn’t say.
He squeezed her fingers once, then twice. His voice cracked open.
“I’m a mess, Jane,” he breathed, and the laugh that escaped him was rough around the edges, more ache than humor. “I’m a disaster most days. I can barely take care of myself—God knows that’s never been my strong suit. So figuring out how to take care of someone else—” He let out a low, shaky exhale. His thumb brushed over her knuckles again, grounding him more than her. “—I don’t know if I’m good enough at that. But I want to try. I have to, because this baby—” His voice cracked, but he pushed through. “This baby survived so much already. All that hell you went through out there… and he—she—stuck it out anyway. Stubborn little thing.” His lips twitched like he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite find the shape of it. “I owe them that. I owe you that. So… so I want to be here. I want to be here, Jane. If you’ll let me. I want to be here.”
Jane wanted to scream.
Wanted to pull her hand away. Wanted to bury her face in his chest and disappear at the same time.
She stared at him like he was a ghost. Like he might vanish if she blinked too hard. I want to be here.
Her mind split open around those words. It felt like a joke. A cruel, vicious joke carved into her bones. Because she didn’t know. She didn’t know whose child it was. Because her body wasn’t supposed to be able to do this. It had failed her before, failed her in a way that left her empty for years, left her tracing phantom kicks in the darkness of an empty bed.
And now Tony looked at her like she was something holy, something repaired and reborn, and she couldn’t stand it.
She saw his lips move again. Words fuzzed at the edges, like static through a wall. “I want to be present. No matter what. For you. For our baby.”
Our baby.
The phrase cracked something deep inside her chest. She couldn’t breathe around it. Couldn’t breathe around the sour bite of guilt that rose in her throat.
Because he didn’t know she’d betrayed him. He didn’t know she’d let it happen. He didn’t know how wrong, how messy, how broken she really was. He didn’t know that a part of her wanted desperately to believe him. To believe in this perfect lie—this story they could stitch together, as if the last decades hadn’t torn them apart, as if time hadn’t chewed holes through every good thing she’d ever touched.
She felt the sting of tears before she realized they’d fallen. One slipped down her cheek, warm against her skin. Tony’s thumb caught it, brushed it away with a tenderness that made her ribs ache.
She wanted to say don’t. Wanted to say don’t touch me like that. Don’t look at me like this is something beautiful. Don’t see hope when there’s none to give.
But she was a coward. She’d always been a coward where Tony Stark was concerned. She’d always taken the lie if it meant keeping that look on his face for just one second longer.
Her fingers tightened around his without meaning to. She saw him flinch at the pressure, but he didn’t pull back.
“Tony…” Her voice cracked on the shape of his name. She licked her lips, tasting salt. Her tongue felt too thick. “You… and Pepper…” The words slipped out raw, jagged, half-formed. They didn’t even make sense. It was the only thing she could grab onto in the rushing current in her head.
Tony’s breath hitched. He made a sound—half a laugh, half something else—and shook his head. He ducked down, so close she could feel the warmth of him across her cheek.
“No,” he murmured, the word small but iron-firm. “No, Jane. Pepper and I… we’re done. We ended it. Days ago.”
His eyes flicked over her face, searching every flinch, every tiny betrayal in her expression. “I told her everything. Told her I couldn’t… couldn’t stand in front of her and pretend anymore. That part of me was somewhere else. That part of me—” He squeezed her hand until she felt her bones grind together, then loosened. “—was here.”
Jane sucked in a ragged breath. Her chest burned like she’d swallowed embers. This was it, this was the second chance she’d begged the universe for in a thousand sleepless nights. And all she felt was hollow.
Because it wasn’t real. Not the way it should be. Not the way he deserved.
Tony brushed another tear from her cheek with the backs of his fingers, the gentlest touch. “This… all of this—” he murmured, his voice hoarse, threading through the tight space between them. “None of this was planned. And God, I don’t even know where to start.” His thumb drifted under her eye, catching the salt there. He gave a short, helpless laugh that cracked like thin ice. “But… we’ll figure it out. Or, at least, I hope so.”
She should have told him right then. Should have pulled the whole ugly truth out of her mouth like glass and let it cut them both open before it could cut deeper later. But she didn’t.
She couldn’t.
She was so tired. So tired of fighting ghosts. So tired of the smell of ash that clung to her hair, her skin, her lungs. So tired of being the one who ruined everything she touched.
Her fingers lifted, clumsy with exhaustion and shame. She brushed a thumb across his cheekbone. Warm. Solid. Real.
She wanted to tell him I’m sorry.
She wanted to say I wish it is yours. Clean and whole and simple.
She wanted to say I wish I were still the woman you fell in love with, the one who could carry your future without dropping it.
But the words stayed lodged under her tongue like a stone.
So instead she leaned forward—her body protesting every inch, ribs screaming, shoulder burning—and pressed her forehead to his collarbone. She let the fabric of his shirt soak up the worst of her shaking. She felt him tense, then fold around her like he’d been built for this.
His hand cradled the back of her head, careful of her tangled hair, careful of every break she’d hidden under her skin. His other hand curved around her back like he might hold her together by sheer will alone.
She felt him murmur into her hair.
“Shhh. It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna be okay.”
And for one split second—one bright, razor-thin second—she let herself believe him. She let herself pretend that maybe this time they’d get it right. That maybe this baby was a chance to stitch her heart back together. That maybe the lie could hold, just a little longer. Long enough to feel whole.
Her fingers curled tighter into the soft cotton of his shirt. She buried her face against his throat and tasted salt—hers, his, she couldn’t tell. She heard the steady thud of his heartbeat against her cheek and closed her eyes.
In the darkness behind her eyelids, she saw a flicker of a future that didn’t feel so broken. A future with him. With this impossible child she’d never believed she could carry. A future where the truth never found them. But deep inside, under the hope she wrapped around herself like gauze, a small, cold voice whispered: It’s all wrong. It’s all wrong.
And Jane clung to him anyway.
A quiet knock broke the hush. The door eased open and a nurse—short, dark hair pinned back neat, eyes calm but watchful—stepped inside carrying a small tray and a clipboard. She didn’t look surprised to see Tony still there, perched too close to the edge of the bed like he might refuse to leave.
“Mr. Stark.” Her voice was polite, a soft firmness that made it clear she was used to men like him. “I’m sorry, but Ms. Russo really needs another IV cycle. And—well— she should sleep. You know… in her condition, rest is the first medicine.”
Tony’s gaze didn’t flick to the nurse at first—it lingered on Jane’s face, searching for something he didn’t say. For a second he looked like he might argue. The muscle in his cheek twitched, his fingers still tangled gently in the blanket near her hip, tracing little invisible lines he probably didn’t even realize he was making.
Then he sighed, a long rough sound that deflated him. He nodded once, almost grudgingly, and lifted his hand to her face. He cupped her cheek, warm palm pressing the smallest comfort into her skin. She flinched at how much she wanted to lean into it.
“Get some sleep, okay?” His thumb brushed just beneath her eye where a tear might’ve gathered if she’d had anything left in her. His voice lowered to a hush only she could hear. “We’ll figure it out. All of it. I’m not going anywhere.”
He pressed his lips to her forehead—so soft, so painfully familiar—and for a second she forgot how to breathe.
Then he pulled away, eyes flicking once to the nurse — resigned, maybe grateful. He straightened his shoulders like putting on armor, gave Jane one last look that said so much and not nearly enough. Then he stepped out of the room. The door swung shut behind him with a gentle click that sounded like the last word in a book she didn’t know how to finish.
The nurse moved closer, her steps unhurried, professional. She set the tray on a side table and pulled a small penlight from her pocket. “Okay, Ms. Russo. Let’s have a quick look, hm?”
Jane didn’t resist as the light flicked across her pupils, left then right. The nurse murmured something under her breath, all patient calm. She asked how Jane felt—any pain, any nausea, any dizziness worse than before. Jane answered with half-words, half-shakes of her head. Her body still felt like it belonged to someone else.
The nurse pressed two fingers to Jane’s wrist, counting the pulse, then adjusted the blankets around her shoulders. She prepped the new IV—alcohol swab cold on Jane’s skin, the smell sharp enough to anchor her for half a breath.
“There we go,” the nurse murmured, taping the needle into place. She checked the drip, nodded to herself, then glanced over her shoulder. The hallway beyond the door was quiet. No footsteps. No Stark voice drifting back.
When she turned back, something in her posture changed—her shoulders squared, her eyes met Jane’s, steady. She reached into the pocket of her scrubs and pulled out a small, cheap-looking burner phone. She held it out, palm flat, waiting for Jane to take it.
“A man left this for you,” she said, voice lowered like a secret. “He said you’d know what to do with it. He asked me to give it to you only when you were alone.”
Jane’s breath hitched. Her heart lurched hard enough to make the monitor beep once in protest. She didn’t even need to look twice, she knew that phone. Black plastic casing, faint scratch by the corner. It was theirs . Hers and Bucky’s. The one they’d passed back and forth like a lifeline when they’d had nothing else to trust.
She looked up at the nurse, the woman’s expression was unreadable but kind, as if she knew not to ask questions. Jane nodded, whispered, “Thank you,” voice a raw rasp.
The nurse squeezed her wrist once, a ghost of comfort, then gathered her tray and slipped out. The door clicked shut again, and Jane was alone—except she wasn’t, not really.
Her fingers shook as she flipped open the phone. She thumbed the contacts list, all empty. Except one. Just a single entry, saved under B . Nothing else. Just that letter, so blunt and spare it felt like it knocked the air from her lungs.
She pressed the call button before she could think. Held the phone to her ear. Listened.
One ring. Two. Three. Her stomach twisted tight as a knot—fear, hope, something darker tangled up in all of it.
Then:
“Jane?”
That voice—rougher than she remembered, edged in exhaustion, but him . Definitely him. Her breath shuddered out of her. Her free hand twisted in the thin hospital blanket, knuckles white.
She swallowed, her throat too tight to work properly.
“James…” Her voice cracked on his name. “Is it you?”
He let out something between a laugh and a groan, a sound punched straight from his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. Christ, Jane—” He sucked in a breath that trembled. “I kept thinking you weren’t gonna wake up. You know that? That I’d get that damn call and it’d be too late. I—” His words splintered for a second. She pictured him, somewhere in the dark, pacing the floor with that old fury of his under his skin.
“I needed to hear you. I needed your voice. Just—fuck—just say something. Anything. So I know you’re really here.”
Her eyes stung. “I’m here.” she whispered. “I woke up a while ago. They say I’m okay. It’s not as bad as—”
“You better be,” he cut in, softer but no calmer. “You better be okay. You scared the shit out of me. You—” He forced out a shaky breath. “I should’ve been there. When you opened your eyes. But—” He paused, the silence stretching, aching. “Not there. Not in his place. Not what I did to him. I couldn’t. You know that, don’t you?”
She pressed her palm to her temple, fighting the swirl in her head—his voice, the memories, the ache in her ribs. “I know,” she said, so small. “I know. You did the right thing.”
Jane’s breath shivered out of her. She pressed her free hand to her stomach, unconsciously, as if it might anchor her in that moment. “Where are you now?”
“Still here,” he said, softer now, but no less fierce. “In the city. Fury set me up with a place. Says I gotta lay low, wait for the rest of my payout. Like I give a damn about the money.” He scoffed.
Then he went quiet. She could hear his breathing tight, like he was still braced for some new hit that might come out of nowhere. When he spoke again, it was almost tender. “We need to see each other. You know that, don’t you?”
She nodded, though he couldn’t see. Her palm slid lower on her belly. “I know. I need to see you too. There’s… there’s something we have to talk about.”
Another silence, longer this time. Then his voice, rough and low: “When you’re ready, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I don’t care how long it takes. Okay?”
Her lips trembled, she didn’t trust her voice. “James…”
“Hey.” His tone shifted, softer now, breaking at the edges. “Get strong first, alright? We’ll talk when you’re ready. You don’t owe me any more than that. I’ll be here.”
She wished she could say something back, something true, something good. But the words tangled in her throat. “Yeah, I… I should go.” she said instead, her voice fraying like wet paper. “I need to rest.”
“Yeah,” Bucky murmured. She could almost see his faint smile in the dark. “Sleep, Jane. I’ll be around.”
She hung up before she could take it back. Let the burner fall to her chest, still warm with his ghost on the line. Her shoulders shuddered once, twice, then broke.
This time she didn’t fight it. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Messy, harsh, the kind that hurt her ribs. The sterile room blurred through her tears, and for a few seconds she let herself drown. No pretense, no quiet control like she’d given Tony.
She was alive. She was carrying life. She didn’t know where any of this would lead, if any of it could ever make sense again. But for that moment, the only thing that mattered was the truth she knew she owed him. At least to him.
And the promise that he wouldn’t leave. Not yet.
Jane drifted somewhere between waking and sleep for the better part of the next twenty-four hours. The hospital bed beneath her was never truly comfortable, no matter how many pillows a nurse fussed with or how many warm blankets they tucked under her arms. Her body was heavy with exhaustion and healing—dull, throbbing aches that pulsed every time she shifted too far to one side. Sometimes she’d crack her eyes open to find the sun had shifted in the window, stripes of gold and grey playing across the blankets. Other times she’d see the back of Tony’s shoulder near her bed, a silhouette carved out against the light, the faint murmur of his voice when he answered someone at the door. She didn’t catch his words, only the warm hush of them, the strange comfort of knowing he was close.
Other times, sleep dragged her under like an undertow, dark and thick and full of sharp, flickering shapes. The vault. The fire. Christian’s hands. Bucky’s voice echoing over the comm in her earpiece, half static, half desperate. She would jerk awake with a strangled breath, ribs screaming, one hand pressed tight to the fragile curve of her stomach before she even realized what she was doing. Each time, the sterile ceiling greeted her like a blank page she didn’t know how to fill.
When the daylight was sharpest, someone knocked. A soft, polite tap that barely registered before the door cracked open. A nurse stepped inside, white scrubs against the warm light. Jane turned her head to see her, her eyes bleary, her hand already drifting protectively to her side.
“Ms. Russo,” the nurse said softly, her voice professional but not unkind. “You need to eat something. It’s time for your next drip too.” She crossed to the side of the bed, fussing gently with the IV line. Jane shifted, wincing as the blanket slid down her arm. The nurse glanced at her bandaged elbow, the faint yellow bruises blooming there like ugly flowers, then nodded to herself. “You’re healing well. You just need rest and proper nutrition now. It’s important.”
Jane barely nodded.
The nurse propped her up a little, raising the bed until Jane sat half upright. She fussed with the blankets around Jane’s waist, then set a tray on the rolling table—something warm, a bowl of broth, soft bread, a small cup of fruit. It all looked painfully bland.
As she lifted a spoon, the door clicked again. This time, the sound was sharper. Boots, measured steps, the faint scrape of leather gloves as someone cleared his throat. Jane froze halfway to her mouth.
Nick Fury stood in the doorway, his posture easy but his gaze as cutting as ever. The nurse glanced at him, then at Jane, then back at him again, waiting for instruction. Fury gave her a thin, polite smile. “Could you give us a moment?”
The nurse nodded. She gathered up her clipboard, tapping her pen against it absently, and slipped out, shutting the door with a soft hush.
Fury didn’t move for a second. He only watched her, that single eye pinning her to the bed more than any restraint could. Jane dropped her spoon back into the bowl, the metal clink sharp in the hush. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t drop his stare either.
He was the first to break it. Fury stepped forward, boots heavy on the polished floor, then crossed his arms over his chest. “You look better than I expected,” he said, tone flat but edged with something like reluctant approval. “Always knew you had the grit for this line of work.”
Jane’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite bitterness. “Did you always know, Director?” Her voice rasped in her throat but it held. “Or did you just keep rolling the dice until you forced me into the right shape?”
Fury’s jaw tightened, only a flicker. He dipped his head just once, like acknowledging a blow. Then his voice shifted, dry: “Can we holster the weapons for five minutes?”
