Echoes of the Battlefield (Bucky Barnes x Female OC)

by BadBitchSinceBirth

Summary:

What happens when Bucky fails his mission, forcing him to take a different person?

Anastasia Becker faces challenges no normal person could dream of. Lucky for her, she is not a normal person. She is a captain in the Air Force fighting in a war after the events of 9/11. Discover her journey as she battles herself, HYDRA, and how she navigates this new world.
 

Events take place pre-9/11- present MCU.

I will include events from Captain America: Winter Soldier & Civil War.
I will also include events from The Falcon and the Winter Soldier & Thunderbolts.

 

This story contains mature content that is not suitable for anyone under 18. I am not responsible for your media consumption.

Chapter 1: IMPORTANT

IMPORTANT: I do not own the rights to the characters in this story other than my main character. This is based on Marvel characters. This is just a story, not to be taken seriously. 

TRIGGER WARNINGS: The types of triggers in this story include violence, descriptions of nudity, profanity, death, trauma, and adult activities (including sex, drugs, and drinking). *I will not write about sexual assault or rape, as it is unnecessary for the story, and I will exclude it entirely. It will not be mentioned in any context.

This story is my creation, and I hope you enjoy reading it. I own the rights to this story, but not to the characters (except my original character). Please do not copy it. 

If any parts of my story resemble existing works, please inform me so I can make adjustments or give credit if my storyline is similar to someone else's.  

I also apologize if some parts of the story do not accurately depict the military. I am always open to learning how to make my story more realistic. 

Please share your suggestions here for what I should include each week. 

 

Chapter 2: Characters & Information

 Anastasia Becker was born on March 17, 1975. She is a captain in the Air Force, a helicopter pilot, and a fighter pilot trained in combat. She enlisted a couple of years before the 9/11 terrorist attacks at age 23, right after completing her undergraduate degree. Her character is complex, and she will face obstacles she has never dreamed of. 

Family:

Mother: Erika Becker (b. October 3, 1952) (73 years old present day)

Father: William Becker (b. June 29, 1952) (73 years old present day)

Brother: Henry Becker (b. April 4th, 1988) (37 years old present day) 

Sister: Amelia Becker (b. September 15, 1984) (41 years old present day)

Everyone but William can speak German (Swiss) fluently. Erika also speaks French and Italian, which have been taught to the three siblings, but they are not fluent. 

 

 

Images by ChatGPT. I was playing around with the idea of looking at how I think she looks. Please don't take the images too seriously; I know they don't match. I also wanted to show an example of how her body looks, muscular and athletic, but still feminine.  The metal leg is not pictured because the AI can't get it right. 

"Winter Soldier" James "Bucky" Barnes:

"Captain America" Sam Wilson:

"The Falcon" Joaquin Torres: 

I do not own any of these images; they were all on Pinterest. I put together some of the collages. 

The Serum:

 They took 5 years to develop this serum, thinking they had created a stronger version than the original.

• Brainwashing can last up to 2 hours max, same methods to brainwash Anastasia as The Winter Soldier.

• Anything that happened pre-serum is permanent; anything post-serum heals (this includes any scars).

• The serum makes you stronger, faster, mentally sharper, enhances hearing, and sight.

• The serum makes you immortal unless a power blocker is used. This includes headshots, limbs cut off. (Just like Deadpool). If a power blocker is used, the person will die; however, if the power blocker is removed, the person will be revived, no matter how long the person has been dead. Can mentally age, not physically. 

• The serum makes it so you will not need to eat, drink, or sleep. You can still do these things and feel tired, hungry, and thirsty, but the serum corrects any damage from this.

• Cannot get drunk, and drugs have minimal effect unless taken in huge quantities. (Asgardian alcohol can- mentions of that in the book).

(I used Gemini AI to create this image)

 

Chapter 3: The Crash

Location: East Afghanistan

Date: November 11th, 2001

Anastasia's POV

Gunfire echoes across the desert air as the chopper slices through the dust. Major Smith and I communicate through our comms system while flying above enemy fire. The war is fresh, and tensions are high. Since enlisting in 1998, neither the world nor I imagined an attack on Americans. We were tasked with finding MIA soldiers who never returned to base. The eerie sound of the chopper pounded in my head, penetrating through my headset—the force of our fire on the enemy positions was haunting.

"Look alive, Becker, we are almost there," Major Smith says. Major Smith is a passionate man whom I can only describe as terrifying if you didn't know him. We became good friends when I first started, becoming my mentor for flight training.

Major Smith spoke into the mic, updating the base. I looked out the side window, and the dust surrounding our helicopter was overwhelming. "Tell me something, Becker?" Major Smith started to say. I looked over at him, his eyes on the GPS.

I wait for him to finish. "What are your plans when this is all over?" He smiles, glancing at me. I've always disliked questions like this. I know Major Smith is just trying to cut the tension, but it brings up the future, one I'm not entirely sure of. 

"Well, I haven't thought about that yet. I'm just living my life one day at a time." He nods as I speak. That was the truth, I have no idea what to do. Joining the Air Force wasn't my first choice. My parents had a significant influence on that decision. My father retired early as a Colonel after an accident. My mother served in the Swiss Army before she met my father, who was stationed in Switzerland at the time. They had the typical love story: he got reassigned to Washington, DC, to fly for Air Force One, and my mother followed him.

I needed time to delay because I did not want to enlist as a soldier. I knew that if I was going to join the military, I wanted to be an officer. I graduated from Georgetown with a dual degree in Chemistry and Political Science—just bullshit degrees to fall back, fluff up my story a little. 

Suddenly, I'm out of my thoughts; the helicopter is up in smoke, spinning around like a rollercoaster ride, and not the fun kind. Major Smith is shouting into the comms system. I look at all the buttons lighting up like a Christmas tree, "Mayday! Mayday!" he shouts, "We have been hit!"

I quickly look around, then down; I can't see where the hits are coming from. Major Smith is struggling to maintain control. "Mayday! Mayday! We are going down; the rudder was hit."

Major Smith maintains a controlled spin; our tail ends on fire, smoke enveloping the dust surrounding us. The buttons blink, and the alarm sounds. I try to help keep the helicopter from crashing. Neither one of us had our guards up; this was supposed to be a recon mission. Simple search and rescue, not for us to be the ones needing rescuing. Major Smith strives to remain calm as our helicopter descends, still spinning. I brace for impact as the chopper collides with the sand, the cockpit shattering, windows breaking, and the tail completely detaching. The tail bounces off the sand, embedding itself a few feet back. 

Everything goes black quickly. For what felt like seconds, my eyes fluttered back open. The alarm was blaring. Major Smith was slumped over, blood seeping from his head. His eyes bore into mine. I try to steady my breath as I unbuckle myself and take a shaky hand to his throat to check for a pulse.

No pulse.

My hands shake as I look down, my left leg wedged under the broken parts of the cockpit. I turn on the comms system for my headset and say to the mic, "Mayday! Mayday! Major Smith is dead." My voice breaks as I repeat Mayday several more times. The dust settles around me. I look around quickly, trying to wiggle myself free. I screamed out in pain as my leg twitched, still pinned down. 

I catch movement in the corner of my eye, but before I can twist my head, a metal arm breaks the window beside my face. The hand grabs my uniform hard, ripping me out of the seat. I scream out as my leg is violently ripped off my body, it being sliced from what it was pinned down by. One hand reaches out to punch the dark figure, now dragging my convulsing body; my other hand grips my thigh as blood starts to pour out, sand sticking to the wound, making the pain worse. I scream, trying to fight back as much as I can. The dark figure with the metal arm still drags me through the sand. His dark brown hair and mask hide his face. He doesn't even glance down, his eyes hidden behind black goggles. 

The only thing I can focus on is the now missing leg, my missing leg. Holy fuck I don't have a leg.  

My vision starts to blur from the blood loss. The only thing I can think of now is to take off my belt and use it as a tourniquet. I scream again as I tighten it around my upper thigh, where my leg should be. 

My vision begins to blur as the helicopter moves farther and farther away from me.

The last thing I hear before everything goes black is "Hail Hydra."

3rd Person:

The Winter Soldier drags Captain Becker's body through the sand, and a trail of blood follows behind. He slowly approaches the small cargo plane that waits for him. He has failed his mission. His thoughts consume him, along with the punishments he may face for not bringing back Major Smith. The Russian HYDRA agents wait as the Winter Soldier climbs in, dropping Captain Becker's lifeless body. The Winter Soldier stands and stares ahead. The pilot starts the plane and flies off. In and out, quick operation.

One Hydra agent looks at Captain Becker. "Mission Report Soldat." 

The Winter Soldier looks forward, his gaze hard. "Major Smith is dead; I have her instead." He speaks coldly. The soldiers look over Captain Becker, addressing her missing leg wound.

"That was not your mission." The HYDRA soldier states. The Winter Soldier stays silent. A couple of other soldiers address Anastasia's missing leg, stabilizing her enough for the long flight. 

They arrive at the Russian compound 13 hours later. The Winter Soldier vanishes inside. Captain Becker is taken to the operating room, the same one Bucky Barnes faced after he fell from the train. The doctor and nurses rush to prepare her for surgery, discussing their approach. The nurses and doctors hover over her. Hands pulled close, ready to jump in as they await command. The lab lights are bright in the all white tilted room. The cleanest part of the building. They don't use it much, as the Winter Soldier hardly gets injured.  

Then, the phone rings loudly. One of the nurses answers it. "Yes, sir?" she says before glancing at the doctor awaiting instructions. The nurse listens to the person speaking on the other end of the phone, all other sets of eyes watching, waiting for her reaction. "The commander says to take the whole leg." 

The doctor nods while listening. The nurse hangs up and rushes back to help the other prepare Captain Becker. 

Perfecting the amputation takes hours. After what felt like seconds to Anastasia, she woke up groggy and in pain. A lot of pain. Her eyes shoot around the room quickly, and she sees the nurses approach—her heart rate skyrockets, causing the machine to beep frantically. Before Anastasia got a moment to think, everything went black again.

Captain Becker lies unconscious. She rests on clean bedding in the ICU for recovery, while the rest of the building appears old and damp. The Winter Soldier awaits commands in his chair, his brain fried again to forget his mission. He faced punishment for delivering the wrong person with a few blows to the face and zaps. 

A couple of weeks later

During those weeks of Anastasia's recovery, they gathered as much information as possible about her. HYDRA had already perfected its new super-soldier serum. This serum was better than ever, maybe better than Captain America's (Steve Rogers). [Since this is 2001, Steve Rodgers will remain in the Arctic frozen for 10 more years.] 

The sound of heavy boots bounces off the quiet halls. A large man with short hair, wearing a suit and tie, approaches the recovery room. 

Captain Becker was not their target, but when the call came in that she could be of use to them, they kept her alive. Major Smith appeared on HYDRA's list due to his combat experience and the intelligence they might have gathered from him. Nevertheless, they adapted. They managed to stay off the United States' radar as the search for Captain Becker and Major Smith closed.

Captain Becker: MIA (missing in action) presumed dead

Major Smith: KIA (killed in action)

Back in Washington, DC, Anastasia's parents mourned their daughter like any parents would. Due to this significant loss, the family was forced to split apart. Anastasia has a younger brother and sister. Before she was taken, they were 10 and 14 years old. 

"Get her in the chair," The man commands, hovering over her sleeping form. "I want to see what she knows." 

__

Captain Becker slowly woke up, groggy from her sleep. Her leg no longer hurts, just missing entirely from her hip, like it was never there. Her eyes flutter open as the whole room of scientists and soldiers stares back at her. She tries to move, but the strap around her wrists and head prevents much movement. Her breathing increases as her eyes widen. The room around her feels like it's closing in. So many eyes looking at her, all with different intentions. A fresh set stared back, facing her only inches away. 

"Calm down." The man's voice rings out through the room. Anastasia freezes at the command. She slowly looks down as best she can to see that she did, in fact, only have one leg. She's about to panic again when a slap across her face stops her. Her head whipped back as much as it could, considering it was strapped in. A red mark was already forming across her cheek. 

Anastasia breathes heavily, her chest rising and falling noticeably. The room is eerily quiet for the situation. She doesn't know how to react; she's never been trained for torture.  

"I have a couple of questions for you," the man says in a sharp tone, no hint of it being a question.

Anastasia looks back at the man towering over her. He bends down just enough to look her face-to-face. "What's your name?" 

Anastasia thinks for a moment, fighting herself to tell him. "Anastasia Becker," she states, her voice raw and cracking as she speaks. 

"You're a Captain, is that correct?" He asks. Anastasia nods, her motion restricted. The man smiles a little, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Do you know where you are?" The man questioned. She shook her head. 

He nods and stands straight again. "Your partner, Major Smith, had some information we needed." The man states. He clenches his fist a little. "However, he's dead." 

The man looks in the direction of the cell where the Winter Soldier sits, forced to listen, then back to Anastasia. "We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. I need to know where he kept the flash drive." He demands.

Anastasia's eyebrows pull together as she listens to his statement. The man doesn't waste time, smacking her face again. "Where is the flash drive?" He demands again. 

"I don't know!" Anastasia yells out, tears brimming in her eyes. "This was the first time we flew together! I didn't know him!" She says with a shaky breath. 

"It's okay, we already knew that." The man lowers his voice to a more soothing tone. "You need to give us something, or else we'll just kill you. HYDRA doesn't keep a one-legged useless woman." His tone changed back.

Anastasia's eyes widened further, her cheeks still red from his hits. "I-I- don't know anything. I swear," She says with a panicked voice. 

The man holds his hand out while another HYDRA agent hands him a small file. The man slams it down on the little table beside the chair they have her strapped to. "See, now you're lying. We have your file. You graduated at the top of your class at Georgetown, a prestigious institution. You should be proud." He states, flipping the file open. "We know everything about you, Anastasia. Don't sell yourself short on us." 

Anastasia swallows hard, her hands clammy and her mouth dry. "You see, I feel like being nice. I'm not a nice person, Anastasia. He pauses, "Wait, where are my manners?" He says, dramatically putting a hand over his heart. "My name is Alexander Pierce." 

"Now, where was I? Oh, yes, you will be useful to us, Anastasia. With our advanced systems and our new serum, you can be our little guinea pig. If you die, oh well." He says, smiling, tilting his head as he strokes her hair. This was not a form of comfort; it was a form of control.

"You don't have much combat experience. That will change." 

"Why are you telling me this?" Anastasia manages to ask.

"Because you'll forget it." He says, stepping back and motioning to his guys. 

Anastasia didn't have a moment of peace; the machine comes to life, its arms extending down as it wraps around her head before she can react, and pain.

She screams out, gripping the chair as electricity surges through her entire body. The Winter Soldier is still in a nearby cell, forced to listen to her agonizing screams as she is electrocuted. 

"Fuck you," she hisses through gritted teeth. The Russian soldier glares before smacking her. Her head flies to the side. He starts speaking Russian stoically. The machine comes to life again to continue its torture. Her screams ring out, forever etched into the damp walls.  

One of the commanding officers held the Little Red Book in his hand.

 

Chapter 4: The Work

Date: February 23, 2002

Location: HYDRA Siberian Base

3rd Person:

The sound of dripping faucets. The smell of dried old blood. The screams of their victims are still latched to the walls. Anastasia sat breathless as they continued their torture.  The sound of footsteps fast approaching raised hairs and turned heads. 

Alexander Pierce 

"Has she broken yet?" His voice rings out in the quiet air, and soldiers await command. One of the doctors speaks up: "No, Sir."

It had been a couple of months since Anastasia was captured. HYDRA has been working tirelessly to get her to break. They injected the serum only a couple of days after Pierce and she had their interrogation. They forced her to live through the pain that boiled over her body from the injection in her veins. When it was given, her body convulsed like a series of seizures. None of them knew what it would do to her, which is partly why they kept her alive. Like Pierce said, guinea pig.  

Pierce approaches Anastasia and crouches down, grabbing her face in his hand and pressing her cheeks together with his thumb and forefingers. He stares at her, his grip tightening. Anastasia has bruises and cuts, littering her face from hours of punches. One of her eyes was swollen shut. She will only need a couple of hours to heal fully. 

Anastasia has been stubborn in her willingness to cooperate; they underestimated her willingness to comply. They increased the voltage every day to see if they could finally break her brain enough to code her. Anastasia doesn't know Russian, so when Pierce wasn't visiting her, she didn't hear English. She picked up a couple of words, but none of them made sense. 

He studies her face for a moment. Her other eye gazed into his soul, still holding to her stubbornness. "I think it's time you learned your lesson," Pierce spits out before standing, releasing her face. A few moments pass, and suddenly, her head whips violently to the side, a metal arm connecting with her cheek. The only sound in the room is her cheekbone shattering and a tooth flying across the room. Anastasia stays quiet, enduring the punches. With the different serum, she can withstand pain more. What HYDRA didn't anticipate was the healing rate of her wounds. They had accidentally invented a serum that made her invincible, which is partly why it's more difficult to break her mind into submission. 

After a couple more rounds of punching from the Winter Soldier, Pierce puts a hand on his shoulder, "That's enough." The Soldier freezes momentarily before stepping back, arms to the side with square shoulders. His expression was emotionless and cold. 

The machine comes to life again, sending shockwaves through Anastasia as her control slowly slips away. The serum wouldn't protect her from the brainwashing or the words; however, it did affect how long it lasted. Barnes was able to go without his shock for a couple of days if he was on a mission, but slowly started to remember his past with different triggers from the outside world. It always ended the same: pain and darkness. 