Jane turned back to her tray. She picked up a piece of bread, tore it in half but didn’t eat it. She didn’t look at him this time when she spoke. “Say what you came to say.”
He stepped closer. His shadow fell across her legs under the blanket, a half-dark cut in the pale sunlight. “Word is,” he said, slow, deliberate, “that you and the kid, Parker, are about to be made official. New blood. Fresh faces. After everything that’s gone down with the Sokovia Accords and the PR disaster of the old guard? The government wants to polish the badge again. Bring the world something clean to pin their hope to.”
Jane blinked at the window. The skyline beyond it looked small. Her pulse kicked once, unexpected. “An Avenger.” The word left her mouth half disbelieving. Half defiant. “They’re really going to make it official.”
Fury’s mouth twitched like he was fighting not to smile. “Smile for the cameras, Russo. Wear a pretty dress, wave from the podium. They’ll eat it up. They want the survivor. The hero. You play well under a spotlight. Always have.”
Something sour twisted in her chest, exhaustion tangled up with a faint, hard kernel of pride. An Avenger. She’d fought what felt so damn long to be worth that word. To feel like she’d earned it, not been made into it. Her fingers ghosted over her stomach, then fell away. Maybe there was still time to make it mean something.
She forced herself to look at him again. Fury’s face was still a mask of calm, but his good eye flickered—calculating, cutting, as always. He rocked back on his heels, unhooked his arms and braced his palms on the foot of the bed. “There’s something else,” he said.
Jane stilled. The spoon slipped from her fingers and clattered against the bowl. “You like your dramatics, don’t you?” Her voice was flat. “Spit it out, Fury.”
He didn’t look away. “I heard the chatter. You’re carrying.” His voice didn’t soften. It never did. But the edge was… less sharp. More factual. Cold as data. “I heard you’re pregnant.”
Her breath caught in her throat. A small, helpless sound. Jane’s hand dropped to her belly, protective, automatic. She didn’t mean to. Didn’t want to. But her palm pressed warm over her hospital gown, anyway.
“That,” she said, and her voice was a blade now, thin and bright, “isn’t any of your business.”
Fury didn’t flinch. He nodded once, like she’d confirmed it, like he’d expected that answer. “It’s not my business,” he agreed. “But this life, this path you’re on, you need to think about what it means now. A kid changes the equation. You’re smart enough to understand it.”
Her eyes narrowed. The tremble in her arms disappeared under the heat bubbling up her spine. “What are you saying?”
Fury sighed. It was small. Almost human. He straightened up, hands braced on his hips. “I’m saying you need to make the right call. You want this life? You want this fight? You need to know if you can carry it all. A baby, Jane, is not a mission. You can’t walk away if it goes wrong.”
Her vision tunneled for half a heartbeat. Her pulse roared in her ears. “Are you telling me,” she bit out, “to get rid of it?”
A flicker. A shadow across his face. Not regret, calculation.
“I’m telling you to make a choice. Once you cross that line, there’s no going back. You know what an Avenger is, what it costs. An Avenger’s first duty is to the world, always. The mission comes first. The safety of millions comes first. Everything else, everything, comes second.”
He let the weight of that hang between them.
“I don’t know if that’s a life that leaves room for being a mother.”
Her next breath scraped her throat raw. It was like the words Fury had dropped so carelessly cracked something open that she’d been too afraid to name. The realization hung there, bitter and bright in her chest, like something that had been hovering at the edges of her mind: she didn’t want to get rid of the baby. And if part of her already knew this truth, the other part was now giving up to every doubt. This life, tiny and fragile and so impossibly unexpected, it was hers.
For so long she’d believed she was broken. That her body was some cruel joke—capable of enduring wounds, torture, punishment, but not of holding something alive inside it. For so long she’d mourned a child that had never breathed, never cried. That grief had carved her hollow in places no one could see. And now, now it was like the universe had thrown her a dare. Another chance. Another piece of herself to keep alive.
Whoever the father was, she almost choked on that part, this child was hers. Her blood. And in that flicker of Fury’s cold advice, she realized she would protect it. Even if it cost her. Even if it made everything harder. She’d protect it because no one else would. Because for once, she could.
“You son of a bitch.” The words trembled like a blade between her teeth. She pressed her hand harder to her stomach. “This—this isn’t your choice. This isn’t a briefing. This is—” She stopped. Swallowed the rest. Her voice cracked anyway. “Get out. Tony would get you killed if he heard what you just said to me.”
Fury didn’t move at first. His one good eye settled on her hand where it rested. A small nod. No smile now. Just that cold, infuriating calm. “But does Stark know all the truth? What you had to do to get the mission done?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t look at him. Her eyes dropped to the untouched bowl in front of her. Fury exhaled, turned to the door. One hand on the handle, half turned back to her: “You always were the hardest piece on the board to play.”
And then voices outside—bright, loud, clumsy in a way that made the hospital’s hush tremble at the edges. A woman’s laugh. A boy’s exasperated protest.
“Come on, Peter, you’re dragging your feet! I swear, Spider-Man should be faster than this, no?”
Fury stepped aside just as May Parker’s voice carried through the half-open door. She stepped in, half-laughing still, brushing her coat off her shoulders. Behind her, Peter ducked through the door, flanked by Happy’s massive shape and Clint’s amused grin.
May’s eyes flicked to Jane, warmth blooming across her face. “Huh. I could’ve sworn I just saw someone slip out of here…”
And Jane, frozen with her palm still protectively curved over her stomach, could only hold her breath and pretend the world hadn’t just tilted all over again.
She crossed straight to Jane’s bedside with a soft gasp that gave away just how tightly she’d been holding her worry inside.
“Oh, sweetheart—” May’s voice cracked around a laugh that was too close to a sob. She leaned over, careful not to jostle the IV line as she cupped Jane’s cheek with warm fingers. “You have no idea how much you’ve made me worry. Every single day, every night—I swear, I must have driven Peter halfway mad asking him if there was any news. I was this* close to showing up here myself with a rolling pin and making someone talk.”
Jane’s mouth quirked, the faintest ghost of a grin tugging at the corners. Her voice came out raw, but it held a warmth that even she hadn’t felt in what felt like forever.
“Sounds terrifying, May.”
“Oh, believe me, it would’ve been.” May let out a tiny laugh and stepped aside just enough for Clint to slip closer to the bed, tossing her coat at Happy without looking. Happy caught it with one big hand, draped it over his arm, and stayed just inside the door like a gentle wall behind them.
Behind May’s shoulder, Jane’s eyes found Peter—still frozen halfway between the door and the bed. He hadn’t moved. His fingers twisted the hem of his sweatshirt until the fabric strained. His gaze stayed locked to the floor like it was the only solid ground in the world.
Around them, May kept talking about how the hospital food on her tray looked like glue. Clint leaned one elbow on the foot of the bed and tossed in a dry quip about how Jane could probably stomach MREs, ready-to-eat meals for soldiers, better than hospital mush after all she’d been through. Happy rumbled something in agreement.
But none of it touched Peter, until he looked up. And the second his eyes locked with Jane’s, it was like all the air left the room. The half-smile that had been trying to settle on her face fell away as he stepped forward, quick and determined. He didn’t hesitate. He closed the distance in three strides and folded his arms around her shoulders as if he’d been waiting for this moment to anchor himself.
The room fell silent. Even May cut herself off mid-sentence, her voice fading into the hush like a candle blown out.
Peter’s arms trembled where they wrapped around Jane’s shoulders, careful not to press too hard against her bandaged shoulder. She felt the faint tremor travel through him, the sharp little hitches in his breath that he tried to bury against the curve of her neck.
She let him. God, she let him. Her own hands came up slowly—one braced against his side, the other curling in the back of his hoodie, fingertips pressing into soft cotton. He smelled the same as always, soap and fruit chewing gums, the faint tang of city air clinging to his hair.
Neither of them said anything for a heartbeat that stretched and stretched. When Peter’s voice finally broke the quiet, it was a whisper pressed right to her ear.
“I missed you.” Simple. Heavy.
Jane’s eyes slipped shut. The sting behind her eyelids came sharp and sudden. She didn’t fight it. She breathed him in and whispered back, voice so low she felt it more than heard it.
“I missed you too, Pete.”
When Peter finally pulled back, the edge of his thumb brushed a tear from her cheek, pretending he hadn’t seen it at all. He scrubbed at his own eye with the back of his wrist, then ducked his head to hide the flush that rose bright on his cheeks. Jane didn’t point it out.
She drew in a shaky breath and turned her head, blinking at the little circle of faces around her. May stood closest, lips pursed like she was holding back tears of her own. Happy hovered behind her, his massive hands planted on her shoulders with a tenderness that made something twist in Jane’s chest. Clint arched an eyebrow at the whole scene, arms crossed over his chest, but there was a warmth in his eyes, too, something unspoken that made her feel less alone.
Jane cleared her throat, cracked a lopsided grin to break the haze.
“So what is this, huh? You all throwing me a surprise party and forgot the cake?”
The room burst—laughter, small and bright. A little too loud, maybe, but no one cared. Clint scoffed first, shaking his head.
“Yeah, you’re a real piece of work, Russo. You know that?”
Jane tilted her head, feigning innocence. “I get that a lot.”
May stepped in, digging into the massive tote bag slung over her shoulder. “Well, I didn’t bring cake, but—” She held up a large plastic container that made Jane want to laugh and cry all at once. “I did bring lasagna. Proper food. Not that.” she sniffed, nodding at the sad tray still perched by Jane’s hip.
Jane squinted at the tray, grimaced dramatically. “I knew it looked suspicious. God knows what’s in that mystery mash.”
“Exactly!” May tutted, setting the container down firmly at the edge of the side table. “You are not living off mush while I’m around, young lady.”
Happy gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze, murmuring something so low Jane didn’t catch it. May’s face softened at the contact, her fingers brushing over his knuckles just once. Jane caught it, tucked it away like a tiny warm ember. There will be a time to ask—later, when her ribs won’t feel like splintered glass, when her head won’t throb every time she breathed.
Happy cleared his throat. He wasn’t much for words, but when he spoke up, the rumble of it grounded the room again.
“You should’ve seen Tony when you got here. I swear, he nearly tore the quinjet door apart himself trying to get you inside. He said you looked like a ghost when he fist saw you.”
May elbowed him, scandalized. “Happy! Don’t scare her.”
Happy raised a brow, nonplussed. “She’s fine. Look at her. Tough as nails. She’ll be back to bossing Stark around in no time.”
Jane barked a quiet laugh. The sound scraped her throat raw, but she didn’t mind it. “God, you all are terrible at bedside manners.”
“You love it.” Clint shot back dryly. He shifted his weight, leaning one shoulder against the edge of the wall. “Besides, someone’s gotta keep your ego in check.”
May leaned closer again, tilting her head toward Clint with a little eye roll. “Ah, ignore him. He thinks he’s funny, you know? Anyway, just know this: the second you’re back on your feet, you’re coming over for dinner. Me and Peter can’t wait to have you at home. And you’re not* allowed to say no. Non-negotiable.”
Jane raised her hands in surrender. “Yes, ma’am.”
Peter’s voice slipped in quiet but clear behind them all. “You really scared us, you know. You’ve been away for months.”
She glanced at him, and the look on his face—God, it nearly undid her again. Too young for the things he’d seen. Too loyal for his own good. Jane reached out, catching his wrist, giving it a soft squeeze.
“Didn’t mean to,” she murmured, voice low, teasing. “But… thanks for worrying, babyboy.”
“Always,” Peter said at first, dead serious, then the word caught in his throat as he realized. His ears turned pink. “Wait—no, hey—don’t call me that! I’m not a baby, stop it.”
The room broke into soft laughter. Clint leaned in, eyebrows raised, grin wide. “Hold on, hold on—come again? That’s what we’re calling Spider-Man these days?”
Peter let out a huff, half embarrassed, half laughing despite himself. “Oh, come on! It’s—she just—” He gestured helplessly at Jane, but the smirk on his face betrayed him.
May threw Clint a mock glare, then turned back to Jane with one last fuss—tucking the edge of her blanket over her shoulder, smoothing the stray hair at her temple. “You’ll eat. You’ll sleep. You’ll get strong again, okay? We need you.”
Jane almost said You have me . But it felt too heavy, too sharp to hand over now. So she just nodded, let her lashes slip half-shut with the weight of it all pressing gentle at the edges.
“Hey, what about me?” Happy jokingly grumbled from the back. May leaned back into his chest, elbow nudging his ribs. “Oh, hush. You’re already strong enough for both of us.”
Clint made a face that Jane caught just in time. “Get a room.”
“Barton.” May snapped, swatting at him lightly. Jane laughed again, the sound catching on a hiccup she swallowed down.
Time blurred at the edges. She barely noticed the steady trickle of small talk that bubbled up. May insisting she’d bring more home-cooked meals, Happy quietly promising he’d make sure Tony didn’t hover too much, Clint making dry jokes about how long they’d have to keep the press at bay before she’d be dragged out for some shiny official statement.
It felt normal. Ridiculously, painfully normal. Which was maybe the strangest thing of all.
Peter stood quiet again, hovering just behind May’s shoulder. Jane’s gaze caught his, held it. He shuffled a little closer, and in the soft lull of voices, he asked—half mumble—“So where were you all that time? Really?”
Jane opened her mouth, searching for something that wouldn’t be dangerous to say. She settled on a ghost of truth. “Paris,” she said. “Just… a lot of Paris.”
May raised her brows, side-eyeing Clint. “Paris, huh? I bet you knew everything already, even if you said you didn’t!”
Clint held up both palms, lazy grin. “Hey, she’s tough. It was nothing that she couldn’t handle. But yes, I kept a loose eye. She handled the rest.”
May snorted. “Loose eye, my foot.”
But Jane caught the warmth under the bite. She let it sit on her skin like sunlight.
More questions came. Jane dodged, laughed, lied where she needed to.
And for a heartbeat, just a heartbeat, she let herself forget. The bruises. The secrets. The too-heavy truths that sat in her belly now, that nobody in this room could see yet.
She was just Jane here. Just theirs.
At last, Clint clapped his hands once, brisk, scattering the comfortable hush. “Alright, alright. Circus is over, people. She’s still half held together by stitches and spite, she needs actual sleep.”
Jane caught the gleam in his eye when he squeezed her shoulder. Gratitude twisted hot in her chest. She squeezed his wrist back.
May leaned down again, brushing a soft kiss to Jane’s hairline. “You rest, sweetheart. You call me when you’re up for company again. And eat that lasagna .”
Happy grunted his agreement, gave her a thumbs up that made her snort.
They filed out slowly, Peter the last to move. May turned at the door, brow raised.
“Well? Peter? You coming?”
Peter’s eyes flicked to Jane, then to the floor. He shrugged, small and stubborn both. “Yeah. Just—just a minute. I’ll catch up.”
Jane watched the door click shut behind May, Happy, and Clint, the echo of their warm chatter still drifting in the corridor for a few heartbeats before it faded altogether. The room settled back into its quiet, the hum of her IV pump the only steady sound. But Peter stayed, his sneakers scuffed against the linoleum, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his hoodie like he was trying to brace himself against the weight of something he hadn’t figured out how to say yet.
Jane studied him, her eyes soft but sharp enough to see past the awkward shuffle, the way his shoulders hunched in on themselves. He looked so young, standing there in the pale afternoon light leaking through the blinds. Young, but not a boy—not really. Not anymore.
She tilted her head a little, voice gentle but direct. “What’s up, Peter? Something wrong?”
He startled slightly, like her voice snapped him out of his own head. He shifted from foot to foot, chewing the inside of his cheek before looking up at her properly. His brown eyes were too open, too honest. “You looked sad.”
Jane blinked. Then she lifted her brows, smiled, and leaned back against the pillows, feigning a lightness she didn’t feel. “It’s just my face, Pete.”
But he didn’t smile back. He didn’t look away. He just stood there, watching her with a stillness that felt too old for him. “No. I know the difference.”
Jane let out a breath. For a second, she almost said something, something true. But her ribs ached and her chest squeezed tight around the words. So she just let the silence hang there between them, heavy and familiar. It should’ve been uncomfortable. It wasn’t.
Peter shifted closer, then perched himself on the edge of the chair May had abandoned. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking at her like she was a puzzle he’d almost solved but didn’t want to force. “I know I’m… I know I’m young. And I know you don’t always say stuff out loud. You keep a lot in.” He glanced down at his fingers, picking at a loose thread on his cuff. “I’m not saying you have to tell me. I’m not gonna ask you to. But… if you ever want to. I’m here. I’ll listen.”
Jane felt something crack, warm and sharp, right behind her breastbone. It took her a second to find her voice around it. When she did, it came out small, but steady. She lifted her good hand, the one not tethered to tubes and tape, and reached for his. His skin was warm, his palm calloused in ways she knew a kid his age shouldn’t have to be. She squeezed his hand into hers, holding it like an anchor, grounding them both. “You know,” she said, and her voice trembled into a smile, “you’re a good kid, Peter Parker. I hope you know that.”
A flush climbed up his neck instantly, blooming across his cheeks. He ducked his head, hair flopping into his eyes. “Yeah, well. Don’t call me kid. Or babyboy. Or any of that.” His mouth tugged into a crooked half-smile. “I’m not twelve anymore.”
She laughed, and the laugh tasted like salt at the edges. “Noted.”
For a moment they just sat there, her hand curled around his. The weight of everything unspoken sat gentle between them, too big for words, too familiar to need them.
Then Peter cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. His fingers flexed around hers, like he didn’t want to let go just yet. “Can I ask you something?”
Jane tilted her head. “Of course.”
He hesitated, eyes darting to the window, then back to her. “Is it really over? The mission. Everything. You’re not gonna just… disappear again?” His voice cracked, young and honest in a way he couldn’t quite hide. “I mean, you were gone for a while. And… I know you were doing what you had to do. But—”
She squeezed his hand a little tighter. “Hey. It’s over.” She waited for him to look her in the eye. When he did, she made sure he could see the certainty there, even if a part of her still couldn’t believe it herself. “It’s done. I’m not going anywhere, Peter. I promise.”
He huffed out a short breath, almost a laugh. His shoulders slumped, tension easing out like air from a too-tight balloon. “Good.”
Jane raised an eyebrow, half-grinning despite the ache in her ribs. “You know,” she murmured, voice softer now, “I saw you on the news. In Paris. You’ve been busy too, from what I’ve seen.”
Peter squirmed a little, scratching the back of his neck. “Oh God. Yeah, that. There was this big, creepy… I don’t even know. Some knockoff vulture guy doing things he shouldn’t. But it’s handled now. So. No more surprises.”
“No more surprises.” she echoed softly. Her free hand drifted, without thinking, to rest against her stomach—a weight that wasn’t heavy yet, but was all she could feel.
Peter caught the motion, his eyes flicking there, confusion passing through them for half a heartbeat, but he didn’t ask. Instead, he just nodded, soft and resolute in that way that was so typically his. “Good,” he said. “Good. Now, Just… rest. Okay? Take all the time you need.”
“Okay.” she whispered.
He looked like he might say something else, like there was more pressing at the back of his throat, but then he seemed to think better of it. He squeezed her hand once more, then started to stand. “I should probably go. May’s gonna come back in here and drag me out by my ear if I make her wait.”
Jane chuckled, though the sound was thick in her chest. “Yeah. You better.”
He laughed too, but his eyes were still serious when he looked down at her one last time. “You promise? You’ll call me if you need anything. Anything.”
“I promise,” she said. And she meant it.
Peter leaned down, pressed a quick, awkward kiss to her temple the way he did with May when he thought no one was looking. Then he was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
When the silence settled back over her, it didn’t feel so heavy this time. She was alone. But not alone. Not really. Not anymore.
Jane leaned back against her pillows, eyes drifting to the city skyline framed in her window. It all felt impossibly huge and impossibly small at the same time—this world she’d bled for, lied for, lost so much for. This life that refused to fit neatly in her hands.
But maybe that was okay.
She let her eyes slip closed. For the first time in a long time, the darkness behind her eyelids didn’t feel like an enemy. It felt like space, like quiet. Like a place where, maybe, she could rest. Just for a little while.
And for now, that was enough.
______
They took nearly a week to clear her for discharge. Seven days of limbo inside that pale room, days that blurred together into one long haze of half-sleep and sharp moments of pain, of half-remembered dreams that clung like smoke to her skin. By the time the sixth night slipped into evening and the skyline beyond her window turned gold and rose and blue, Jane could feel every second of it pooling under her ribs like stale water. She’d started asking, then insisting, that they let her go. And maybe she’d worn them down, maybe the tests were finally enough, maybe the baby’s tiny heartbeat that still thudded steady under the Doppler probe convinced them she was more alive than broken. Whatever it was, when the doctor came in at dusk and said “We’ll discharge you in the morning,” the relief nearly brought her to tears.
In those days she’d floated through something like a fog, drifting between long, drugged naps and brief islands of consciousness where life felt almost normal—or as normal as it could, given the new war under her skin. Peter had stayed close when he could. He came in with board games and dumb jokes and the kind of nervous chatter only he could pull off without it ever feeling heavy. She’d taught him to cheat at checkers just to see him roll his eyes and lecture her about moral fiber. And every time he got up to leave, he would hover awkwardly by the door, half boy, half hero, the kid who used to think the world was simple. Jane never told him how much it helped, how much he helped, just by being a kid for her, when she needed him to be.
Tony was different. His visits were quieter. They spoke less, but it was the unsaid things that filled the room between them like static, buzzing at the edges of her pulse. He would come in, sit beside her bed, sometimes hold her hand—not always saying much, but being there. Sometimes he brought files on a tablet he pretended to read. Sometimes he’d fall asleep in the chair, chin tipped down to his chest, still in a suit with his tie half loosened, like he didn’t even trust himself to leave her side for too long. And every time, Jane would think: Tell him. Tell him the truth—that the baby inside her might not be the unexpected gift he thought it was. But she’d swallow it back, bury it under the warmth of his palm when he covered her fingers with his, under the careful way he’d brush her hair off her forehead when he thought she was asleep. It was so easy to lie when the lie felt like hope.
There were moments when he’d say things that scraped too close to the bone. Little confessions, dropped between the silence— “I still dream about you, you know. Always have. Some nights it’s so vivid it’s like… it’s like remembering.” Jane would pretend she hadn’t heard, turn her face to the window, press her knuckles into her mouth until the words faded. He didn’t know. He didn’t remember, not really—just the echo of it, that thing she’d carved out of him when she’d walked away. He didn’t know about Bucky either. He didn’t know about Christian, about the way her skin still crawled at night when the lights went out. And she would promise herself— Next time. Tomorrow. I’ll tell him tomorrow. But every tomorrow ended with her pressing her forehead into his shoulder when he kissed her goodnight and pretending, just for a second, that this was what forgiveness felt like.
Bucky called, but she didn’t answer. Once. Twice. Then three times. She’d stared at the name, B , glowing on the burner phone screen for hours, thumb hovering over accept, then flicking it off again. Not yet. Not like this. Not until she could look him in the eye and say the what she had to say out loud.
She’d been so close to answering, so many times. Just to hear his voice. Just to let him say anything , even if it was just her name spoken like a question. She needed it more than she would ever admit, the sound of him, the shape of him in her mind. But every time, she stopped herself. She told herself it was only temporary. When I’m stronger, she thought. When I’m stronger, I’ll face him. I’ll tell him everything. At least to him.
So she let it ring. Again and again, pretending the silence was a kindness, pretending the distance was a shield. Every time, she found a new excuse. I’m not ready, my ribs still ache, my head still spins, I need to eat better first, sleep better first, look less like this first. She’d open her health app, scroll through sleep logs and calorie trackers as if a few more hours of rest could make her braver. As if healing her body might patch up the ruin inside her chest.
The morning of her release the doctor, a gentle woman with tired eyes and a quick smile, walked her through the last checks. The baby looked fine, she said. Better than fine, really— “strong heartbeat, good growth.” The phrase made Jane’s chest ache in a way she hadn’t expected. Good growth. As if she could believe her own body could still do something right. She nodded, thanked the doctor, signed the last page of forms with a hand that trembled just a little.
Tony had been waiting just outside the door, half-slouched against the wall in a hoodie and jeans like he hadn’t once been the billionaire playboy the world knew. He straightened when she stepped out, taking the crutches from the orderly’s hands before she could even reach for them. “I got these,” he said, voice gentle. And Jane, with her throat tight, let him.
It was awkward, learning to move again. One crutch under her arm, the other arm hooked through Tony’s elbow as he guided her slow step by slow step toward the elevators. He kept his stride small to match hers, matching her breath for breath. When the doors slid closed around them, he pressed the floor button with the heel of his hand and gave her that half-grin that still had the power to undo something inside her ribs.
“You’re looking better,” he murmured, eyes flicking over her face. “Color’s back. And you haven’t threatened to stab anyone in at least twelve hours. That’s progress.”
Jane snorted softly, her weight leaning into him just a little more than she meant. “Don’t tempt me. I could still go full drama and throw myself down the stairs for attention.”
He huffed a laugh, shaking his head, his fingers brushing over hers where they rested on his arm. “You’re gonna give me gray hair before we’re even officially old enough for that.”
She didn’t say “we already are.” She just tucked her face into his shoulder for a heartbeat as the elevator drifted downward, breathing in the soap and cologne and that trace of engine oil he never really lost. When the doors opened again, he guided her out into a hallway she didn’t quite recognize— brighter than the medical wing, the lights warmer, the carpet softer under her feet.
The apartment was bigger than she’d expected. Open-plan, sleek in a way that was expensive without trying too hard to look like it. Soft gray walls, brushed metal fixtures, floor-to-ceiling windows that let the skyline pour in like liquid gold. The living area spilled into a kitchen, spotless and edged with dark stone countertops. In one corner, a low couch sat across from a wide-screen that made her want to roll her eyes. And beyond that, the hint of a bedroom door half-ajar, shadows spilling warm across pale wood floors.
Jane stared at it all, the quiet hum of the place, the subtle warmth that said someone had been living here. She looked at Tony, confusion furrowing her brow. “This is… this is mine?” she asked, though the words tasted wrong on her tongue. “An entire penthouse?”
Tony’s eyes met hers, a flicker of something complicated—hesitation, maybe, or a line he’d already crossed long before she knew it. “Not exactly,” he said. He shifted, settling her gently onto the couch, then crouched to pick up the crutch that had slipped from her hand. “Technically, it’s mine. But—” He paused, running a hand through his hair, not quite meeting her eyes. “But the doctor doesn’t want you alone. Not now. Not when you’re still healing. Not with… everything. So. I thought —if you wanted— you could stay here. With me. Together.”
Jane’s breath caught, a thousand thoughts crashing over each other all at once. The part of her that had learned to be suspicious, to pull away when people offered her too much—that part whispered No, no, no. But the part of her that had missed him for years, that had died with him and woken up alone—that part drowned the protest in a heartbeat. She didn’t think. Didn’t measure the consequences. She just pushed herself forward, off the couch, ignoring the dull throb that zipped up her side when her foot hit the floor wrong. The crutch clattered to the ground between them.
She caught his face in her hands before he could react—rough palms, bandaged fingers pressing into the line of his jaw—and kissed him. Kissed him for the first time in months. In a way she hadn’t let herself do in years. Not a soft kiss. Not a careful, “is this okay?” kiss. It was desperate, aching, a silent “I’m still here. I don’t know what that means but I need you.”
His hands shot up, steadying her waist, half-steadying himself. His fingers clenched in the fabric of her shirt, bunching it up until the hem dug into her skin. He held her with his thumbs pressing into her hipbones, forearms trembling with the force it took not to crush her against him completely.
She pressed closer, chest to chest, so close she could feel the wild stutter of his heartbeat through the thin barrier of clothes and air and everything unspoken between them. Her mouth moved against his—urgent, unpracticed, almost clumsy in how fiercely she wanted him to feel it. And it made her dizzy. It made her real.
His breath caught—she felt it more than she heard it, a shudder deep in his throat—and then he was kissing her back like he needed it just to stay upright. One hand slipped up her spine, palm flat, heat burning through the cotton as he splayed his fingers between her shoulder blades. The other curled around the back of her neck, his thumb brushing the soft spot just under her ear. She shivered, gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound like a secret.
She felt herself unravel, her bones liquefying under his hands, her knees buckling as every thought dissolved into the wet, desperate slide of his lips, the shock of teeth, the warmth of his tongue. Her own hands roamed blindly: the sharp line of his jaw, the rough stubble scraping her palms, the curve of his neck, the faint thud of his pulse under her fingertips.
He pulled back first, forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged. His eyes flicked over her face, searching. “Careful,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “You’re gonna hurt yourself, you maniac.”
“Worth it,” she whispered back, her thumbs brushing the corner of his mouth. “God, Tony. Worth it.”
Outside the windows, the city glowed on—oblivious, alive, moving forward in all its messy, beautiful chaos. And for a breath—one stupid, fleeting heartbeat—Jane let herself believe maybe she could too.
______
Bucky’s mouth found hers first. No hesitation, no polite question in the way his lips moved. Just a hunger that hummed through his whole body as he pressed her back into the mattress. She felt the rough scrape of stubble on her chin, the soft exhale against her cheek when he pulled back only to dive in again, kissing her deeper, slower, until her pulse roared in her ears like a storm.
She clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the thick fabric of his shirt, needing him closer, needing him everywhere . He shifted above her, one knee braced between her thighs, the bed dipping under his weight. His hands roamed—one warm and solid on her waist, the other colder, heavier, the faint whir of metal filling the space between their breaths when he dragged it up her side. She shivered at the contact, her skin alive under the bite of cold steel tracing the line of her ribs.
“James—” She gasped his name against his mouth. It barely came out, half-swallowed by another kiss. He answered her with a low sound in his throat, a rumble that vibrated through his chest and settled deep in her belly. He broke away only to trail his lips along her jaw, the curve of her throat, the fragile line where her pulse hammered wild and helpless beneath his tongue.
He kissed her there—slow, reverent—then bit down just enough to make her breath hitch. Her hands fumbled at the hem of his shirt, desperate for skin. She found the warm plane of his back, traced the old scars she knew were there even when her eyes stayed shut. He tasted the hollow of her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder, open-mouthed kisses that left her arching up to meet him.
When his metal hand cupped her face, she flinched at the cold, just for a heartbeat, then leaned into it, eyes fluttering as the chill spread across her cheek, a perfect counter to the heat blooming low in her stomach. He seemed to feel her shudder; his mouth curved against her throat, a smile or a warning she couldn’t tell.
“You’re here.” he murmured, words ghosting over her skin as his lips moved lower, over the thin fabric of her shirt, the soft give of her ribs, the place just under her breast where he paused, breathing her in like she was the only thing left to believe in. She felt the brush of his hair, the warmth of his breath, her fingers sliding up into the strands at the back of his neck, tugging, urging him closer, closer—
She felt herself trembling, hips shifting restlessly under the press of his knee, her heart slamming so hard it drowned out every thought that tried to rise. She clung to him, eyes squeezed shut, tasting salt on her lips that might have been hers, might have been his.
Don’t wake up. The thought pulsed through her like a prayer. Please, just a little longer.
But the dream had its own cruel rhythm. One second he was there, his mouth hot and open over her ribs, his hands everywhere—rough palm and cold metal, tracing, claiming—and the next, the warmth slipped through her fingers. The sheets were cold. The room was dark again.