For Anastasia, the brainwashing only lasted two hours. HYDRA had to devise a different method of controlling her if they wanted to put her on missions. 

"We've invested too much time and money into her. FIND. A. WAY," Pierce screams at the doctors and nurses, scrambling to formulate a solution. 

"What MORON created this serum?" He lashes out. He starts to pace the room. The Winter Soldier stands with guards on either side, guns in their hands. He watches Pierce. No emotion, he wouldn't dare. 

Anastasia breathes out with each shock, trying to fight as the pain slowly controls her. A soldier continues to read from the little red book: "Longing, rusted, furnace, daybreak, seventeen, benign, nine, homecoming, one, freight car " (in Russian). 

The Winter Soldier listens, his eye twitching at the words. He didn't need the shock; only the words did it. They shocked him to scramble any memories he may have conjured up. 

Anastasia grips the armchair, knuckles turning white as the soldier finishes and closes the book. "Soldat?" He commands. Anastasia just smirks a little through her broken and bloody face, "Fuck you!" 

"The words have no meaning if her mind isn't blank." Pierce snaps at the HYDRA commander with the book. "Get her brain off!" He shouts. 

Anastasia knew they wouldn't- couldn't kill; she was smart enough to figure it out. Now she found it fun to test their patience. The machine started again; this time, it produced the highest voltage it could muster, not even The Winter Soldier had faced that. Anastasia screams out. Pierce watches amused at her pain. The machine continues its relentless attack, her eyes began to bleed at the same time as her ears and nose. Blood dripped out slowly. 

The electrocution stopped after a few more minutes, arms raising back up. 

Anastasia's face slowly drops. The pain turns into something else, something foreign, her mind descending into madness as she fights with what little power she can manage. This was the turning point; they finally put a dent in it. 

All eyes are on her. Anastasia stares ahead. No emotion, no snarky comment, nothing.

Pierce finally speaks up. "Good job, everyone; let's see how long it lasts," he says as he exits the building, his tall, large frame getting smaller as he walks down the hall. 

This time, the room is silent, and so is her mind. 

 

Notes:

It's a short chapter. Thank you for reading this! Please remember to vote and comment. I will be revising and adding to this story, so please save it. As always, leave suggestions below. I don't know much about how the brainwashing works, but I researched as much as I could. Some parts won't make sense as I try to piece these together.

Chapter 5: The Assignment

Date: May 8, 2002

Location: HYDRA Siberia Base

3rd Person:

"Mission Report"

Smack

"Mission Report"

Smack

"Target Neutralized"

Anastasia stared ahead, empty.

HYDRA was finally able to break through her efforts to block them, trying to worm its way into her brain, but it never lasted long enough. She and the Winter Soldier just returned from a mission in Afghanistan, not far from where she was taken. HYDRA wanted them to neutralize a target for them. An Air Force soldier, someone like her. They weren't given much information; they never are.

Alexander Pierce, director/commander of HYDRA. Anastasia is not sure how he got the job; he doesn't even speak Russian, he's just as American as Bucky and her. He's not here at the base very often. She only knows it's in Russia because the soldiers keep yelling at her in Russian; she still doesn't know it. They keep trying to get her to learn, but it never sticks. She knows two languages fluently, and two other languages for conversation- they never seem to care about that because their precious Winter Soldier speaks thirty.

Pierce interrogates her to ensure the mission succeeds. The Winter Soldier sits in his damp, dark cell. He waits for command; if she fails the mission, they send him to pick up the pieces. Anastasia finds herself staring at him whenever they are together. Something about him feels familiar, like she's seen his face somewhere. Every time they remove his mask to put his mouth guard in, she's reminded of that face.

She sits as the technicians examine her metal leg for wear or damage. Her hand twitches by her side. She doesn't dare make a scene or fight back, not when the Winter Soldier is a cell's reach away, ready to strike at Pierce's command.

They don't trust when the brainwashing is working. Why should they? Any chance of leaving? She would take it. What was their solution? Putting an electroshock device in her brain to press if she were to step out of line. Every time they shock her, it stops her long enough for them to say the code words. That was still a flawed plan, because it meant she couldn't do missions alone. HYDRA was at its wits' end dealing with her and all of the problems.

"Prep them," Pierce's voice slices through the tension in the air. Anastasia winces at the command, knowing she will ultimately face another cryo freeze.

With that, Pierce is gone.

The soldiers point their guns at her, directing her to the lab. She feels reluctant; all the fight in her vanished a couple of beating sessions ago.

Date: 2025 (pre-Brave New World)

"Pull the trigger, soldier," Pierce's voice echoed through the building. She stood, shaking, while pointing the gun at a man tied and blindfolded in front of her. The blindfolded man was on his knees, crying and jumping at every breath drawn from the room. The Winter Soldier was forced to watch her. He stood with his gun, also ready to fire if she couldn't do it. But that moment never happened for him; she pulled the trigger. The man's body dropped lifeless to the ground. She holds back a tear. Pierce presses the button, and she drops to the ground, her screams etched in Bucky's brain and his nightmares. She didn't want this; she didn't deserve this.

Bucky's eyes snap open, and he sits up from lying on the floor. The blanket pools around his waist as he breathes heavily at the nightmare. He runs his metal hand over his face, enjoying the cool metal against his warm skin. His dog tags sit between his muscled chest. Anastasia was filling his nightmares more than usual. After making amends with everyone on his list, he forgot about her. He pushed her from his memories. His life flashed too fast to sit and think of all his victims. Perhaps it was all the events after HYDRA and the flag Smashers that made him forget. He tried to push the thoughts away, bottling them up. He didn't want to bother Sam with his problems.

__

"Hey, Sam," Bucky says, offering him a small smile. Sam and he hug warmly before separating as Bucky steps into the house. Sam has invited Bucky over for a potluck that the neighborhood is throwing. Bucky always enjoyed visiting Sam's family in Louisiana; it was a home away from Brooklyn. Sometimes he enjoyed the quiet sound of the ocean; other times, it was the laughter of innocent children playing that reminded him of Steve. The kids' laughter rang out from outside as they ran around. Sam walks through the house with Bucky on his tail. Sarah, Sam's sister, smiles at them both and continues setting the tables.

Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets. Even after all the events from the Flag Smashers, he still feels like an outsider. Louisiana was the closest he'd felt happiness in a long time since Wakanda. Sam notices his hesitation and puts an arm around his shoulder, taking him back into the house.

"How are you doing, Buck?" Sam asks softly. Bucky knows what this means. He wants to know about his nightmares. "I'm hanging in there," he says lowly. Sam wants to press but holds back. Bucky glances around the house, not taking in all the details from the few times he's visited.

Bucky's eyes stop suddenly at a picture hanging on the wall. Sam notices Bucky's shift in attention and looks where his eyes are. It's a picture of Sam, Riley, and a woman, all dressed in combat gear. He steps closer to the picture and picks it up off the desk it sits on. He stares at it. "Who is this?" He says, Rough, grumpy again. Sam steps closer to look at it. "That's Captain Becker, we met through the Air Force, did our tour in Afghanistan together, why?" He asks, confused.

Bucky's face drops, his jaw clenches. He sets the picture back down and looks at Sam. "What happened to her?" Sam tries to hide his concern and sadness. "Her helicopter was shot down, killing the Major she was flying with. Her body wasn't found on the scene. I was unfortunately called to find it." Sam explains that he was part of the Air Force, serving as the Falcon.

"Do you know her?" Sam asks with concern etched in his tone.

Bucky stares down, unable to bring himself to look at his friend. "Bucky..." Bucky finally meets Sam's gaze. "I didn't know you knew her," Bucky says, in a pained tone. Sam, still worried, puts a hand on his friend's shoulder. Sam knew what he was hinting at. "What did they make you do, Buck?"

"I shot the plane down. When I was the Winter Soldier." Bucky starts to speak.

"My target was the other pilot of her helicopter. I brought her in instead, thought she might know the information they needed from the Major."

"You're telling me she's alive?" Bucky shrugs at Sam's words. "I don't know where they have her."

Sam tries to contain his surprise and anger. His hand drops from his friend's shoulder. "Wait, you knew this whole time that HYDRA has another soldier, and you didn't mention it? I thought you were just hiding Isaiah Bradley from me. And I thought Zemo killed all the other crazy Winter Soldiers?"

"After HYDRA got disbanded, they took her with them underground. After the snap, the project was abandoned, leaving her to deal with the consequences. She wasn't in Siberia, where Zemo was." Bucky speaks, trying to diffuse the tension in the air. "I didn't think to mention her because she hasn't been active since 2014. When I was sent to kill Steve."

Sam stays silent. It's obvious he's fighting an internal battle of emotions. Bucky continues, "You've been busy being Captain America. I didn't want to bother you with this. Had I known you knew her, I would've told you."

"Then let's find her."

Chapter 6: The Code

Date: 2014

Location: HYDRA Siberian Base

Chaos, complete and utter chaos. 

Alarms

Screams

Panick

Chaos

Anastasia sat in her cell, watching the events unfold before her: HYDRA soldiers marching around yelling commands, technicians trying to stop the alarms. The Winter Soldier had been sent on a mission, but he did not return this time. 

Whispers of what happened flooded the chaos as HYDRA realized that they had lost one of their only weapons. 

Anastasia heard them discuss the events that unfolded in Washington, D.C. The mention of her home triggered something deep in her—a longing, a desire to be free. HYDRA wasn't completely stupid. Unfortunately, they had a power blocker on her wrist, deeming her weak and vulnerable to damage. 

She knew they would never kill her, not when they put so much time and money into her. She had something worse than death waiting for her. 

Just then, a couple of guards grabbed her from her cell, yanking her to her feet. Her knees buckled as they dragged her frail body to the cryo chamber. She didn't know how long they would freeze her for, but she knew anything was better than killing for them. She swore to herself she would fight back when they woke her up again; this time, she had to. 

Present Day

Location: HYDRA Base, Alaska 

After their conversation, Bucky, Sam, and Joaquin stand around a large desktop and a computer. Joaquin types away at the keyboard, focused on his received intel. Sam and Bucky stand on either side of his shoulders, peering down and watching. 

"What are we looking at?" Sam questions. 

Joaquin shrugs, "It's hard to say. She's a ghost; she isn't on any street cameras in the area. You sure she wasn't at the HYDRA base when you and Steve went?" 

Bucky clenches his jaw, a memory he likes to forget. The time he and Steve went to the abandoned HYDRA base, where it ended in a fight against Tony Stark. "No, we checked all over. They undoubtedly moved her." 

"Well, since she hasn't picked up anything in D.C. for the last 24 years, I'm going to assume she's still frozen," Joaquin said, earning him a glare from Bucky. Sam says, "DC is all she knows; she would be there if she were free from them. Buck, how much do you know about her?" 

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, standing straight up, clearly not wanting to have this conversation. "They gave her something, a different serum. I don't remember much; they kept up separate most of the time. I only ever heard her scream." Bucky hesitated; he tried his best not to sound like his voice was shaky. What he left out was that the sounds of her screams still haunt his nightmares, and she never begged for them to stop, always remaining tough. "Do we know if she was snapped?" Bucky asks. 

Sam and Joaquin think for a moment. "It could be possible. But none of us were here for it." 

"The blip messed a lot of things up." Sam starts, "Maybe the people in charge of knowing her location were snapped and, therefore, she was forgotten?" 

Bucky starts to pace a little, growing impatient as Joaquin searches through old S.H.I.E.L.D. records. He skims through the HYDRA files Natasha released in 2014, trying to find anything. 

He stops and focuses on something. "I think I got something."

Bucky freezes midstep, then turns and marches over. Sam stands next to Joaquin. "What is it?" 

There were pictures of her from her helicopter crash, The Winter Soldier dragging her lifeless body, one leg torn off, leaving a trail of blood. Pictures of an orange liquid filled the page, along with chemical compounds and their side effects. 

Some of the pages were typed, while others were handwritten from experiments conducted. Bucky could feel himself coming undone at the sight, all of the memories flooding back in the worst way imaginable. 

One of the documents read, "The Asset took 3 months to break. Her mind resets every 2 hours after the code words have been said. She is unpredictable, must be kept in a cell, and needs to be accompanied by the Winter Soldier until we find a way to make it last longer." 

Joaquin suddenly stops.

Sam, "Why did you stop?" he says, peering over Joaquin's shoulder. 

"It's in Russian," he said, looking over at Bucky, who had a stern scowl creeping on his face.

"Let me see it," he says as Joaquin stands, and Bucky takes his place in front of the computer.

He skims the words for a moment. 

"Location: Alaska." He pauses, then continues, "The Asset can not know about her strength."

He finishes reading the document. "That's very vague..." Sam speaks up, not hopeful about their current situation. "That seemed too easy to find; this might be a trap," Sam said. 

They all fall silent, including Joaquin, who usually tries to crack a joke. 

Sam and Bucky share a look, Bucky's jaw clenching. 

---

"Wake her up, " a feminine Russian accent says sternly. The tall figure stands, arms folded across their chest. 

"We don't know her mental state..." A tech starts stuttering

The female glares at the tech, causing them to tremble. They slowly reached down to the button controls. A couple of guards stand beside the woman as the cryo machine slowly opens, vapor pouring out and floating to the top of the bunker's ceiling. 

The woman quickly puts a power blocker on Anastasia, rendering her powerless. The power blocker was made of sleek metal that cupped her wrist. Red lights touched her skin as the bracelets held power. 

Two guards drag her limp body to the brainwashing chair. They toss her into it and strap her in. The machine comes to life as the woman stands watching. 

Anastasia suddenly wakes up to the feel of the machine cupping her head and shocking her. She screams out, just like she's been in this chair before. The woman nods, and the machine stops. The woman crouched down in front of Anastasia and looked at her. 

Anastasia breathed heavily, her eyes boring into the woman. The woman gives her a small smile at the corner of her mouth. "Soldier, we have a mission for you." The woman's voice drips with excitement, her accent heavy. 

Anastasia took a couple of deep breaths, nodding slightly. "It should be simple for you, two targets, " she said as she stood back up. One of her guards handed her the file.

The woman flipped the file open, her eyes scanning it momentarily before turning it to show Anastasia. "I need you to kill them."

Anastasia's eyes flickered to the file in the woman's hand. Her eye twitched at the pictures of two men gazing back at her. She fights with all her might to overpower the brainwashing, the two men triggering repressed memories. 

The images that stare deep into her soul are none other than James Barnes and Sam Wilson.

The woman closes the file. "Hit her a couple more times; she's still peeking through it, " she says with a smirk. Anastasia flinches as the machine whirls back to life and attacks her. 

The woman watches Anastasia try to fight against the machine, but she stops after a couple more hits. The machine goes silent, the arms unwrapping from her head. 

"My name is Irina Volkov." The woman says.

Anastasia stays silent, her gaze shifted ahead as she stares blankly, emotionless. Irina shows the file again, checking to see if she has another reaction to the faces. This time, Anastasia remained focused, determined to execute her mission. 

Irina closes the file and sets it down. "Very good." She grabs the red book and opens it. She circles Anastasia as she starts reciting the code words. 

Irina finishes, closes the book, and sets it on the file. "I want you to make them sweat it out. I want the world to see what you're capable of. I want them to know HYDRA is back," she says, mischief evident in her eyes. 

Without another word, she exits the bunker.  

 

Chapter 7: The Chaos

Date: 2025 (pre-Brave New World)

Location: Washington, DC

"What are we doing out here?" Bucky asks as he glances around the busy DC streets. Joaquin holds a tablet in his hand while Sam stands next to Bucky.

"We got a GPS pin somewhere in this area," Joaquin says, still looking at the tablet.

"GPS on what exactly?" Sam speaks up.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. received an anonymous tip that claimed to have seen a woman walking around dressed like the Winter Soldier," Joaquin says, finally looking up from the tablet.

"So? I see a lot of people cosplaying like Bucky for Halloween." Sam questions the source.

"Still, I thought it was worth checking it out," Joaquin said, slightly nervous about seeing their reactions.

Both Sam and Bucky share a look. "You might want to suit up then, Cap."

Sam nods. "Do you think they woke her up? After all these years, did someone finally find her?"

Bucky shrugged. "I guess the only way for us to find out is if she does something."

Before the three can continue their conversation, the air around them changes. The sound of something slicing through the wind whipped by. Bucky stumbles back and looks down; a knife is sticking in his right shoulder. "Shit" He curses, reaching for the knife. Before he can act further, a metal leg strikes the middle of his chest, sending him flying into a steel structure. Sam and Joaquin look at Bucky, then at the source of the attack.

There she was—the one person they were looking for. The Asset is dressed in all-black combat gear, similar to what the Winter Soldier would wear. Her metal leg was on display, shiny and bright, with the iconic red star on the hip.

She strikes out, hitting Sam in the cheek. He goes flying into a wall and crashes down. His side hits the wall, a rib cracking. "Go, Joaquin, we can take care of this!" Sam grits out, holding his side. 

The Asset's eyes pierce into Joaquins' soul. He wasn't a target, not a person on her kill list. She rushes past Joaquin, quickly striding to Bucky. Her fist goes to connect with his head, but he moves out of the way in time, her knuckles hitting the steel wall behind him. She pulls her fist back, revealing a perfect, bent shape contouring from her fist.