She blinked into the stillness, chest heaving, throat raw with a half-formed sob that never left her mouth. The taste of him was gone, but the ache he’d left behind curled low and deep, as real as the tremor in her hands when she touched her lips, half-expecting to find him there.
But there was only the dark. Only her heartbeat, frantic and alone, pounding out the truth: It was a dream.
It took her a few seconds to remember where she really was, to let her eyes adjust to the murky lines of the bedroom, the faint gleam of city light sneaking in through the half-drawn curtains. The warmth beside her felt like an accusation now. Heavy. Real. Steady.
Tony’s arm draped over her hips, heavy with sleep. His palm, wide and warm, rested right where her waist curved inward, fingers slack against her bare skin. His breath was deep, slow, carrying that soft, nearly imperceptible rasp she’d learned to love years ago. He hadn’t felt her stiffen. He hadn’t heard the gasp clawing up her throat. He hadn’t woken when her whole body had gone taut with guilt and longing for someone else.
And now she lay here, still naked from when they’d fallen into each other hours before, when she’d closed her eyes and made herself forget everything but the weight of him above her, the sound of his voice when he fell apart in her hands. She’d wanted him to drown it all out. She’d begged him without words, make me yours one more time . But her own mind was now betraying her.
She felt it now, like poison rising through her veins, this creeping horror, this low, churning nausea that she couldn’t scrub out no matter how many times she swallowed it back. How could you? The thought was a whip. How could you dream of him when Tony was right here? When he touched you first? When you were his—when you are his?
She didn’t notice the tears until one fell hot onto her cheek. She didn’t realize she was shaking until her breath hitched too sharply to control. She wanted to curl up, to fold herself so small she could disappear into the space between the sheets and the wall, but she didn’t dare move. She couldn’t. She couldn’t risk waking him, couldn’t risk him seeing this ruin in her chest that had no name, no shape, only the suffocating weight of wrong.
Slowly, carefully, she turned onto her side, trying to shift without making the mattress sigh too loud. She needed to see him. She needed to remind herself. This is real. He’s real.
Tony slept on, oblivious, lashes dark against skin that time had carved new lines into. There was more tiredness in his features now, a deeper cut to the shadows under his eyes even in rest, but God, he was still him. Still so impossibly beautiful in the way that had undone her from the very first day they’d met. So impossibly gorgeous.
She reached out before she could stop herself. Her hand hovered, trembling in the dark, then settled lightly against his cheek. Her palm molded to the warmth of him, the rough edge of stubble rasping against her skin. She traced the angle of his jaw with her thumb, careful, reverent, like if she pressed too hard he might vanish, like a dream does at dawn.
She needed this. Needed the grounding weight of his heartbeat, even if she could only feel it where his pulse fluttered beneath her fingertips. Needed to anchor herself here, here , not in that phantom place where another man’s mouth had made promises she could never keep.
I love you, Tony. The words pulsed inside her skull, deafening. I love you, I love you, I love you. They were all she had left to fight the other shape pressing at the edges of her mind, the shadow she could not chase out no matter how hard she tried.
How did he get there? How did he slip in so quietly, so persistently, until she carried him with her even into the one place Tony should have been untouchable—her dreams? How could she want him when this was what she had—this man, this heartbeat, this history she’d burned herself to keep safe?
She wanted to bury her face in the hollow of Tony’s throat, to beg his skin to remind her of who she was, what she chose. She wanted to sob out every rotten confession and beg him to forgive her for a sin he didn’t even know she’d committed yet. But instead she just touched him, let her thumb brush the edge of his lower lip where it parted softly with each breath.
She didn’t even notice she was crying harder until her shoulders shook under the weight of it. The soft sound must have reached him, even through the haze of sleep—Tony’s brow twitched, eyes blinking open with that slow, disoriented softness she’d always loved. He looked younger like this. Less haunted. He looked like the man she married.
His arm tightened instinctively around her hips, pulling her in. His other hand lifted to her face, thumb brushing her temple, then her damp cheek. His eyes widened when he saw the tears she couldn’t hide.
“Jane?” His voice was raw, sleep-rough. Concern cracked through it immediately, sharper than any blade. “Hey—hey, what’s wrong? Talk to me, honey. You okay?”
She shook her head before he could ask again. Her own hands rose to cradle his face, desperate to hold him there, to keep him here . “No—no, I’m fine. I’m okay.”
But she wasn’t. She was a mess of betrayal and need and something rotten that she couldn’t cut out no matter how many times she tried.
Tony frowned, pulling himself up onto an elbow, looming over her, scanning her face in the shadows like he could read the secrets carved into her skin. “You’re crying. Is it pain? Did you hurt something? Baby, what is it? ”
Her heart cracked at the word, baby . His hand slid down her arm, curling around her wrist where her pulse still thundered. She shook her head again, tried to swallow it all down, but her voice broke anyway.
“It’s nothing,” she whispered. “It was just—just a dream. Just a bad dream, Tony. That’s all.”
He stared at her for another heartbeat, as if trying to see past the lie. His eyes softened, and she saw the moment he chose to believe her—maybe because he needed to, maybe because he trusted her too much to imagine otherwise. He bent forward, brushed his lips over her forehead, then lower, catching her mouth in a soft, careful kiss. Just a press, warm and fleeting, like a promise he’d keep whether she deserved it or not.
“I’m here.” he murmured against her lips. “I’m right here, Jane. Nothing’s gonna hurt you while I’m here.”
She nodded, the words scraping her throat raw. She clung to his face with both hands, sweeping her thumb along his cheek to catch the tears she couldn’t hold back. She wanted to say thank you. She wanted to say I’m sorry. She wanted to say I don’t deserve you.
Instead, she just let him kiss her again, gentle and unknowing, as if that could wash her clean. She pressed her forehead to his when he pulled back, nodded once more, swallowing down the truth she could never say out loud.
I know, she wanted to whisper. I know you’re here. I know what you feel for me. But I don’t know if I deserve it. I don’t know if I deserve you. Because I love you, Tony. I love you with everything I am. And yet—
The rest stayed buried where it belonged. And yet, and yet, it echoed, bitter as ash in the back of her throat. He’s still there. He’s still inside my mind. And I can’t kill him. I can’t kill the part of me that wants him.
Tony pulled her closer, guiding her head to his chest. She let him. She let him hold her like she was whole, like she was still the woman he trusted. She let him believe she was worth this.
In the dark, her eyes drifted shut again, but sleep didn’t come easy. Not with that phantom taste still lingering on her tongue, not with his name still a bruise under her ribs. Not with the truth echoing through her like a curse she could never outrun.
I don’t know if I deserve you, she thought, clinging tighter to Tony’s heartbeat. I don’t know if I ever did.
Notes:
So… we’ve officially kicked off a new arc! The one that’ll lead us all the way to Infinity War! And, well, it kind of exploded right out of the gate, didn’t it? We started with Jane’s pregnancy and all the chaos that comes with it. I’m so curious to hear what you think: did you see it coming? Do you have theories about the baby’s father? 👀 I promise I’ll reveal that piece of the puzzle later on, but you’ll have to be patient with me.
I know Jane and Tony’s relationship might feel a bit… tangled right now. What even are they? Where do they stand? What the hell is going on? Don’t worry, I swear the next chapter will clear up so much. Just stick with me while I untangle this mess for them (and for you).
As you’ve probably noticed, Jane’s head is all over the place: the pregnancy, her feelings, the past, the secrets. It’s a lot. But hidden in the chaos there were some softer moments too, right? I loved writing her with Peter, Aunt May, Clint… this chosen family she’s building around herself, piece by fragile piece. Those scenes were sweet little pockets of light for me but, well, if you know me, you know I never let you have sweetness without slipping a knife behind your ribs too. I’m sorry for ending the chapter on such an emotional, heavy note… but honestly, you did see the tags before you jumped in, didn’t you? You knew exactly what you signed up for, my loves. So really, I’m sorry but not sorry.
Anyway, I need to know what you thought. Did it break you? Did you expect it? Do you hate me a little bit? Good. Tell me everything. Leave a comment if you can. It makes my day (week, year). And if you feel extra kind, sprinkle a little kudo too.
Big hugs, messy feelings, and see you in the next chapter. ❤️
Chapter 19: A lie has no legs
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
They lay on the polished wooden floor of the Hayden Planetarium, far past closing hours, in a peaceful silence. Above them, Saturn’s rings shimmered across the dome, pale gold and pale blue, spinning slow and majestic in the hush of artificial stars. A whisper of mechanical motion and hidden projectors hummed through the vast dark.
The room smelled faintly of old metal and the ghost of thousands of schoolchildren’s breath from field’s trips long past. It was cold here at night, the chill seeped up through the floor and into the fabric of Jane’s light coat, but Tony’s shoulder brushed hers, and his warmth somehow anchored her.
They were stretched out like two hands on a clock: feet pointed in opposite directions but heads close enough that if she turned, her nose would almost touch his. It felt childlike and ancient at the same time, like the echo of how they used to be, all tangled limbs and hushed confessions under blankets that never quite kept out the cold.
Tony’s hand brushed hers on the floor between them, pinky catching against her thumb. He didn’t lace their fingers together, not yet, but the closeness made her stomach twist. So simple, so painfully gentle. He’d been gentle with her every night since she’d come back. Gentle when he’d cleaned the stitches on her shoulder, gentle when he’d comforted her in the middle of the night after one of her nightmares, gentle when he’d kissed her mouth like he was asking for permission every time.
Around them, the planets drifted on a loop: perfect spheres of gas and dust suspended forever in their orbits. Order in chaos. A map of something far bigger than the mess inside her own chest.
She should have felt comforted by it—the scale of it, the reminder that her heartache was microscopic under all this cold infinity. But instead it made her feel more human than ever: so small, so breakable, so tethered to this man who had no idea how much of her he already owned.
But this Tony, this man, didn’t remember the first time he’d brought her here. How he’d rented out the dome back then, too, under the pretense of testing new projection tech but really because he’d needed her beside him when everything else in the world felt too loud. She remembered standing on this very floor, her breath frosting the glass of the control room window while he pointed out constellations, spinning her under Jupiter’s storms until she’d laughed so hard she’d forgotten why she’d come there angry in the first place.
He didn’t remember any of that now. He only knew it was a place his mother had brought him, when he’d been small enough for her perfume to drown out the scent of stale museum air. Maria Stark. Jane could almost see her if she closed her eyes: elegant in pearl earrings and perfectly tailored winter coats, holding Tony’s hand as he craned his neck toward the artificial Milky Way. See that? That’s Saturn, darling. Those are its rings.
He’d told her tonight—his voice low and sheepish as he’d fumbled with the custom-coded Stark lock on the door—how it had always been one of his secret places. That when he was young and his father was too loud or too disappointed, Maria would slip him out of the penthouse and drive him here. Just the two of them and the quiet weight of the stars.
Jane had listened with her cheek pressed to the floor, the cool grain of the wood grounding her as she forced herself to smile, to nod, to say I know. Because she did know. Because once, this man beside her had whispered all of it into her skin, had pressed those memories into her mouth between kisses that had tasted like coffee and exhaustion and the last desperate clinging to something normal.
But this Tony didn’t know that. He didn’t remember. He was giving her this piece of himself like it was brand new, raw and delicate, held out between careful hands that didn’t quite know how to trust. And God, she wanted to deserve it. She wanted to earn every bit of this fragile honesty, this attempt at something that looked like them.
She turned her head just slightly, enough to see the side of his face painted blue by Saturn’s pale glow. His eyes were open, staring up at the dome, but she knew he wasn’t really seeing it anymore. Tony’s mind never stayed still—it darted, restless, leaping from memory to calculation to worry to hope and back again in the span of a heartbeat.
So she just watched him breathe. The steady rise and fall of his chest under the thin black shirt. The faint scratch of his stubble against the sleeve of his coat where his chin rested. He looked tired. He always looked tired now, but it wasn’t the same kind of tired she remembered from the old days—back then it had been a reckless exhaustion, an engine running hot because he didn’t dare shut it off. Now it was different. Now it was softer somehow, sadder, threaded through with this gentleness that scared her more than his anger ever had.
Her eyes drifted up to the spinning planets. She wondered if somewhere, far beyond this dome, the real Saturn was hanging in its perfect orbit, indifferent to the mess they’d made of each other down here. She imagined being that far away. Cold, empty and quiet. No lies. No half-formed confessions scraping the inside of her throat raw. Just silence.
This was their fifth—maybe sixth—“date” in these two weeks after she was allowed to leave the Medical Wing of the Compound. Tony had said he wanted to know her. Really know her. No more walls, Jane. His voice in her ear, teasing but pleading too. If I’m going to do this, I want to do it right. Tell me who you are. I’ll do the same.
So she’d tried. She’d tried so damn hard to peel herself open in pieces he could hold without slicing his fingers on the edges.
She’d sat with him on the High Line at midnight, wind cutting through the city’s old bones and new glass. An old freight rail turned hanging garden, the High Line wound above the streets like a secret path — the kind of place you could disappear into when you wanted the world to go quiet for a while. Tony had told her how he’d gone there the day it first opened to the public — half on a dare to himself, half because his mother would’ve loved it. He couldn’t remember the details anymore, just that he’d felt strangely free for a moment, anonymous among the wildflowers and rusted tracks. A good memory, he’d said, almost surprised to realize he still had one.
Jane had nearly burst into tears when he said it — because she remembered it perfectly. She remembered standing next to him that day, her hand wrapped around his arm as they leaned against the railing and looked out at a city still stitching new green veins through old steel. They’d been married then, young in a way that had nothing to do with age. She’d worn his jacket because she’d forgotten hers, and he’d tugged it tighter around her shoulders every time the wind picked up. It was before she’d found out about the baby. Before she’d lost it. Before the world had cracked open under the weight of all the secrets they’d never find the words for.
That night on the High Line with him now, she hadn’t said any of that. Instead, she’d let herself open a tiny door she usually kept bolted shut. She’d told him about her first days in New York—carefully edited, the way she always did. How she’d arrived with too little English and too many ghosts, how she’d walked until her shoes fell apart just to feel the city breathe under her feet. She didn’t say it had been in 1943. Didn’t say she’d watched Times Square neon flicker to life for the first time. She just said she’d felt like the city had swallowed her whole, but somehow made her feel less alone at the same time.
Tony had listened, really listened, his eyes soft and fixed on hers while the wind played with his hair. When she’d fallen quiet, he’d nudged her shoulder with his and murmured, It’s nice to know more about your past.
The second date, she’d chosen. The Cloisters, the museum specialized in European medieval art. She could still feel the weight of the old stones under her palms, the hush of the medieval arches wrapped around Fort Tryon Park like a secret only she could translate. He’d walked beside her through the cloister gardens, shoes crunching old gravel, eyes darting to every plaque as if to memorize it all just because she loved it.
Tony had laughed when she told him how she’d spent entire nights as a girl devouring tales of knights and courtly love, kingdoms risen and fallen. He’d told her about the history teachers who hated him—the ones who said he was too cocky to listen, too spoiled to care. But secretly he’d devoured it too. Not because he cared about kings and empires, but because he’d wanted to know how they fell apart. How people like his father ended up building things that outlasted them but broke everything else.
She remembered watching him that day, how his voice had softened when he’d confessed how desperately he’d wanted to be anything but Howard Stark’s son. And she’d wanted to kiss him right there in the shadow of those gothic arches, to tell him you were always so much more. But she hadn’t. She’d swallowed the words like poison, because there was still so much she hadn’t told him yet.
Then there had been the Manhattan Bridge—not the polished walkway for tourists, but the raw metal skeleton deep inside. He’d bribed or hacked or sweet-talked his way in, of course. He always did. They’d climbed past rusted ladders and humming cables until they’d sat side by side on a maintenance catwalk, the city roaring above them, traffic rattling through their bones like a heartbeat.
It had felt like being suspended between two worlds, the one she pretended she belonged to now and the one she kept locked behind her teeth. The cold metal, the vibration of cars rumbling far above them, the hush of the river somewhere below—it made everything feel more honest, more exposed, like the steel ribs around them could hold the truth for once.
There, perched on that maintenance catwalk with the city trembling all around them, she’d told him about her father—in the vaguest shape she dared, the only shape she could risk giving. She’d said he’d been a ghost in fine clothes, a man people called Marchese with bowed heads but who never really saw her except when he needed to. How her mother had vanished before Jane could form a single memory of her face—no cradle-song, no bedtime whisper, nothing but stories told in fearful half-murmurs by servants who scattered like mice when he walked in the room.
She hadn’t planned to say more, but the steel under her palms and the sound of Tony’s breathing beside her loosened something tight in her throat. So she’d said it: that sometimes she suspected the only reason her father had kept her at all was because she reminded him of that woman, her mother, who’d haunted him more than death ever could. How he’d loved her mother so violently that when she’d gone—run, disappeared, vanished—he’d twisted all that love into something dark and kept the echo for himself.
She told him how, for as long as she could remember, he’d told her she looked just like her. How sometimes he’d stare at her for minutes, glass of wine sweating in his hand, eyes red at the corners. How he’d never once loved her the way a father should, but he touched her in every way a father shouldn’t. Because you’re all I have left of her, he’d say. And you remind me my curse every day.
She told Tony—in that drifting voice that only comes when you’re so tired of hiding—about how she’d grown up half-hidden in halls too big for her tiny feet, learning early how to vanish into tapestries and dark doorways when the shouting started. How she’d always known she was different—not just because of the platinum hair that made the maids whisper witch behind her back, but because sometimes things moved when she was angry, things lifted when she wept. And how every secret bruise, every cold stare, every half-muttered prayer from the priests that came to fix her only carved it deeper into her bones: You’re not right. You don’t belong.
She told him about the villagers, the way they’d spit the word strega, witch, under their breath when she passed, how she’d learned to keep her head down and her hands hidden. How she’d swallowed it all— the fear, the difference, the strange pull in her blood that made water ripple and shadows bend. How the only good thing, the only thing that had ever been soft and true, was her brother. Her baby brother with dark hair and wide eyes and a laugh that never shrank away from her strangeness.
She didn’t say his name, Leonardo.
Saying his name made him real again and she couldn’t afford that, not here, not with Tony’s warmth bleeding through her shoulder and his fingers drumming a silent pattern on her leg. But she told Tony how that boy had followed her like a second shadow, how he’d called her sister with a pride that defied every old whisper about devils and blood and shame. How when the world shut her out, he’d always pushed the door back open for her to come home.
“He was the only thing that felt… clean.” she’d said then, voice barely a breath under the rumble of trucks overhead. “The only thing that wasn’t built on lies or wanting something I couldn’t give.”
Tony had been silent for a long time after she’d said He died a long time ago. He’d traced patterns in the dust on the railing, the city lights throwing gold shadows across his cheekbones. When he’d looked at her, his eyes had been so open it had almost broken her. He hadn’t said I’m sorry. But she could feel it in the way he took her hand and pressed his shoulder to hers.
He then talked about Howard, the cold hands, the whiskey breath, the impossible expectations. And she’d thought, God, maybe this is what we are. Just two broken kids still stuck in their unhappy childhood.
And maybe he was right, maybe she never grew up, never got old, never had the chance to evolve into something happier. Something complete. Something accomplished.
She could still hear the hum of cars above them when she closed her eyes now. Could still taste the wind in her mouth, the iron tang of rust that clung to his jacket when he’d pulled her closer to his chest.
After that had come the drive-in. That ridiculous, perfect night when he’d found an old abandoned lot, restored a rust-bitten sports car just for the occasion, and played one of those dusty reels she knew he kept in his private archive. Roman Holiday. It had to be Roman Holiday. Because they’d watched it a hundred times, sprawled on a way too-big couch in their way too-empty home.
She’d known every line before the actors spoke it. But sitting in that car with him again—Tony humming along to the background music, lips brushing her temple like it was instinct—she’d almost believed they could rewrite it all. That maybe this time Audrey Hepburn wouldn’t get back on the train alone.
And then there was the bookshop. Six floors stacked with old leather, first editions, forgotten atlases that smelled like dust and candle wax. She’d led him through the maze of shelves like it was a pilgrimage, a breadcrumb trail back to the version of herself she’d buried so long ago. He hadn’t asked her why her fingers lingered on the spines of volumes hundreds of years old. He hadn’t asked why she knew exactly which alcove hid the tiny handwritten psalter behind glass. He’d just watched her with that soft, curious wonder that made her want to fall apart right there among the smell of parchment and lost time.
All those nights—she’d opened pieces of herself she’d never meant to. And every time, the weight of what she hadn’t said grew heavier. Because here was Tony Stark, learning to love her again, loving her still, and she couldn’t even give him the truth of the life they’d already lived together. She couldn’t give him the truth of the baby growing inside her either.
And here she was, eyes wide open under Saturn’s glow, feeling the lie press harder and harder into her spine every time she tried to breathe. Because for all the nights she’d let herself exist only in the glow of his attention, the truth was still there—a hidden fault line waiting to split her open.
The baby. Their baby—except every time her mind brushed that word it recoiled, like skin on a burn. She’d let him call it ours in that sterile hospital room weeks ago. She’d let herself believe it for one blinding, selfish moment. Because Tony had said it so simply—I want to be there for you. I want to be there for him. And she’d clung to it like a drowning woman to driftwood.
But since then? Silence. He never brought it up. Not once. Not when he tucked her blankets tighter around her legs on cold nights. Not when he fussed over what she ate, whether she took her vitamins, whether she rested enough. Not when he pressed his lips to her temple and told her she was stronger than anyone he knew. Not once had he said our son or our baby.
And maybe it was her fault for not asking. For not daring to poke at that fragile shell of hope in case it shattered and spilled her worst fear into the open—that he knew. That some part of him, the genius part that always saw more than she wanted him to, suspected that child might not be his. That he was too polite, too kind, too Tony to say it out loud.
Or maybe he didn’t suspect at all, and it was just her own guilt building monsters out of shadows. Because how could he know? How could he know the truth inside her twisted every time her hand drifted to her belly in the dark? When her mind conjured images she didn’t want: that other face, that other mouth, that cold metal hand she’d once let touch her where only Tony ever should have.
She hated herself for it. She hated herself so deeply she thought it might hollow her out entirely. And still—still—when the burner phone buzzed, when he called, she felt her thumb hover over accept like a traitor. Because some part of her wanted to hear him say her name. Some part of her wanted to believe there was a version of herself out there that could confess everything and be forgiven.
But she never answered. She’d watch the name flicker—B—cold and bright against the cracked plastic screen. And she’d let it ring. Once. Twice. Three times. And keep telling herself tomorrow.
Now, tonight, lying on this polished floor, Tony so close she could taste his warmth, she felt that guilt coiled tight and venomous at the base of her throat. She wondered if he could feel it too, if his genius mind was already picking at the threads, weaving together every slip in her voice, every flicker in her eyes when he touched her stomach and then pulled his hand back too quickly.
Above them, Venus’s colors dissolved into a scatter of nebulae. Jane turned her face slightly, enough that her nose brushed the air just an inch from Tony’s. He was watching her now, eyes dark and gentle in the half-light. His thumb traced lazy circles over the back of her wrist, like he could soothe the hurricane under her ribs with that simple, quiet contact.
“You look a million miles away.” he murmured, voice rough from too little sleep and too much everything else. “Where’d you go this time?”
She didn’t answer at first. What could she say? I’m lying to you every time you look at me like that. I’m lying when I let you touch me like I’m yours alone. Instead, her eyes drifted up, focusing on a tiny star projected just above the seam of the dome, the faintest pinprick of light in all that dark.
He shifted closer, breath brushing her lips. “You worried about tomorrow? The Avenger Oath ceremony?” he asked. “Peter’ll be fine, you know. Kid’s ready. Hell, he’s more ready than half of us ever were.”
Peter. Sweet, stupid, brilliant Peter, who’d looked at her like a sister when she’d been too broken to be anything but the ghost of herself. Peter, who’d tiptoed into her room with mugs of chamomile tea and whispered updates about his best friend and college applications and who he’d webbed up that week. Peter, who called her family with a certainty she didn’t deserve.
Her throat tightened. She forced a tiny smile. “I know. He’ll be fine. He’ll be amazing.”
“And so will you. I know it’ll be a media circus—a bit of a farce, really—but the government wants to clean up its image after the Sokovia mess, and in a way, it’ll work in your favor. It’s the crowning moment for everything you’ve done. I read the final mission report you wrote, I know it wasn’t easy. It was a hell of an operation. So you deserve it. You deserve all of it. You deserve to become one of us.”
And Jane wanted to say something to that, anything, but nothing came out of her mouth. Nothing could. And he noticed.
Tony studied her—really studied her—eyes flicking over her face like he was searching for an answer she couldn’t give. His hand slipped from her wrist to her cheek, palm warm, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. The touch anchored her. Or maybe it chained her—she couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
“Hey.” His voice softened, that edge of mischief gone now, replaced by the raw thing underneath that he almost never showed anyone. “Talk to me, Jane. What’s really going on up here?” He tapped her temple lightly. “You’re thinking so loud I can practically hear the static.”
For half a heartbeat she almost said it. She felt the confession rise, hot and bitter on her tongue. Tony, I’m scared. Tony, I’m lying to you. Tony, I don’t know if this baby is yours, and I know that I love you and still I have no idea of what I feel right now, I don’t even know who the hell I am when I look in the mirror anymore. But the words burned too bright. They would incinerate everything. So she did what she always did: she swallowed them back down.
She forced her lips to curve into something softer, something that looked like the truth. “I’m just… tired,” she whispered. “It’s been a lot. That’s all.”
He didn’t believe her—she could see it in the way his eyes flickered, in the way his thumb paused at the hollow of her cheek. But he let her have it anyway. Because he loved her. Because he trusted her. Because he didn’t know better yet. And even if neither of them had spoken the word out loud, she knew. She saw it in his eyes — eyes she already knew by heart, eyes that felt like old pages she’d read a thousand times. She felt it in that warmth she recognized, that pull she could never quite kill. But sometimes she wondered if it was real love, born new from all this, or just the ghost of what she’r buried trying to find its way back. Maybe erasing memories didn’t erase love at all. Maybe it just buried it deep enough to come crawling out when you least expected it.
He leaned in and pressed his forehead to hers, breath warm, nose brushing hers in a ghost of a kiss that didn’t quite land. Above them, the universe spun on, indifferent. Jane closed her eyes and let herself pretend, just for a heartbeat, that it was enough. That this was enough to drown out everything she hadn’t said.
“By the way” he breathed. “No matter how tired you are. I’m here. You know that, right?”
She nodded. She lied. She felt the ache of it twist under her ribs like a blade. “I know.” she said.
And for one quiet moment, she almost believed it.
______
The room was small, square and windowless. The kind of in-between space that wasn’t meant for waiting but somehow always ended up holding moments like these. A pale fluorescent light hummed above them with the slow rhythm of a pulse, steady and clinical. The walls were a sterile light grey, too clean, too quiet, and yet Jane could hear everything just beyond the door: the shuffling of chairs, the buzz of journalists murmuring to one another, the mechanical clicks of cameras already snapping their test shots.
The press room was full. The stage was set. The lights were on. And the whole country was watching.
Jane sat on a narrow padded bench against the far wall, spine tense, legs together, hands twisted in her lap. She wasn’t fidgeting, but her thumbs kept brushing against each other in that unconscious way that only surfaced when she was trying too hard to seem calm.
She was wearing the suit Tony had designed for her: chromed black, seamless and sleek, with subtle violet accents that caught the light like lightnings. The hood rested behind her head, folded back for now, and the high-tech mask that normally covered her lower face was resting in her palm like a secret.
Jane Russo. That’s the name she’d be introduced as today. That was the name the world would hear. The woman behind the mask. A name that had never existed until S.H.I.E.L.D. had decided she needed one.
It was strange—how something meant to mark a beginning could still be built entirely on lies. But Jane had stopped expecting honesty from the universe, or from herself, a long time ago. And today wasn’t about truth. It was about function. Performance. Control.
Across the room, Peter paced. Back and forth, back and forth. He wasn’t even trying to pretend he was calm. His red and black suit clung to him like a second skin, and he held his mask in both hands like it might run away if he let go. His curls were a mess, because he kept raking his fingers through them, over and over. His nerves were showing in every step, in every twitch of his jaw.
Jane watched him for a long moment, and something soft unfurled in her chest. He was so young. And yet here he was, about to step into a room full of flashing lights and political expectations and make a vow to protect a world that barely knew what it was asking of him.
“Peter,” she said gently.
He stopped pacing and turned to her, wide-eyed, as if caught doing something wrong. His stance was stiff, mask gripped so tight his knuckles had gone white.
Jane smiled, not because she felt like it, but because it came naturally with him. With Peter, things always did.
“Would you sit with me for a moment?”
He nodded and obeyed without a word, crossing the room in two quick steps and sinking onto the bench beside her. But even seated, he couldn’t keep still. His fingers twisted in the fabric of his suit, pulling at invisible threads, nails picking at the seam near his wrist.
Jane watched him for a few seconds, then placed her hand over his.
“It’s going to be fine.” she said softly. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now. I know it feels absurd and terrifying and way too big. But it’s going to be okay. This part’s short. We just have to get through the oath. Twenty minutes, maybe. Then there’s the reception. That’s the easy part.”
She squeezed his hand gently. “And we’re doing it together.”
Peter looked at her, eyes wide and uncertain. He didn’t say anything for a second, then gave a wobbly smile. “Yeah, but… what if I mess up? What if I forget the words? What if I say something stupid and make a complete idiot of myself in front of, like, the entire country?”
Jane didn’t laugh. She just raised a hand and cupped his cheek, brushing a thumb lightly across the curve of his face in a gesture that was instinctively tender, like a sister calming her little brother.
“So what?” she said. “It doesn’t matter what you say, Pete. It matters what you’ve done. It matters who you are. You’ve saved lives. You’ve risked yours more times than I can count. You’ve earned your place here a hundred times over. This—” she gestured vaguely toward the door, toward the world waiting beyond it, “—this is just a show. A formality. A media circus. But what you’re stepping into, the real part—the responsibility, the honor, the mission—that’s something you’ve already been carrying for a long time.”
She smiled, eyes warm. “You’re already the defender of this city. The one who never backs down. You’ve fought monsters and maniacs and weirdos in bird costumes. Don’t let a bunch of old men in suits scare you now.”
And finally—finally—Peter laughed. Really laughed. A short, awkward, breathless laugh that came straight from his chest, and ended with him ducking his head as if embarrassed.
“Thanks, Jay,” he said, quieter now. “That… helped. A lot.”
They didn’t need to say the rest. He’d been there for her every day of her recovery—not just the big moments, but the in-between ones. The silent meals. The quiet check-ins. The late-night visits with a thermos of chamomile tea and some terrible pun about bedtime and bio-healing. Peter had been her safe place in a period when everything else felt like fire and ash.
And now it was her turn. To be the safe place. To be the steady voice. The hand to hold. The big sister, even if neither of them had ever said the word.
They were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. It creaked open a second later and Daniel leaned in, tablet under one arm, earpiece crackling faintly.
“Alright,” he said with a smile. “It’s time. Tony’s already on stage.”
Jane inhaled through her nose and exhaled slowly. Tension twisted through her stomach like a knot pulled too tight. But she nodded.
Peter was already pulling his mask on, the fabric snapping into place over his features. He looked smaller somehow, like a boy dressing up as a hero—but his spine was straight now, his shoulders squared.
Jane slipped her own mask into place—the high-tech Stark design molding around the lower half of her face with a subtle whir. Her eyes were visible, cool and silver under the dome lights.