Bucky quickly scrambled up. He pulls the knife from his shoulder. He winces a little from the removal. His eyes wander to Sam for a quick moment to check on him. Sam clenches his side, still trying to recover from the attack. He is without his gear and has no serum in his veins.

Joaquin rushes to his aid while Bucky fights The Asset alone.

The Asset swings several times, but Bucky can dodge or block the hits with his metal arm. She stabs her left hand with the knife Bucky holds out and grabs his throat with her right hand. This move was unpredictable and irrational. Bucky reaches up with his metal arm to grab her flesh arms. He is still fully clothed, with gloves covering both hands.

He stares into the Asset's eyes, her mask covering her face. Bucky doesn't remember much of her from when they were at HYDRA together. She throws him back again, releasing his neck. She quickly pulls the knife from her hand and twirls it around, mirroring that of the Winter Soldier.

Bucky grunts as he stands back up, bloodied and bruised from the fight. She sends the knife flying at him, but he uses his metal arm to block the hit, the knife slicing his leather jacket. "Dammit, I just bought this" Bucky curses under his breath.

He rips the sleeve, revealing his shiny black and gold vibranium arm. For a brief second, the Asset's eyes flash with something, a remembrance.

Bucky throws the ripped leather arm sleeve to the side.

Meanwhile, Sam finally recovers and stands. "This is serious deja vu."

"Now is not the time, Sam!" Bucky shouts, more annoyed than scared. 

The Asset stares at the metal arm, her brain processing why a metal arm feels familiar.

"Kill them," a voice speaks into her ear. She winces from the voice piercing her ear. Her hand immediately goes for her gun on her hip, but Bucky tackles her to the ground. They struggle on the ground, he's trying to stop her while she's trying to shoot him. She manages to get the upper hand, hooking her left leg around his shoulder, flipping him on his back. Bucky quickly scrambles back up. Her moves are sloppy, something not normal for HYDRA. 

He watches her as she gets back up, also, gun gripped in her hand, knuckles turning white. Bucky grabs his gun, which was hidden in his waistband. "Do you remember me?" He asks his grip to be steady. 

The Asset stares at him, eyes flickering between the three men. Irina's voice continues screaming in her ear. She pulls her earpiece out almost instinctively, crushing it in her fingers. 

The Asset looks between them, confusion hidden by her mask.

Police sirens fill the air as they round the corner. Bystanders watch the interaction unfold. The sound of sirens snaps whatever composure and control The Asset had left. Before anyone can act, she darts off, disappearing.

Sam, still holding his side, turns to Bucky. "You failed to mention she had a metal leg!" He shouts as police surround the area, guns drawn. "I never saw it; I didn't know she had it!" Bucky yells back. He then pauses, his face falling for a moment. "Oh...I forget." He admits in a casual tone. 

Sam groans. "YOU FORGOT?"

The police lowered their weapons upon seeing Bucky and Sam. EMS rushes to their aid.

EMS rushed over to Sam to assist with his broken rib and bruised cheek. Joaquin helps in any way he can. Bucky stares at the first responders with his usual grumpy demeanor, unwilling to allow them to help. He finally gives up and lets them check his stab wound. 

After The Asset quickly exits, Anastasia fights to regain her mind while The Asset tries to find the meeting point. Both are unsure if they should return or run.

***

"Why did you fail your mission?" Irina grits out, anger flooding her as she stares back at Anastasia.

Anatasia stares ahead. She takes every blow to the face. The brainwashing is out of her system by now; she willingly comes back. 

Something inside her finally snapped; she reached out and grabbed Irina's neck, pulling her close. "I am not your pawn anymore." She speaks back. The guards all point their weapons at Anastasia. She stares into Irina's wide eyes.

She tosses her body, her back hitting the nearest wall and knocking her out. Anastasia turns her attention to the guards. They start to fire their weapons, but she quickly reaches one of them and grabs their rifle, using it on the others. The sirens start to sound. The robotic voice sounds in the bunker. 'Asset out of containment' repeating over and over. The red blinking light in the room was flashing with each tick. Emergency protocol began. HYDRA wasn't even sure how to deal with this. They had a weapon, capable of great things, but a force to be reckoned with if angered. 

HYDRA hid her files from her, never letting her discover her true potential. They kept her frozen for most of her time. Anastasia had prior knowledge of how to fight, but not on the level of the Winter Soldier. They were all reluctant to teach her, so they only showed her some moves that wouldn't hint at her strength. They did this for fear of what was happening—a window for escape, and she took it. 

HYDRA disbanded after the events of Project Insight and the escape of The Winter Soldier. Irina took the opportunity to become the new commander. However, it was short-lived. Before Irina, she was frozen since 2014. Her training was short-lived when they prioritized The Winter Soldier over her. 

Anastasia used the key from a guard to get the power blocker off her arm, her bullet wounds healing instantly when she removed it.

In that moment, she was done being used. She was done killing for their gain. She rushed out of the room, heading to the control room.

She kicked down the door with her metal leg and ripped the person sitting at the desk away.

***

"Captain America, we have a situation." A SHIELD agent says over the phone to Sam. Sam listens to them explain and then ends the short conversation.

Bucky and Joaquin watch his facial expressions as he remains silent momentarily.

"Speak, Sam!" Bucky said, getting annoyed.

"There's been an explosion southwest of Buckland, Alaska...an underground bunker," Sam says, grimacing.

"Alaska? That's where the HYDRA files said they had her. It will take us at least 8 hours to get there." Bucky says, more frustrated, running a hand over his face. 

"What kind of explosion?" Joaquin asks, eager to hear the rest.

"I don't know the situation. That's all they told me," Sam said, grabbing his gear bag and heading for the door. Bucky and Joaquin share a glance, following suit.

"Whatever this is, it's not good," Sam said.

They all rushed to the Quinjet. They all found their seats as the pilot closed the door and took off.

 

Chapter 8: The Escape

Date: Present day (pre-thunderbolts)

Location: HYDRA Alaska Base

The cold air enveloped the demolished bunker. Snow littered the area, leaving nothing but the usual winter wonderland. The army officer surrounded the exploded base. The eerie silence was covered by breathing and the shuffling of boots in the snow. The US Military stayed trained on the wreckage, and no one dared to make a move. They were first on the scene, with their base near the explosion. The Colonel assessed the situation, and the soldiers waited for commands. He paced relentlessly 

Anastasia starts to stir, coming out of her slumber. She slowly pushed the wreckage off her, blood trailing down her face from a large gash on her forehead. She looked around a little dazed for a moment. Another person moved, pushing themselves from the wreckage. Her eyes darted over, her body soon following. Anastasia's clothes were torn, and several holes in the tactical gear showed her pale skin from the lack of sun. She stepped over the wreckage, approaching Irina, who survived the explosion. She towered over the Russian woman, her hand reaching out and grabbing fistfuls of her blonde hair. Irina looks up, her eyes wide as she tries to pull Anastasia's hand away. 

No words are exchanged as the two women stare at each other. Meanwhile, the US Military has its guns trained on her, red lasers lighting up the already bright sky. Irina's eyes are wide, realization dawning on her face. Anatasia's face betrays nothing other than her cold stare. 

Anastasia grabs a knife from the sleeve of her torn tactical suit and, without another thought, the blade slowly slices across Irina's long, slender neck, blood immediately pooling out. The woman doesn't have time to react before she's let go, and her body slams into the wreckage beneath them. Anastasia stares down as the life drains from the woman's body. All the soldiers watching stare in stunned silence. They shift uncomfortably as the Commanding officers aren't sure how to deal with it. 

Finally, Anastasia turned her attention to the onlookers. Her frazzled reddish-brown hair covered half her face as she stared at them like a wild animal. She dropped the knife, but her stern gaze remained. Her breathing picked up, and her eyes widened as the military kept their weapons trained on her. The cold air moved through, whipping her hair around. 

A sound cuts through the tension, and Sam lands hard on one knee, standing up slowly. He's in his red, white, and blue Captain America Vibranium suit, and the shield catches the light. Sam lands between the soldiers and Anastasia. Sam had decided to ditch the Quinjet and fly there since he could get there faster. He could cover almost four thousand miles in three hours with his new suit. 

"Lower your weapons," Sam says to the US Military officer. The officer looks at Sam. "I said, stand down!" Sam raises his voice. He puts his hand out, requesting them to stop. The lasers are still trained on Anastasia; however, where Sam was positioned, some of them pointed at him. 

The Colonel nods quickly, motioning for the soldiers to lower their rifles. They collectively lower them immediately, still watching the scene unfold. Sam takes a step forward, his hands raised in surrender. "Anastasia, we're not here to hurt you." 

Sam saying her name was like a trigger. Her eyes flicker as she stares at him. It couldn't be, the tall, muscular man standing in front of her couldn't be the man she knew 20 years ago. He still looked the same, barely any wrinkles, but you could tell he was older and more mature. 