“Okay,” she whispered. “We’re ready.”
Happy was waiting for them in the corridor, all dark suit and no-nonsense expression, and led them down the narrow hall, past walls lined with cables and speakers and LED panels buzzing with live feeds.
And then they stepped through.
The door to the press room opened like a gate to another world.
Flashlights exploded instantly—loud, chaotic, blinding. Rows of seated journalists lifted their cameras in unison, capturing every step, every breath. The noise was overwhelming, a crackling wall of electric light and rapidfire shutters. No one moved from their seats, but it didn’t matter—the flashes were relentless, and Jane had to blink several times to keep her eyes from watering.
She turned instinctively toward Peter, trying to gauge how he was holding up, but the mask made it impossible to see his expression. All she could do was read the line of his body: steady, upright, determined. It wasn’t much, but for now, it was enough.
Tony stood at the center of the stage, near a podium fitted with a mic, a glass of water, and a neat stack of papers. He wore a simple dark suit, but his expression, when he saw Jane, was anything but simple.
His eyes lit up. Just a flicker. A small, encouraging smile lifted the corner of his mouth.
It was just for her.
And suddenly, despite the pressure, despite the cameras, despite the thundering inside her own chest, Jane felt her breath slow.
He was here. He was proud. He believed in her.
Tony turned back to the microphone. “Alright,” he said, lifting a hand in mock surrender, his voice magnified through the sound system. “I promised I’d keep this short. Which I never do. But I’m trying. Look at me. Personal growth.”
There was light laughter across the room, polite and brief.
“But this day isn’t about me. Not really. It’s about the two people behind me, who’ve more than earned their place up here. So I’ll shut up now—I know, write it down—and let the real heroes have their moment.”
He stepped aside.
From the wings emerged a tall man in a navy blue suit—crisp, composed, commanding. The kind of presence that silenced a room just by walking in. His name was Vice President Langston Hale, a decorated veteran and the current liaison between the Avengers and the federal government.
He approached the podium, adjusted the mic slightly, and looked out across the crowd. His voice was clear and deliberate.
“Today, we gather to welcome two new defenders into the ranks of Earth’s mightiest heroes, the Avengers. A name that carries not just weight, but history. Yes, we’ve seen division before—the fallout of Sokovia, the fall of the S.H.I.E.L.D.—and we’ve learned hard lessons. But from that history, we build something stronger.
We now have among our ranks individuals like Tony Stark, who offers not only his brilliant mind but his life in defense of this world. We have leaders like Colonel James Rhodes, whose courage and discipline continue to anchor our efforts globally.
And today, we are honored to add two more. Figures who’ve not only stepped into the spotlight, but into danger—again and again.
Spider-Man, who has defended this city tirelessly, humbly, even while wearing a mask.
And Violet Wing, whose contributions, both public and covert, have safeguarded lives more times than the world will ever fully know.
You’ve earned your place. You are ready.
And now, we ask you to speak.”
Jane felt her heart slam once in her chest. Her name—or at least the one they’d given her—echoed in the space like a summons.
She was first. She took a breath.
She stepped forward into the blinding wash of light. The silence in the room wasn’t real silence, it was filled with the hum of anticipation, the faint creak of camera tripods, the shifting weight of a hundred pairs of eyes. Her boots rang softly against the platform floor. Her pulse rang louder.
She took her place behind the microphone. For a second, she didn’t breathe.
Then she looked up.
Tony was standing at the edge of the stage, a few steps behind her, arms crossed, a smile twitching at the edge of his mouth. It was one of his you got this smiles. The one she’d seen when she’d first levitated in the training room, when she’d walked again without pain after her recovery, when she’d looked at herself in the mirror and hadn’t looked away.
And then her gaze swept forward, to the crowd. And among the faces, sharp and alert and pressed behind phones and cameras, she caught sight of Clint Barton.
He was in the first row, not in a suit, but in a dark button-up and blazer, looking vaguely uncomfortable but entirely himself. When her eyes met his, he raised an eyebrow and gave her a slow, smug little smile.
Don’t screw it up, that smile seemed to say.
Jane bit the inside of her cheek to stop a laugh, and rolled her eyes. A flicker of tension eased from her shoulders.
She leaned forward. Cleared her throat. And began.
“I come from a small coastal town in southern Italy,” she said, voice even and clear, but low enough to require attention. “You’ve probably never heard of it. It’s not the kind of place anyone expects a superhero to come from.”
A pause. One heartbeat.
“And honestly… I never thought I’d be here either.”
Her voice didn’t tremble. But something inside her did—a tight knot, coiled at the base of her spine, stretching between memory and duty.
“I’ve taken a long road to get here. Longer than anyone could guess. And I’m still not sure if I deserve this. But I do know I’m going to fight every day to earn it.”
She glanced down at her hands, gloved in the sleek black material of her suit. “This isn’t about being the strongest person in the room. Or the smartest. It’s about what you do with what you carry. With your pain. With your story. It’s about the choice to stand between danger and the people who can’t. Not because you have to, but because you refuse not to.”
A flicker of her voice wavered there, and she swallowed it.
“I’ve lost people. I’ve made mistakes. Some that still wake me up at night. But I’ve also been given second chances, ones I never thought I’d deserve. And that’s why I’m here today.”
She raised her chin, silver eyes catching the light.
“I’m not here to be a symbol. I’m not here to be perfect. I’m here because I want to protect this world, and the people in it, with everything I’ve got. Because I’ve learned, sometimes the strongest thing you can do… is stay. Stay when it hurts. Stay when you’re scared. Stay when running would be easier.”
Another breath. Her chest felt tight, but not the suffocating kind.
“This city, this team, the people beside me, they gave me a place to stand when everything else fell apart. They made me feel like maybe I wasn’t too broken to matter. So now I’ll fight for them. For all of you.”
She smiled then. Just faintly.
“My name is Jane Russo. And I’m proud to be joining the Avengers.”
Applause broke like a wave. And as Jane stepped back from the microphone, a flush rose uninvited to her cheeks, not from shame, but from the weight of it all. Her hands trembled slightly as she returned to her place beside Peter, fingers clenched into fists inside her gloves. He glanced at her, didn’t say anything, but gave a small nod that said you nailed it.
Then it was his turn.
Peter stepped forward with an uncertain gait, his mask in place. The lenses of his suit flicked faintly as they adjusted to the light, hiding any trace of the wide, anxious eyes beneath. There was no name announced, just the weight of his silence, and then the unmistakable voice of Spider-Man.
“Hi,” he began, and somehow, even filtered through the voice modulator, it still sounded like him. The room chuckled lightly.
“I guess this is the part where I say something inspiring.”
A pause.
“I’ve chosen not to reveal my identity. That’s… not a decision I made lightly. But it’s one I stand by. It’s not because I’m ashamed of who I am. But because I know that who I am out there… comes with consequences. And I won’t let the people I love pay for my choices.”
He glanced sideways, maybe toward Tony, maybe toward Jane, or maybe neither. Just looking for strength.
“Being Spider-Man or being an Avenger, as my teammate said, doesn’t mean being powerful or unstoppable. It means being the guy who shows up. For the little things. For the big things. For people who need you, even if they don’t know your name.”
A breath, audible even through the modulator.
“Mr. Stark gave me a chance when no one else would. He taught me to believe in what I could become. And Jane… Jane showed me that you don’t need to have it all figured out to make a difference. That you can still be scared and still choose to fight.”
“I know I’m not the first to stand here. I know I’m stepping into something built by people way braver, and way more experienced than me. I’m not here to replace anyone. I couldn’t, even if I tried. But I have learned from them. From every mission, from every mistake, from every time they chose to stand when it would’ve been easier to run away. That’s the legacy I want to carry forward. By being honest. By being ready. And by remembering that this suit doesn’t make me who I am. The choices I make in it do.”
He looked out across the room, lenses unmoving, expression unreadable. And yet somehow, the emotion bled through anyway.
“So I may not show my face. But I’ll be there. Every day. Doing what I can. Being who I need to be.”
The applause that followed was louder than before.
Spider-Man stepped back beside Violet Wing, the two of them side by side, the light of the stage washing over them, two shadows forged into flame. Ready.
Two podiums, identical in height and design, were rolled to the center of the stage. Sleek, black, fitted with discreet microphones and the subtle shimmer of a gold Avengers logo at their base. Jane and Peter stood behind them, side by side, upright and composed—or at least trying to be. Peter still wore his mask. Jane, instead, had her face uncovered, her expression caught between tension and solemnity.
From the corner of her eye, Jane could see Tony. He stood behind them, tall, straight-backed, hands folded neatly in front of him—a gesture that did little to hide the pride in his face.
The Vice President stepped forward again, holding a formal document in both hands. His voice rang clearly, authoritative but not theatrical.
“Jane Russo. Spider-Man. Today you stand before your country, before your peers, and before the world. You are not being asked to have all the answers. You are being entrusted with the responsibility to keep searching for them. With open eyes. With steady hands. With a heart that doesn’t turn away when the world gets hard. And so now, I ask you this.”
He glanced down at the parchment.
“Do you swear to defend the innocent, to protect this world with your mind, your body, and your strength?”
Jane straightened her spine. Peter’s gloved hand twitched imperceptibly beside her.
In unison, they answered:
“I swear.”
The Vice President nodded once.
“Do you swear to uphold the values of justice and unity, to act with integrity, even in the face of fear or failure?”
Jane swallowed, throat tight. Peter’s voice didn’t waver.
“I swear.”
“Do you swear to place the mission above your own interests, to stand for those who cannot stand for themselves?”
This time, Jane turned her head toward Peter, just a fraction, but enough to meet his hidden gaze. She couldn’t see his eyes, but somehow she felt them, steady on hers.
Together, soft but sure:
“I swear.”
The silence that followed was weighty, not empty, but full. Charged with something unspoken. Then, the sound of applause burst like a sudden storm. A wave of clapping, cheers, flashes from cameras clicking in synchronized staccato. Some rose to their feet. Others simply sat, nodding, watching.
Jane took a small breath. She turned just slightly, enough to glimpse Tony behind her, his hands clapping steadily. His smile was soft, almost gentle. A private pride beneath the public façade.
The Vice President bowed his head slightly, gave one final handshake to each of them, and then descended from the stage to return to his seat in the front row.
Tony moved forward to the mic, taking it with the ease of someone who had lived a thousand of these moments before. He leaned in just enough, a crooked grin tugging at one corner of his mouth.
“Now comes everyone’s favorite part,” he said dryly. “Questions from the press.”
A ripple of light laughter moved through the room. Jane exhaled carefully through her nose, already bracing herself.
The first hand went up immediately. A woman in her forties, crisp suit, notepad in hand.
“This is for Spider-Man,” she said. “You’ve decided to remain anonymous. Can you elaborate on why?”
Peter didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward to his mic.
“I’ve made this choice to protect my loved ones. I don’t want my face to be the reason someone I care about gets hurt. I understand public trust is important, but I also believe in protecting the people who didn’t sign up for this. That’s what being a hero means to me.”
The next hand belonged to an older man, glasses slipping down his nose.
“Ms. Russo—as an immigrant, and someone with a complex background, what does this moment mean to you? Do you believe it sends a message?”
Jane nodded, the corner of her mouth twitching in something close to a smile.
“I think… I think it means we’re not defined by where we come from. I grew up in a small town in Italy that now feels so far away, in a sense. I didn’t think paths like this were open to people like me. But today proves that the road might be long, yes, but it’s walkable. And if even one person watching this feels less alone because of that, then it’s already worth it.”
The words echoed gently through the room, and for a moment, the silence felt reverent.
But inside, Jane’s thoughts buzzed with a different kind of noise.
Most of what she’d said was a lie.
She wasn’t an immigrant. She wasn’t even born in this century. And the version of “Jane Russo” that had been released to the public—the carefully crafted backstory printed on every press kit, whispered into the ears of journalists and softened into headlines—was anything but sincere.
It had been written by the Avengers’ government-appointed PR team. The world, they said, wasn’t ready—not yet—to reveal what she truly was. That she wasn’t just a woman with strange powers and a hidden past. That she was something older. Something far more difficult to explain. And so they’d given her a story: a sympathetic origin, a face people could relate to, a narrative polished just enough to be inspiring without raising too many questions.
A superhero next door. A success story of integration. A charming symbol for a new kind of unity.
A beautifully wrapped ad campaign.
Still, Jane tried to bury small shards of truth in what she said. To slip in the weight of what she had actually lived, even if the details were fiction. Because while the story wasn’t hers, the feeling behind it was real. That sense of being out of place. Of walking a road you weren’t sure would ever lead to anything. Of hoping that maybe, just maybe, your existence could help someone else feel a little less broken.
Two more questions came. One about their future missions. One about how the new Avengers would balance government oversight. Jane answered thoughtfully. Peter gave a charming, awkward reply that made half the room chuckle.
Then came the shift.
The final reporter stood. A woman with pinned up hair, immaculate posture, and a tone dipped in polite poison.
“There have been rumors,” she began, “that Ms. Russo is currently residing at the Avengers Compound with Mr. Tony Stark. In the same penthouse. Some suggest that your connection may have played a role in your placement on the team. Others say it may have influenced the sudden end of Mr. Stark’s years-long relationship with his fiancée Ms. Pepper Potts. Do either of you wish to address this?”
Jane’s entire body stiffened. She blinked slowly—not to control her expression, but to control the heat rising in her chest.
She opened her mouth. Closed it again.
Because there were many things she could say. But the first was this: How dare you?
To reduce everything she had done—the blood, the pain, the nightmares, the loss—to a salacious headline. To a whisper about bedsheets and bedrooms.
Before she could answer, Tony stepped forward.
His voice was measured, but the tension was undeniable.
“I think,” he began, “that asking a woman who has risked her life, repeatedly, for this country—for this world—if her accomplishments are based on a relationship is exactly the kind of regressive nonsense we should be leaving in the dustbin of history.”
A silence fell across the room. Tony’s eyes never left the reporter.
“You want gossip? Tune into a talk show. You want the truth? You’re looking at it.”
The woman raised a hand, not backing down. “With all due respect—”
“No,” Tony cut in, his voice flat and final. “There are questions, and then there are attacks in disguise. This isn’t the time, or the place, for either.”
He turned to the room. “Next question.”
But the damage was done.
Jane stood there, jaw tight, pulse hammering in her ears. Even with all the support around her—even with Tony’s defense, with the applause still echoing from before—something felt violated. Not because of the question, but because of the implication behind it. The suggestion that her worth was conditional. That she was someone’s shadow. Someone’s mistake.
She didn’t show it. Not fully. But Tony saw.
He turned his head toward her just a little, his eyes trying to meet hers, to offer something quiet, comfort, maybe. Reassurance. But she didn’t look back right away. Couldn’t.
Because even now, even after everything, there was still a part of her that whispered: You should have known it would come to this.
Because getting close to Tony Stark—loving Tony Stark—was never something that came without consequences. Not when you knew who he was. Not when you knew the size of his shadow, the weight of his name. Being near him meant inheriting the attention he drew like a magnet. It meant sharing in the noise, the speculation, the inevitable cost. That was the rule. And maybe she had known it. Maybe she had just been foolish enough to pretend it wouldn’t apply to her, for now. Or maybe she’d absorbed the truth in theory, but never let it sink deep enough to brace for it.
And then, just for a second, her thoughts flicked to the one secret still untouched by the storm—the one truth that hadn’t yet clawed its way into the headlines. The pregnancy.
A part of her—quiet, protective, trembling—hoped the press wouldn’t find out. Or at least, not for as long as possible.
She could shoulder the scrutiny. She could stand the cameras, the pointed questions, the whispers behind closed doors. But her child hadn’t chosen any of this. Her child didn’t deserve to pay that price.
Especially not now.
Especially not while she still didn’t know who the father was.