"Sam?" Anastasia says, her breathing becoming more ragged. "Yeah, it's me," he says, touching his chest as he speaks. Sam steps closer to Anastasia, hands still out like approaching a wild animal. The cut on her forehead had already healed, but the blood remained stained on her face. Her metal leg was visible through her ripped pants. 

Anastasia continued to look past Sam at the crowd gathered behind him. Before Anastasia could react, a shot rang out. The bullet whizzed by and embedded itself between her eyes. She drops to the ground half a second later.

Everyone freezes. Sam stares at her lifeless body, her eyes still open as the hole slowly bleeds out. "Who fired?" He yells, turning to look at the US Military. Sam repeats the question. "Who fired the shot?" 

The US Military looked at each other, unsure of who took the shot. The Colonel starts yelling at his men, telling them to return to the Humvees and planes. One particular private stands out from the rest, looking stunned himself. The Colonel marches over and grabs a fistful of his uniform. "Why did you fire?" He shouts in the soldier's face. The Private cowers, "I didn't mean to, it was an accident." He sputters out. Sam grimaces as he looks at Anastasia's lifeless body. 

A couple of soldiers grab Anastasia's lifeless body, dragging her through the wreckage, her body leaving a trail in the snow, footsteps on either side of her path. Sam watches them place her back down away from the wreckage. The Colonel was still yelling at the Private who took the shot, while the rest of the US Military started searching through the wreckage. 

"What do we do with her?" The Colonel finally addresses Sam. 

Sam breaks his gaze from her body to meet the Colonel's. He doesn't say anything at first. When he was about to speak, another Private rushed over with a phone, handing it to the Colonel. "Sir, It's the President." The Colonel and Sam exchange a look as he presses the phone to his ear. "Yes, Mr President?" The Colonel speaks, clearing his throat. 

"Bring her to Quanico, " the President says. The Colonel doesn't get the chance to respond as the line goes dead. 

__

Quanico buzzed with the usual mix of busy, hard-at-work people. Soldiers marched, commands were given, and prisoners watched behind fences. Anastasia walked with cuffs around her wrists, two soldiers on either side of her, their hands gripping her forearms hard enough to hurt. They all walked purposefully, Sam slowly following behind with Bucky and Joaquin nearby. 

They toss her into a cell, more roughly than intended. Anastasia lets herself fall to the ground with a grunt. "Hey, woah, easy!" Sam yells, reaching the cell door as it slams shut. Bucky does his signature stern gaze to the soldiers' backs as they march off. 

Joaquin looks between them nervously. "Um, so what's next?" They stand there looking stupid, staring at each other like it's their first day on earth. No one dares to speak, the question looming between them. Anastasia sits on the cold concrete floor watching the three men stare at each other. She rolls her eyes, "You three are a bunch of dipshits." 

Bucky's head whirls around to look at her, a mixture of shock and intrigue. Joaquin looks over at the same time as Sam, the two men exchanging glances again.

 "Are you just going to stare at me all day?" Anastasia asks, raising a brow. 

Sam finally speaks up, breaking the tension, "We're just shocked...concerned. I watched you get shot in the head, and now you're cuffed in a cell." 

"Way to deliver that easier." She scoffs, looking away. 

Sam winces. "Sorry, force of habit. My rib still hurts because of you."

Bucky cuts in, "and my shoulder," he grumbles. 

Anastasia looks back at them, "My bad."  

Bucky furrows his brows but gets interrupted by soldiers approaching. They unlock the cell and grab Anastasia, dragging her out without another word. Anastasia decides it's better to go along with it, even though she could probably make a fuss about it. 

They led her to a bare room with white walls, a sleek, cold metal table, and a chair. Anastasia took a seat as they cuffed her to the rail in the middle of the table. It was a simple interrogation room with cold and harsh lighting. Bucky, Sam, and Joaquin watched on the other side of the wall through the double-sided mirror. 

A military personnel member walks into the room. He sets a file down onto the table before sitting across from her. "Well, isn't this just fun?" he says snarkily, a grin spreading on his face but not reaching his eyes. 

"Just when we thought we knew all the super soldiers." He says, dryly, his gaze shifting to the mirror. Bucky met his gaze on the other side; the implied words were there. 

Anastasia rolls her eyes. The man looks back at her, opening the file and flipping through it. "You are an interesting case. The President himself has requested your beautiful presence. I guess you aren't a dirty HYDRA secret after all, " he says, amused. 

Anastasia purses her lips, not feeding into his words. "You have a kill list not that long for a HYDRA soldier. This surprises me." 

Behind the mirror, Bucky tenses at the man's words. Sam notices and puts a hand on his shoulder as if it were a small lifeline. 

"Now you must be wondering why you're here?" The man finally looks up from the file. He pulls out a couple of pictures and shoves them forward. Anastasia looks down at them, her jaw clenching at the sight. "Recognize this?" 

Anastasia gives a short nod. The pictures on the table include the orange serum and all the information they could conjure up. A couple of other pictures are of Alexander Pierce and Irina Voklov. "Do you recognize these people?" He asks, tapping the pictures. Anastasia nods again and then says, "They were my handlers, is what they wanted me to call them." 

The man nodded and gathered the pictures, placing them gingerly back in the folder. "You can be very valuable to us, Captain Becker. You served in Afghanistan, you've seen far worse than most soldiers." 

Anastasia bristled at his words, similar to those from her time in HYDRA. The man ignored the change in her demeanor. "We're willing to help you, reconnect you with your family, and let you get back to a norm—well, as normal as possible life. We want you to resume your position as Captain. With your knowledge of how HYDRA runs, we can fully stop them now."

"I don't know everything." She speaks, her voice rough. 

"But you know enough about how they run and operate. Tell us everything you know, and we'll help you with the powers they gave you." The man says optimistically. He slides a pad of paper and a pen to her. She looks at the blank lines on the paper before gently taking the pen from him.  

"Where do you want me to start?" She asks, looking up to meet the man's stare. 

Chapter 9: The Family Reunion

Date: Present Day (Pre-Thunderbolts)

Location: Washington, D.C.

Anastasia's POV:

The birds chirp, and the wind slowly moves through the air. I hate it. Here I stand, a small house begging me to come in. I shove my hands in my pockets; my heart flutters. The little house, my little house. The one where my brother and sister would pick fights while I studied for a midterm. The backyard where we would all laugh as we chased each other with a cold hose on a warm spring day. It never changed; it was still the same white house with brown shutters. Fresh flowers hang in their pots—a newly sprayed concrete driveway. 

I take a deep breath and stroll to the front door. After the events of that man promising me my future, I did get it: no jail time or criminal record. I wrote everything I knew, the things I witnessed, the things they did to me, the things I did. It's been several days, and I've gathered enough balls to see if my parents are alive. Almost thirty fucking years later, who knows what my family did, how they reacted to my disspearrance. I keep avoiding mirrors, but I can't get myself to look. I'm not entirely sure what would stare back.

I now stand in front of the door, the dark wood begging to be painted. I reluctantly raise my hand to knock. Taking a deep breath, I step back, burying my hands further into my jacket pockets. 

Before I can run away, the door handle twitches, and the sound of a lock clicking stops my breath. The door swings open, revealing an older woman, mid-late 60s, maybe 70s. My heart practically stops at the woman looking at me. "Mom?" 

The woman, who looks like my mom but is way older, stared back at me in stunned silence. "Anastasia?" Her voice cracks, like saying the name, physically pains her. I can't help the tears that spring to life at the sound of her voice, one I haven't heard in decades. "Mommy," My voice stutters as I crash down, hugging her. She stumbles back but doesn't hesitate to hug me back, her embrace just as strong. I am full-on crying now, my tears drenching her shoulder. 

After that man, let's call him the weird government official, listened to me rant about my problems, and when he was satisfied with all the information I was forced to recall, he gave me all the information I needed. He shared what HYDRA did during my time. You know how the government is, very secret, very good at getting intel. I was a lucky participant in their fun little game. Kill or be killed, so they say. However, that's a fool's game, and I am not a fool. I am just lost. Lost in a new world that never slowed down for me, never gave me a chance to catch up. I am mentally and physically still 26, the age I was taken. I should be 50 something, which is weird, right? 

My mom and I hug for what feels like a lifetime and no time at all. She leads me into the house; it still looks and smells like I remember. Even before I was taken, I hadn't stepped foot in it for two years. Mom makes us a cup of tea. The hot water boiling on the stove was the only sound in the relatively quiet house. I drift my gaze around, looking at all the photos. 

There are dozens of framed pictures on the wall and on the tables. Every surface of this house has a picture or an object. I had what you would call a normal childhood. My parents had me when they were both 23, which is ironic, in a not-so-funny way. That's the age I enlisted as an officer. And to make matters worse, my parents split. My 'disappearance' caused a rift, and their marriage wasn't strong enough. 