The hall shimmered with a curated kind of warmth—golden and elegant. The high windows flooded the room with the last rays of sunset, casting long, molten reflections over satin-white walls and polished marble floors. Silver trays floated by in gloved hands, carrying delicate hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne that sparkled like stardust in the light. Laughter drifted through the air, practiced and soft, the kind that belonged to politicians and ambassadors, to men and women in power pretending to be at ease. It wasn’t just a celebration, it was a statement. Strength. Unity. The illusion of simplicity, carefully staged for the eyes of the world.
Jane had changed. The violet-black nanotech suit was gone, dissolved into its wrist casing, replaced by something far more deceptive in its softness. Her gown was dark purple, sleeveless, cinched at the waist with a silver brooch. Draped fabric hugged her hips and fell in elegant folds to the floor, parting in a high slit that moved with every step. Her hair was loose, styled into gentle waves that brushed her bare shoulders. The overall effect was arresting, but she hadn’t dressed to impress. She had dressed to disappear into a performance. And yet, it hadn’t worked.
She could feel it—eyes on her, even now.
Across the room, Tony stood near Rhodes, both men dressed in sharp, tailored suits. They were laughing about something—Tony with that crooked smirk he reserved for war buddies and lifelong friends. She watched them for a moment, unblinking. Watched the ease of Tony’s body language, the way he leaned toward Rhodey like he trusted the ground beneath his feet.
And then she turned away. The weight of a dozen gazes tightened around her like invisible wire.
She used to like being looked at. In her younger arrogance, or maybe just in the sharp armor of survival, she’d even craved it. The gaze of others had once meant power, attention, control. But tonight felt different. This wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t even curiosity. It was as if she were some rare creature behind glass, something put on display not to be celebrated, but dissected. She felt like an animal at the zoo—watched not for beauty, but for strangeness. For the faint trace of something not quite right. And the longer it went on, the more it set her nerves on fire. She wasn’t a woman to them tonight. She was a question. A myth with good PR.
She exhaled quietly and began scanning the crowd for a safe exit, when a familiar tapping landed lightly on her shoulder.
She turned, startled, to find Peter standing behind her. He’d changed too. No more mask, no red-and-black suit. Just Peter Parker now—wearing a slightly too-big navy blazer and a tie he hadn’t bothered to center properly. His hair was still a mess. He had the look of someone who’d fought with his reflection in the mirror and given up halfway through.
“Your speech was awesome.” he said with a sheepish grin, rocking back on his heels.
Jane smiled, something soft blooming in her chest. “Yours wasn’t too bad either.”
But Peter wasn’t looking away. He was watching her with that quiet, perceptive gaze that always made her feel like she couldn’t lie. He tilted his head a little and leaned in closer. “Don’t let them get to you. The press is full of jerks. That last question? Completely out of line.”
Jane’s smile turned wry. “You’re slipping into my vocabulary, Mr. Parker. Should I be worried?”
He chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “What can I say? Bad influence.”
Then his eyes flicked toward the doors. “She might show up, you know. Any minute.”
Jane blinked. “May?”
Peter nodded. “She wanted to come, but she’s been swamped lately. Lots of work, she said. I think she didn’t want to steal the spotlight.” He paused, then grinned. “But she blew up my phone. Said I looked ‘handsome and terrified’ on camera. And she sent you her love—about twelve times, actually.”
Jane laughed, the tension in her shoulders finally beginning to ease. “Tell her I’m getting a new phone soon. Maybe. Eventually.”
She glanced at Peter with a wry smile. “You know I lost mine during my mission.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Peter muttered.
Before she could respond, a familiar voice broke through the moment.
“Look at you two. Big damn heroes.”
Clint Barton appeared behind them, hands casually landing on both their shoulders as if to anchor them there.
Peter beamed. “Hey, Mr. Barton.”
Clint raised an eyebrow. “You know, I never got a press conference. They just threw me into a war zone and said, ‘Good luck, don’t die.’” He gave them a mock solemn nod. “Different times.”
Jane smirked. “Well, you were part of the old guard. Back when heroism came with no contracts or catering.”
“Back when we were reckless idiots,” Clint corrected, stepping back with a grin. “But you—” he pointed at Jane, “—you haven’t changed a bit. Still got that annoying confidence.”
Peter snorted. “She really does.”
The three of them laughed, and for a moment, everything felt a little lighter. Jane glanced around—at the suits and uniforms, at the wine glasses and bouquets of white roses—and let herself breathe.
And then, as if drawn by instinct, her gaze drifted back across the room.
Tony was still there. Now watching her.
Their eyes met, and it was like falling into a quiet space between seconds. A silent thread stretched between them, full of things unsaid and things too loud to speak. Jane held his gaze. He didn’t look away.
She would have stood there longer, lost in the static, but Peter gently nudged her arm.
“Everyone’s dancing,” he said. “Might as well look like we’re having fun too.”
She turned back to him, startled. “Are you asking me to dance, Parker?”
He straightened his posture and offered his hand with exaggerated grace. “My lady. May I have this dance?”
Jane laughed. “With pleasure.”
She gave Clint a parting nod and let Peter guide her toward the dance floor. The music had shifted to something slower, soft jazz spilling from a live quartet on the far end of the room. A woman was singing low and sweet into a vintage microphone, her voice like melted honey.
Couples swayed under the lights. Others lingered on the edges with champagne in hand, murmuring softly. Jane stepped into Peter’s arms, one hand on his shoulder, the other clasping his.
To her surprise, he was good.
Not perfect, but better than last time they danced together at an official event. Much better.
She raised an eyebrow. “Been practicing?”
Peter smirked. “I may or may not have watched three hours of ballroom videos on YouTube last night.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Well, tomorrow, when the photos hit the school paper, I’m going to casually mention that I danced with Violet Wing.” He grinned. “I’ll be insufferable. Can’t wait.”
Jane shook her head, smiling. “God help your classmates.”
They swayed quietly for a while, weaving between other dancers. Then Peter whispered, “Can you believe this is for us?”
Jane looked around. And for once, she let herself feel it—the impossibility of it all.
One year ago, this life had been beyond her comprehension. She’d been in hiding. She hadn’t known what she wanted. She hadn’t known if she’d ever be whole again.
Now she was here.
“I didn’t think I’d ever be part of something like this,” she said. “Not really.”
Peter nodded. “Yeah. Same. It all changed when Mr. Stark showed up at my door that day. I mean—sure, getting bitten by a radioactive spider was a turning point. But that? That was the real shift. He believed in me. And that made me believe in myself.”
Jane felt something twist gently inside her.
She knew the feeling. Tony had changed everything for her, too.
She could trace her life in two parts now: before him, and after. Not by years, not by decades. But by him. Her timeline had become nonlinear, elastic. But that constant—Tony—he was the thread running through it all.
And standing here, dancing in a violet dress beside a boy with too much heart, she realized just how far she’d come.
For a moment, they stood like that, dancing slowly. The music swelled behind them, the clinking of glasses and hum of conversation layering over the distant press of flashlights. Everything around them sparkled—light bouncing off the polished floor, off champagne flutes, off the dark trim of Jane’s dress. But it was Peter’s steady presence that grounded her.
She looked at him again, this boy who wasn’t quite a boy anymore. His jawline was sharper, his posture more solid, even the way he carried himself had changed in the past months. He still had that same lopsided grin, the same irrepressible charm—but something in his eyes had aged, matured in the quiet and unseen ways grief and battle and responsibility always did.
“Don’t grow up too fast.” she said, a little too softly.
Peter blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“Nothing,” Jane replied, waving it off. But she meant it. She meant all of it.
They continued swaying, the strains of the slow jazz filling the space. Jane felt a weight in her chest ease—comfort in Peter’s steady arm around her. But she was so focused on him that she didn’t notice the presence creeping up behind.
Peter stiffened mid-step. Jane, feeling his hesitation, tilted her head.
“Why—?” she began, but her voice caught before she could finish.
Peter’s eyes darted over her shoulder. Then he straightened, stepping back. Jane looked at him, confused, wondering if she’d said something wrong.
She caught the look in his eyes: recognition, surprise, something deeper.
Turning slowly, she scanned the room behind them. There, framed by the soft glow of the chandelier, stood a man.
Tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed—jaw firm, shoulders broad, back ramrod-straight despite the overwrought elegance of the room. His hair was pulled back, long enough to catch on his collar. He wore an impeccably tailored black suit, crisp shirt, polished shoes. Everything about him screamed composure.
Except for one thing.
His left hand gleamed silver in the light, metallic and beautiful and utterly impossible. The first time it had ever been seen in public.
Time stopped.
Jane’s breath caught. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears. For a breathless moment, they just stared.
Bucky Barnes. Here.
She studied his eyes. Blue steel, calmness mixed with intention. Then she heard him.
“May I steal your dame for the rest of this song?” His voice was quiet, courteous, but firm.
Peter blinked, stunned. His eyes darted between Bucky and Jane, mind clearly catching up with memory. He was realizing that the man before them was Bucky Barnes: former soldier, former Winter Soldier. The man he fought in Germany. The man who divided the Avengers.
Jane’s mind raced. Why is he here? What is happening? But she saw the silent plea in his gaze, the leaning into trust.
She gave a faint nod. Yes.
Peter opened his mouth as if to protest, hesitating, then returned the nod. “Sure,” he said slowly, stepping back. But as he passed her, he leaned in just enough to murmur, “I’ll be nearby. Just say the word.”
And then he was gone.
Bucky stepped forward and slipped his hands to her waist, his touch deliberate and familiar, firm but careful—as if he half-expected her to flinch. She didn’t. Not this time. She raised her arms, resting them stiffly on his shoulders, still too stunned to say anything. Her eyes searched his.
Jane felt dizzy, overwhelmed by proximity. His breath brushed her ear, his scent of mint and citrus filled her senses.
“You’re beautiful.” he murmured—soft, low, intimate.
Jane’s throat tightened. She wanted to respond, but fear and confusion tangled in her chest, choking words.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered, finally finding her voice. “Tony could see you. The cameras—Janes, they’re everywhere.”
“I know,” he said, guiding her into a slow sway. “But you said we needed to talk.”
“Not here,” she hissed. Her voice trembled slightly now. “This is the worst possible place.”
“I called. You didn’t answer.” His gaze never left hers. “I was worried. Maybe it was a mistake coming. But it’s too late for that now, isn’t it?”
Jane sighed. Her whole body was taut, wired with nerves and something dangerously close to longing. She should have stepped away. Should have pulled back. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. His body was so warm and the way he moved with her, how naturally he held her, made the world blur around the edges.
Her thoughts raced. They were being watched. She could feel it—the cameras, the journalists, the way conversations slowed just slightly around them. Tony. He had to be somewhere nearby. She didn’t dare look.
“What did you want to tell me?” Bucky asked, his voice softer now, leaning in close, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
A shiver ran down her spine. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, almost without realizing it, she let her temple rest against his. Just for a moment. Just to feel something solid. Something known. Her fingers curled tightly into the lapels of his jacket, holding him there.
“This isn’t the moment,” she said, barely audible. “We need to meet somewhere else. Just not now.”
He nodded slightly, lips grazing her earlobe this time—a fleeting touch, barely there. But it was enough to set fire beneath her skin.
“Then tell me where. And when.”
Her hands trembled against him.
“I’ll find you.” she said finally.
“I missed you, Jane.” he murmured, voice hoarse.
Jane closed her eyes for a second longer, as if she could hide in the rhythm, in the moment. She wanted to say it back. The truth pushed against her chest like a tide, but she held it back. Because if she said it, it would be real. And she couldn’t afford real. Not tonight. Not here.
His hand—his real hand—glided slowly along the curve of her waist, but this time it didn’t stop. His fingers splayed slightly, firming their hold, and then he pulled her in just a fraction closer. The movement was subtle enough to pass unnoticed by the crowd, but Jane felt it everywhere. It wasn’t just steady. It wasn’t just grounding. It was something closer to possessive.
Her breath hitched.
Her lungs tightened against her ribs, the air thinner now, hotter. His touch wasn’t rough, but it was deliberate—like he needed to memorize the shape of her, like he needed to feel she was still real. And then the hand moved again, slowly, dragging over the fabric of her dress and up her side, until his knuckles grazed the edge of her ribs and kept going.
She didn’t stop him.
Her pulse jumped as his hand reached her shoulder, then her neck, and finally—finally—his fingertips traced the edge of her jaw. He cupped her cheek with a kind of aching gentleness that made the world tilt. And then she looked up.
Not just looked. Fell.
It wasn’t just eye contact. It was the color. That impossible blue. It seemed to burn tonight, luminous and wide, swallowing everything around it. And for a moment—one impossibly long, impossibly fragile moment—it felt like they were the only ones breathing.
Her body trembled, caught in the heat of it. In the way his thumb brushed just below her cheekbone, reverent. In the way her own hands clenched unconsciously into the lapels of his jacket. The distance between them felt artificial now, a fiction they were pretending for the sake of those around them.
He didn’t speak. Neither did she.
They just stood like that, breathing each other in, while the music swelled and the lights danced across the room and the truth pressed against her ribs like a blade.
And then—
The contact was ripped apart.
In one sharp motion, Bucky was yanked backward by the collar of his jacket. Jane gasped, her arms falling to her sides as she stumbled back a step. It took her a second to understand what was happening—who had done it.
Tony.
He stood behind Bucky now, face tight, jaw locked, hand clenched in the fabric of Bucky’s lapel.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he growled.
Bucky didn’t resist. He straightened his suit with a sharp tug, brushing off Tony’s grip like a whisper.
“I came to see her,” he said quietly. “That’s all. I’ll go.”
“No,” Tony snapped, stepping forward again, louder now. “You don’t get to just come here. You don’t get to walk into my house—after what you did—and act like nothing happened. You don’t get to touch her.”
Jane stepped forward instinctively, placing both her hands on Tony’s arm. His muscles were coiled tight beneath her palms.
“Tony,” she whispered. “Please. Please, not here. The cameras—”
His eyes found hers, blazing. And for a second, everything else felt more distant.
Jane raised a hand to his cheek, pressing it there, desperate to calm him—but also desperate to calm herself. Her palm met the heat of his skin, and for a second, all she could feel was the rage simmering underneath, like live current buzzing just beneath the surface. His jaw clenched beneath her touch, muscle twitching involuntarily, and she realized how close he was to unraveling. To doing something they’d all regret.
“Please,” she whispered again, softer now. “Don’t do this. Not like this.”
But the words weren’t just for him. Not entirely. She wasn’t sure when the trembling had started—if it had begun with Bucky’s arrival, or after, when she’d let herself melt into his touch. When she’d let that moment happen, knowing exactly who might be watching.
Touching Tony now was part apology, part prayer. Her thumb brushed just under his eye, as if she could erase the betrayal she hadn’t meant to commit. As if skin against skin could make him feel what she still felt.
Because she loved him. She still did. And in that single, agonizing second of contact, watching Tony’s pain, she felt it all again with the same force as before. As if no time had passed.
But now, she wasn’t sure where that left her—except standing here, begging him not to explode, not to fall apart, not to make her choose in front of everyone. Not when her own chest felt like it was already splitting open under the weight of it all.
So she cupped his face like it was the only thing anchoring her to the floor, her fingers shaking against his jaw, and looked into his eyes, and thought—
Feel it. Please, just feel it. Feel how sorry I am. How much I still love you.
But she didn’t say any of it.
She just held him. And hoped it would be enough.
Because how could she say it—any of it—now, with so many eyes on them, with the lights of the cameras still blinking like a thousand judgmental gods, with the echo of Bucky’s cologne still lingering on her skin?
She didn’t say it, because in that moment, something inside her shifted. Cracked open and finally let the truth in.
Tony wasn’t the only one.
He had been—God, he had been everything. Her salvation, her grief, her undoing. He had lived in her mind like a cathedral, his memory echoing through every hall of her being for what felt like centuries. For lifetimes. He had been her first real home, the man she’d chosen when the world had offered her none. And for a long time, she’d clung to that memory like a relic, like it was the only part of herself still worth saving.
But it wasn’t just him anymore.
And maybe that realization had been creeping in for weeks—months, even—but she had been too scared to let it bloom into something fully formed. Too stubborn to admit that the space in her chest where Tony had once lived unchallenged had started to expand, to divide, to make room for someone else.
For him. For James.
It would have been easier to keep pretending otherwise. To keep telling herself she was just disoriented, just grateful for kindness in dark places. To pretend her feelings were just echoes of old wounds and shared silences. But she wasn’t that naive. Not anymore.
So no, she didn’t say anything to Tony.
Not because she didn’t love him. But because she realized she didn’t love only him.
And saying anything now would’ve meant choosing. Naming the fracture. Admitting the betrayal not just to him, but to herself.
So she held his face like it might be the last time. And she swallowed every word like poison.
Tony didn’t look at Bucky again. Not yet. He held her gaze for a long moment, something raw flickering behind his expression. A mixture of betrayal and confusion.
Then, slowly, his grip loosened. He stepped back.
“Get out,” he said, his voice low but sharp. “Get out of here before I really give the press something to talk about.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked to Jane one last time—searching, lingering. She looked back at him, and for a breath, neither of them moved. And then he turned. Walked away. His silhouette swallowed by the crowd, by the lights, by the blinding strobe of camera flashes.
Gone.
Jane exhaled shakily, the world rushing back in like a wave. Tony turned to her.
“How could you?” he asked. “How could you let him touch you? Dance with you? You knew what he did. I know you read the files. You of all people—”
“I didn’t know he’d come,” she interrupted, her voice small. “I didn’t plan any of this. And I couldn’t push him away, not with everyone watching. I—” She cut herself off, breath hitching.
Tony stared at her, his mouth twisted with something between grief and fury.
“You should’ve,” he said. “You should’ve thrown him out. That man is a fucking monster, and you let him touch you.”
The words landed like a slap. Not loud, but precise, surgical. They didn’t echo in the room so much as they echoed in her. Jane’s breath caught. Her chest cinched tight. Her lips parted slightly, but nothing came out. Nothing could.
She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe.
Because what could she possibly say?
Nothing mattered now.
Tony’s words didn’t just wound, they condemned. And worst of all, they weren’t wrong. She had let Bucky touch her. She’d stood there on that ballroom floor, under the glow of chandeliers and the crosshairs of every camera in the building, and let herself get pulled back into something she thought she could control. And she couldn’t. Not with Bucky’s hand on her waist. Not with his voice in her ear.
The shame rose like fire beneath her skin, searing up her neck and across her cheeks. She could feel it, hot and humiliating—blazing—as if everyone in the room had seen straight through her, right down to the fractured, traitorous thing curled at the bottom of her ribcage.
Her face burned. Her hands, by contrast, had gone cold. Bloodless. Numb.
There were too many eyes on her. Every glance felt sharp. Every whisper stung like a lash across her back. She didn’t need to look around to know they were watching. Judging. Parsing every inch of her expression. Every crack in her composure. The clicks of the cameras were merciless, each one like a gavel coming down.
And Bucky. James. His scent still clung to her skin. His touch still echoed across her waist like a bruise that hadn’t formed yet.
She’d let him. She hadn’t stopped it.
And now the price of that softness, of that stupid, weak, selfish desire, was unraveling in front of everyone.
She turned away from Tony because she couldn’t bear to keep looking at him. At his rage. His betrayal. His disbelief. It was too much. It was all too much.
Her fingers clenched the smooth fabric of her gown at her sides, fists twisting into the soft violet silk. She hiked the hem just enough to let her legs move, her heels nearly catching in the train, and fled—ran—from the room. Without looking back.
Her breath punched out of her in short, clipped bursts as she pushed through the threshold, blinking hard against the tears that threatened to rise. Her vision shimmered, not with tears yet, but with the heat of humiliation, of emotion so raw and uncontainable it made her nauseous. Her ribs ached from holding it all in.
She needed to get away. She couldn’t stay in that room. Not with them. Not with him.
Not with herself.
Jane walked quickly, her heels softened by the plush runner that stretched across the wide corridor beyond the ballroom. The windows to her right looked out over the city skyline, streaked with warm golds and cool violets of a summer evening slipping into night. The reflection of the chandeliers shimmered faintly in the glass, a mirage of celebration and civility that felt painfully distant.
She stopped at the far end, placing one hand against the cool pane, bracing herself as if the glass might steady her. Her breath hitched in her throat, short and uneven, the tremor of it echoing in her chest. With her other hand, she reached for her abdomen, instinctively protective, her fingertips resting lightly just below the line of her dress.
The baby. Her baby.
It didn’t show yet—not really—but the knowledge of it pulsed in her with every breath, every panic-fueled heartbeat. She felt raw, peeled open, like the world had reached inside and touched something too fragile. She tried to slow her breathing. In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight. But her lungs weren’t cooperating. The air caught behind her ribs like it was too thick, and the edges of her vision began to blur.
No. Not here. Not now.
She couldn’t afford to lose control again. Couldn’t afford another spiral, another episode, another surge of fear that might put the child in danger. She pressed her hand more firmly against the glass, grounding herself, while her fingers traced slow, deliberate circles against her belly. The gesture was meant to soothe. To remind herself that there was something—someone—worth staying calm for.
Please, she begged silently. Not again. Not this time.
She didn’t know how long she stood there—seconds, maybe minutes—before she heard footsteps behind her. Her shoulders tensed instantly. Reporters? A security detail? Or Peter, maybe, sweet and worried and not ready for the weight of what he might find.
But when she turned, it was Tony.
He wasn’t storming toward her this time. He approached carefully, cautiously, like he was trying not to spook her. His jacket was open, tie loosened, but his face was still set in the kind of control that cost him effort.
“Jane,” he said worried, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
She turned toward him slowly, and the moment her eyes met his, the mask shattered.
“You humiliated me,” she said, voice shaking. “In front of everyone. That—what you did back there? We could’ve talked about it. In private. In a hallway. In your penthouse. But you chose to make a scene. You chose to yell. And you didn’t think about me, not for a second.”
Tony’s expression hardened immediately, concern eclipsed by the return of his temper.
“And you didn’t think about me,” he shot back. “Before you let the man who murdered my parents put his hands on you. Before you let him look at you like he owned you.”
Her lips parted in shock, but the words wouldn’t come.
“I’m a man, Jane,” he went on, voice low and unflinching. “And I know what I saw. I know what it means when a man touches a woman like that. He thinks she’s his. He thinks he has some kind of claim.”
She flinched.
His voice strained, pacing now with a kind of urgency that bordered on panic. “I saw how he touched you. And you should consider yourself lucky, Jane.”
She blinked, her lips parting slightly, confused. “Lucky?”
“Lucky that I trust you enough to not ask.” he snapped, turning sharply to face her. His hands were trembling at his sides, though he tried to hide it by curling them into fists. “You came back from that mission pregnant—pregnant—and I didn’t ask you a damn thing. Because I trusted you. And I didn’t push,” Tony said, his voice low and hoarse now—not with gentleness, but with the strain of holding too much back. “I didn’t press you when you didn’t want to talk about your mission. When you kept things vague. When every time I asked, you dodged. I let it go.”
He stepped forward again, eyes blazing. “I let it go because I knew what had happened between us. Because we made love, and I knew—I knew—after I looked into your eyes, that the child had to be mine. And from that moment on, I swore to myself I’d take care of you. Of us. That I’d trust you, no matter what.”
Jane stood frozen, her chest tightening, the air suddenly thick and unbreathable. Her heart cracked under the weight of those words.
“I took responsibility,” Tony said, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. “Because I want to protect this family we have. And so, despite everything—despite what I saw—I’m not doubting you. And I’m here, with you.”
But then—then it happened. Everything inside her stopped.
At those last few words, something in Jane’s expression shifted. Her pupils widened, her skin drained of color, and a stillness overtook her entire body, so absolute it was almost eerie. It was as if the blood in her veins had frozen mid-flow, as if the world itself had stopped turning just long enough to bear down on her. A slow, cold dread crawled up her spine like frost, spreading through her chest and wrapping around her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
Because of all the things he could’ve said, of all the wounds he could’ve chosen to press his fingers into, he had chosen that one. The one she had worked so hard to bury. The one truth she’d spun excuses around until even she didn’t know where the lies ended and the fear began. And now, there was no hiding. No clever sidestep. No diversion.
It was as if the world had grown tired of her evasions, tired of her silence, and was dragging her, bare and unguarded, into the light. Confronting her not just with Tony’s eyes—shining with pain, confusion, trust—but with her own reflection. Her own guilt. Her own cowardice.
And in that moment, Jane felt something inside her collapse. Like scaffolding kicked out from under a trembling structure. The weight of the past weeks—the secrets, the fears, the quiet war inside her chest—crushed down on her all at once. And suddenly, she didn’t have the strength to lie. Not to him. Not anymore.
And Tony saw it. He saw all of it.
His own face shifted too, slowly, like he was catching up to a nightmare unfolding in real time. His brows pulled together. His eyes widened. And then his voice, hoarse and trembling, barely above a whisper:
“Because I’m right. Tell me I’m right, Jane. Tell me I’m right to trust you.”
She didn’t speak.
“Jane.” he said, stepping closer, the words now shaking from his mouth. “Please. Tell me something.”
Still no answer.
Her hands, almost by instinct, rose to her face. She covered her mouth, then her whole face, trembling so violently it felt like her bones were rattling. She couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t speak. Her body was betraying her in every way possible.
Tony stepped forward again and placed his hands gently, but firmly, on her shoulders. “Jane,” he said, more urgently now, voice cracking. “Please—please—tell me I have nothing to be afraid of. Tell me this baby is mine.”
Tears filled her eyes. Slowly, she let her hands fall from her face. And when she finally looked at him, the answer was already there.
The heartbreak. The shame. The guilt.
“I don’t know,” she whispered, so softly it barely formed words. Her voice fractured like glass on the floor. “Tony… I don’t know.”
He pulled his hands back like he’d touched fire.
“You don’t know,” he repeated, stunned. “You don’t know?”
There was a long silence, one that felt loud and jagged, like it was physically tearing through the air around them.
His face contorted with something that looked like disbelief fury, and betrayal all at once.
“You slept with him,” he said, the words escaping his mouth in disbelief. “You had sex with him—and you didn’t tell me?”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came. Just a helpless, panicked breath.
“I didn’t know how to,” she stammered. “I wanted to. I wanted to tell you. I just… I couldn’t find the right time.”
Tony took another step back, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite comprehend the room around him anymore. “The right time? Jane, it’s been weeks. Weeks. You let me think—”
He stopped himself, jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle in his cheek twitching. And she wished—god, she wished—she could say anything to make it right.
But there was nothing. Nothing she could say.
She had shattered something too fragile to survive this. And she knew it.
“The right time. When were you planning on it? After the baby was born? After I signed the damn birth certificate?”
She was crying openly now, her voice shaking so hard it barely formed words. “I wanted it to be yours. I wanted it so badly. I prayed it would be yours.”
His face twisted. “Of course you did. That would’ve been convenient, wouldn’t it? Easier to milk the golden goose if it’s got my name on the crib.”
She recoiled. “How can you say that?”
“Because I have to right to!” Tony yelled, the sound echoing off the glass. “Because I thought—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I thought we were building something together. Something true.”
Jane’s voice cracked under the weight of everything she had held in for far too long. “I wanted it to be yours,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Because I love you.”
Her throat clenched, but she pushed through it. The truth surged forward, uncontainable now.
“Because I’ve loved you from the very first moment you walked into my room, at the Avengers Tower—when I was standing pretending to be someone I wasn’t. You looked at me and smiled like you already knew me. And something in me… just broke open.”
Her eyes shimmered as they found his. “It wasn’t about your name. Or the money. Or anything else. It was you. It’s always been you. That’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. I wanted this baby to be yours because in my heart, he already was.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
It hit Tony like a sudden shift in gravity. His shoulders, once rigid with fury, slumped slightly as if the words had drained something from him. The anger didn’t explode or unravel—it vanished. As if her confession had reached into his chest and flipped a switch he hadn’t even realized was there. His jaw relaxed. His brows stopped drawing together. And for a long, suspended breath, he simply stared at her.
Because this—this was the first time she had said those words to him. Not implied, not skirted around, not buried in the folds of regret or fear. The first time she’d told him she loved him.
Or at least, the first time since New York. Since she had erased everything. Since she’d torn their life apart with her own hands and tried to leave him behind for the sake of time, of fate, of duty.
He took a small step back. Then another.
The expression on his face wasn’t anger now. It wasn’t even betrayal. It was something far more fragile—confusion, maybe. Or disbelief. As if the ground beneath him had shifted and he wasn’t sure how to stand on it.
And then he turned.
Not back toward the ballroom. Not toward the celebration, the cameras, the light. He walked past her, through the far end of the corridor, into the shadows. Away from her. Away from everything.
Jane didn’t call after him.
Her voice had crumbled somewhere between her ribs and her throat. Her heart was pounding so hard it felt like a bruise against her sternum. Her fingers trembled as she pressed them to her abdomen. And for one long, hollow moment, all she could hear was the echo of her own heartbeat and the fading sound of Tony’s footsteps retreating into the distance.
She let him go.
And when he disappeared from view, she didn’t chase him.
She stayed right there, frozen in the corridor, hand still pressed to the space where her child was growing—a space still small, still invisible, but now somehow unbearably heavy.
Because she had known this would happen eventually. She had known the truth would come for her like a wave. But she hadn’t been ready for it to come all at once. Not tonight. Not like this.
Her knees buckled. She sank slowly to the floor, curling in on herself, pressing her forehead to her knees, arms wrapped tight around her legs like she could hold herself together if she just stayed small enough.
Tears streamed silently down her face.
Because this was her fault. All of it. She was the one who hadn’t told the truth. She was the one who had let herself get pulled toward the only other man she never should’ve touched. She was the one who had tried to love two people who hated each other, whose pain had been born from each other. Because she had slept with the one man she never should have. Because she hadn’t had the courage to do the right thing. Not once. Not even now.
She had made herself the center of a fracture that could never fully heal.
She was the wound. The cause. The coward.
And now, she was alone.
Alone with a child she couldn’t name. A future she couldn’t picture. And a guilt that no power in the world could lift from her shoulders
Notes:
First of all: thank you so much for your patience. I know it’s been a while since the last update, but I took a little vacation in Capri and let myself fully disconnect for a bit. As some of you know, the past few weeks haven’t been easy, and I realized I really needed that break to shut everything off and just breathe.
That said, this chapter was also particularly challenging to write.
A lot happens here, and I wanted to make sure I treated each moment with the weight it deserved. Bucky showing up out of nowhere. Jane realizing that what she feels for him isn’t just attraction, but something deeper, something real. That she’s not in love with just Tony anymore. And of course… the confrontation. Tony’s outburst. The truth finally surfacing: that Jane doesn’t know who the father of her baby is.
It’s so much. And my biggest fear was making it feel like a soap opera. I didn’t want it to be melodramatic for the sake of drama. I wanted it to be real, messy, painful, grounded in emotion but not over-the-top. So yeah, this one took some work.
That said, I’d love to know what you think. Tell me your thoughts, your theories. What do you think will happen next? Because *drumroll* I’ve officially planned the story to have 37 chapters in total, and I now have a detailed outline of what happens in each of them. Which means… I know everything. 😏
And I’m so curious to hear what you think might be coming. Are we close to Endgame? What will happen when we get there? And what about after? (Because yes, this story won’t end with Endgame—there’s more to come.)
So please, leave a comment, drop a kudo if you enjoyed the chapter, and let me know your theories. I read and appreciate every single message.
See you in the next chapter ❤️
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