I was nine when my little sister was born, and thirteen when my little brother was born. Talk about waiting a long time between kids. Let's say I was never the kid they planned for. They weren't even married when my mom got knocked up, which is why they probably fled to the US. 

My sister and brother were... interesting children, to say the least. They were always closer to each other. Only a couple years apart, I was always gone, growing up in the 80's and early 90's you see and do a lot of shit that wouldn't fly in this new world. From the little time I've spent learning everything I can about technological advancements, I still don't like the phone called "smartphone" or they also call it iPhone, what a stupid name. I refuse to give up my flip phone, which Sam gifted me when they finished their relentless questioning. I could hear them on the other side of the wall. I can hear things I never wanted to, like someone's heartbreak, blood moving in their arteries, whispers, and birds sounding louder, crisper. I know it's the serum. The useless government officials still couldn't give me the complete information on what HYDRA made. 

Because I was 'emotionally unstable' by blowing up the bunker, I ruined all the evidence of its existence. What makes things worse is having the man who used to punch me in the face and be forced to kill next to me, follow me around like a sad, lost puppy because he feels bad. 

I keep avoiding them, their constant reminder only adding to my pain. I didn't see Sam well; he had only crossed paths enough in Afghanistan when he and Riley were doing Falcon missions. Riley, that name, that face, a constant reminder of the damage I did, of the people I've killed. Riley was, unfortunately, one of my victims. He was a good person, kind, too good for this world. He was a lot like Joaquin and had the same thrill to help. I don't know much about Joaquin, only from exchanging words and looks. 

My thoughts are interrupted when my mom suddenly appears by my side with a freshly made cup of tea. I take the mug, wrapping the hot ceramic around my hands. After an eternity in silence, she finally breaks the tension, "Your dad is on his way, so are your brother and sister." 

I sip my tea, my eyes finding the framed family portraits of all of us, happy in ugly Christmas sweaters when I was 17. I hated everything and everyone at that age, and they couldn't tell me what to do or how to act. I was a party animal, drinking, drugs, sex, you name it, I was doing it. Call it rebelling, I call it the early 90s. Even with my partying, I was still a great student, good enough to get accepted into Georgetown, even though my dad influenced that. 

Whereas I? Oh yes, my childhood. My parents did their best, and my dad was home every day at 6 pm for dinner. Mom worked part-time at a private equity company to focus on us kids. My sister, Amelia, and my brother, Henry, were loud. Always yelling at each other and fighting. They tried to get me involved in their drama, but I fled when I was in college. I wasn't running; it was more like I was ready for quiet, with a different scenery. 

My mom must sense my inner turmoil because she nudges my shoulder, a gentle reminder that she and I are here, together. This has to be the worst—the fond memories, the things I missed—my whole life taken from me. Now I'm discarded. I feel... well, I don't know how I'm supposed to feel.

The grumpy assassin just tells me, "It gets better." But I think we both know that's a lie.  

A particular picture burns holes into my head. It is a picture of what I can only guess, which is my sister and brother, but older. They look the same, just older, like my mother. Children sit on their laps, smiling and wearing themed clothes. Another man stands behind my sister, his hand on her shoulder as they all pose. 

"That's Liam and Isabelle," my mom says fondly, pointing to each little kid, the two sitting on my sister's lap. She points to the man behind my sister, "and that's Mateo, Amelia's husband."

My heart clenches. My sister has a husband and two children. They all lived and had their own lives. A part of me is happy for them, another is sad, and another is mad—mad at HYDRA, mad at the world for forgetting me, just mad. 

Because honestly, how am I supposed to feel? 

--

A couple of hours after I stepped into my childhood home, my dad, brother, and sister pretty much crashed through the front door, all yelling. I stand from my position on the couch, my tea long gone. All three of them push each other through the front door, all sets of eyes on me. "Holy Shit" my sister mutters. It feels like time stopped. My little brother and sister are now older than I am. How the hell does someone react to this?

They all envelop me in a tight hug, my mom joining in. For a moment, it's peaceful. 

 

 

Chapter 10: The Talk

Date: 2025 (Pre-brave new world)

Location: Washington, DC

Anastasia's POV:

"Wait, what do you mean you've never heard of the Avengers?" My brother, Henry, exclaimed, his face a mixture of confusion and shock. I blink a couple of times. "Uh, should I know who they are?" I question.

Henry and Amelia exchange a look like I'm the craziest person alive right now. We all sit in a circle on various couches and chairs in my mom's living room. Henry, Amelia, Mom, and Dad. It's weird, seeing everyone so old. Well, I couldn't, and Amelia is older by age, but they are. The last time I saw them, they were pretty much in diapers. (That's a sentiment; they were only teenagers, but to me, they were still my baby siblings.) 

"Did you meet the president?" Amelia asked, changing the subject. I furrowed my brows. "No, I met some dipshit government official who promised that if I gave information, I would be free." 

"Don't give your sister attitude, " my mom interjects. I purse my lips and refrain from rolling my eyes because I don't want a smack to the head like in old times. 

"Yeah, Anastasia, don't give me attitude," Amelia says, crossing her arms. 

"Well, act your age then, old hag," I fire back, mirroring her crossed arms. 

This time, Dad's turn to roll his eyes and huff. "You three exhaust me. Anastasia, you haven't changed a bit, that's good. You've always been my favorite." 

Henry and Amelia groan, "You can't just say that, Dad!" They both exclaim. I smirk, proud of the acknowledgment. It's true. I'd always been daddy's little girl before those two came along. For almost 9 years until Amelia was born I was helping dad with his old ass car he thought he could fix, coming with him on base, doing daddy-daughter dances at the country club. He was also your traditional Military officer, asshole to most. I guess he's mellowed out by old age and retirement. 

When he got injured right after meeting my mother at the Aviano Air Force Base in Italy, he got the orders to go back to Joint Base Andrews in DC. There, they gave him the MOS to fly for Air Force One. My mom was in the Swiss Army; their paths crossed several times, which led to an oopsy baby: me. They were never shy about expressing it as my fault for my mother leaving her homeland. Give me a break. The US wasn't particularly thrilled to hear my father got a Swiss army officer knocked up, but they offered her. I was born at Walter Reed, which granted me US and Swiss citizenship, yippee. 

"When will you be an avenger?" Henry asks a little more excited than I think is necessary. I raise an eyebrow. "Uh, never?" 

"Nick Fury hasn't called you? You've got a cool ass metal leg and the super soldier serum, he'd be a fool not to have you. If Bucky Barnes can be an avenger, so can you." Amelia points out that cutting off Henry from adding his own opinion. 

"I don't want to be an Avenger; I just want to lie around all day and do nothing," I say, annoyed now. I don't see myself as an avenger, and I still don't know who or what the hell that is. They keep trying to explain it. Giant aliens came to Earth and destroyed New York. 

"Wait, did you say Bucky Barnes is an Avenger?" I am confused. They nod, "Yeah, and Sam Wilson. There are many of them now, but they are scattered since Thanos and the blip. Oh my god, the blip! You missed too much. Where do we even start?" Henry says, throwing a hand on his head to prove a point because he's just as dramatic as the rest of us. 

"Jesus Christ Bucky pisses me off so much. He won't stop texting me and bothering me. Sam too. They all are trying to check in on me, and I'm tired of it." I huff, looking down at the coffee table to avoid the looks they probably give me right now. 

"What are they like? Are they just as hot in person?" Amelia asks, scooting herself closer to the edge of her chair. My head whips up to look at her, my poker face failing as I make a disgusted face. "WHAT?"

Ameila shrugs, "Just answer the question! I would love to meet them."

"You have a husband," Henry points out. "So? No shame in looking." Amelia huffs as well. 

"I'm avoiding them, stick around long enough and they might just show up." 

"Why?" They both ask in unison. Oh boy, where do I begin? 

--

Later that afternoon, after several more back-and-forth banter sessions, they left, leaving me with Mom and Dad. Mom and Dad say they left on good terms, but grieving me was just too hard on their marriage. I can't say I'm thrilled being a child of divorce, but I guess I can say it's technically my fault. Well, more like Bucky's fault. Yea, fuck him. That's why I'm avoiding him. But wherever Bucky is, Sam seems to follow. And wherever Sam is, Joaquin is. I honestly don't understand that dynamic. They are all a little gay for each other. 

Life is rather boring now. I don't need sleep, but I napped all day anyway because I can. These moments never last long, as images and reminders of what I've done return to the surface. Therapy was a condition of my release back to society. How poetic. Gag me. 

I have missed two sessions now, deciding that locking myself in my childhood room was better. They have yet to arrest me for missing, so I'll keep seeing what I can get away with. Mom and Dad try their hardest to reconnect, but it only goes far. Seeing them, all wrinkly and gray-haired, is a constant reminder of the life I missed and could've had. 

One afternoon where the birds never shut the fuck up outside my window, my mom knocks softly on my bedroom door. "sweetie, you have visitors." She doesn't elaborate further before two large ass men are in my room. Just great, what I need right now is jail. 

I look up, and it is not the cops—it's worse: Bucky and Sam. Sam looks concerned, and Bucky—well, he's Bucky—Pissy.

"Amelia was right, they are more handsome in person." My mother decides to interject, eyeing the two men shamelessly. I groan and bury my head in my hands, "MOM!" 

She chuckles and wanders off, probably to make tea. 

Bucky walks into my room and decides to be nosy. He pokes around, looking at pictures, while Sam leans on the doorframe. "You have therapy," he says. 

I look out the window and sit on the small bench under it. "Wow, don't care." I eye roll this time. 

"Can you take this seriously, please?" Bucky finally speaks up, huffing and taking a seat on my bed. The bed creaks from his fat ass weight. 

"Asshole" I mutter mostly to myself but with his hearing I know he caught it. He continues to assault me with his eyes. 

"Enough, you two, please," Sam says, sighing. "We didn't come here to bitch."

"Oh, funny, so why are you here?" I say, still not looking at them.  

"We're worried," Bucky says. This time, his tone shifts to something similar to concern. 

"I really don't give a fuck what you think Barnes, I'm in this mess because of you." 

Bucky purses his lips and goes to say something, but Sam interrupts him, "That's not fair, Anastasia." 

I look at Sam, glaring, "Oh, I'm sorry. So what is fair, exactly?" 

Both men exchange a look. "Bucky didn't have control over it, and you know it. You know exactly what HYDRA did to you and him." 

"Just leave me alone," I say, my voice lowering, looking out the window, watching two birds fight over a worm. 

My mother comes back into the room, knocking gently. "Tea is ready!" 

I roll my eyes, just like I predicted. "I'm good," I say, not averting my gaze.

I hope Sam and Bucky leave the room for good, but when do I ever get what I want?

Thanks to my new and improved hearing, I can hear them moving about my house, talking with my mother over tea like they are all old friends, and my dad's loud voice booms through the house. I curl up, putting my knees to my chest, and wrap my arms around my legs. I think the weirdest part of it all is that I keep forgetting I have a metal leg. It moves when I do, like a real one. It's not heavy and mimics my other one. Even though it has a giant red star, I think it's cool. Bucky tries to hide his arm, pretending it's not there under layers of leather. I think I'll flaunt it. 

--

Third POV:

"I couldn't be more proud of her." Anastasia's father, William, boasts holding a framed picture of Anastasia at her Officer graduation. "She didn't want to join, but I didn't exactly give her a choice. Same with my other two. The military is what this family does. And I'd rather die than let them join the Navy or worse, Marines." He shudders dramatically at the mention of the two branches. 

Sam raises an eyebrow and exchanges a look with Bucky, who is forced to listen to William tell his whole life story of all the fathers before him, also in the military. "And my dad served in the Army during World War II." Bucky bristled at the mention of the war. 

"And his father was in World War I." William continued, unaware of the two men sitting on their couch being held against their will, listening to his war stories. 

Bucky takes a long sip of the tea Erika made. Sam nods, trying to be nice. 

"Do you boys want to stay for dinner?" Erika asks from the kitchen, grabbing some pots and pans. 

Sam and Bucky exchange a look again and shrug, "Sure." They both say in unison.

While Erika continues preparing dinner for the two new guests in their home, plus William and Anastasia, William sets the photo down. "You men want something stronger?" He says as he pours whiskey from the nearby decanter onto the mantle. 

Bucky nods, setting his now-empty mug of tea down. William pours them two glasses, handing one to each of the Avenegrs. "So, what do I owe the pleasure of having a WW2 veteran and Desert Storm Veteran in my-" He pauses, looking for the right word, "In my ex-wife's home. And don't just say because of Anastasia." He says, sipping his whiskey and taking a seat with a long sigh from age. 

"Well, we're concerned, that's all," Sam speaks up, clutching the glass in his hand.

Bucky downs the whiskey in one go, holding his glass out for more: him and that damn serum.  

William pours him another glass, "We all are, son, we all are. We all had to live with the loss and grieve her disappearance. None of us could truly come to terms with her... well, death, I guess. The only hope we had was that she was missing from the wreckage. Well, only a leg was found." He somehow said it in a way that would be humorous given the situation.

Bucky, however, did not find the joke funny and slammed the glass of whiskey harder than necessary on the table. Sam looks at him, silently urging him not to make a scene. William raises an eyebrow but decides not to press further. 

William looks at Sam. "So, how is the new Captain America? I can't say it must have been easy seeing Steve Rogers' replacement murder that guy in broad daylight." William presses. 

Sam clears his throat, looking back at the man. "It's a lot of pressure being Captain America. The title doesn't come easily. John Walker was a bad seed, something the US Government failed to recognize." 

William nodded, sipping his whiskey. "It was a shame; I liked that John Walker guy; I say he's innocent. That man was a terrorist after all. We all know why Walker was punished, stripped of all his titles." 

"And why is that?" The grumpy super soldier asked, pouting by now at the forced conversation. 

"He did it in broad daylight," William says, his eyes glistening with pride at his revelation. "But last I checked, Steve Rogers was no innocent man either; he killed people with the shield." 

Bucky shot up from the couch, his hands clenched, "Watch how you talk about him." 

William put his hands up in surrender, but his face didn't give away the same reaction. "I'm just saying, how guilty is John Walker when all the other Avengers have done far worse?"

That question hangs in the air; no one dared to answer it. Sam shifts uncomfortably from his seat on the couch while Bucky looks five seconds away from becoming the Winter Soldier again. 

"Dad, can you please stop?" A new voice adds to the uncomfortable silence. Anastasia strides into the living room looking less than pleased.

"Ah, look who finally decides to leave her room." William jokes. Anastasia's nostrils flare at his condescending tone. 

Anastasia looks at Bucky. "Sit down, please, don't start shit, " she says as she walks to the kitchen to see what her mother has decided to make. Bucky continues his grumpy look but sinks back down onto the couch anyway.

"Are Henry and Amelia gracing us with their presence?" Anastasia asked, looking between her mother and father. 

Erika nods, "Yes, they are, so are the kids." Anastasia's face drops into something that could only be described as panic. "What? Why didn't you say something earlier? I needed more time before meeting them!" She says with a shaky breath, crossing her arms. 

If you didn't know any better, you'd think she was still a teenager based on her actions. Erika sighed and continued stirring the sauce that bubbled on the stove. 

"They'll be here in half an hour. I suggest you get ready. And maybe brush your hair." Erika gives a motherly look. Anastasia makes a face, her hand immediately going to the rats nest of her long reddish brown locks. 

Bucky and Sam stare at her from their positions on the couch. "Do you guys mind?" Anastasia says with a chipped tone. Before either of the men could respond, Erika interrupted. "Anastasia, you better be nice. They are guests, and they are staying for dinner." Anastasia strides off back to her room without saying a word. However, it was hard to miss her displeasure.  

Anastasia slammed her bedroom door, more to prove a point, but she immediately regretted it because she knew she'd be yelled at later. It didn;t matter how old she was, her mother would still kick her ass. 

 

Chapter 11: The Dinner Table

Date: 2025 (pre-brave new world)
Location: Washington, DC

Anastasia's POV:

I don't know how we got here, but here we are. I have two—wait, make that three—'Avengers' sitting at my childhood dining room table. My mother and father sit at the heads of the table, Amelia, her husband, and their two children squished between them, followed by Bucky, Sam, Joaquin, me, and Henry on the opposite side. Just a big stioid ass family. Can't make this up even in a dream. 

Sam invited Joaquin over, not entirely sure why. This table barely fits all eleven of us. We are eating my mom's favorite cooking thing: polenta and beef. Surprisingly enough, everyone is eating it without complaint. This was one of my favorite meals growing up. My mother was a good cook, although there's a reason the Swiss aren't exactly known for their food. 

The sound of my father's loud voice in the dining room brings my thoughts back to reality. "Maybe you can go back to school? Hmm, get your PhD?" 

My head snaps up from my plate to meet his. He had one of those hopeful looks on, one I recognize all too well, even if he's more wrinkly. "Uh..." Before I can respond appropriately, my brother graces us with his snarky reply. "HYDRA probably fried her brain too much."

"Henry Becker!" My mom's voice boomed through the dining room, causing everyone to still. 

Henry seemed to regret it immediately, not because he had just made a trauma joke, but because his mommy just yelled at him.

"You didn't just say that, you asshole!" I gritted out. Bucky tensed beside me, clearly not thinking it was funny either, but from the little time I knew him as Bucky and not The Winter Soldier, he didn't have a shining personality. 

Joaquin watches the tense exchange, clearly delighted enough to keep eating. I could practically hear his thoughts, 'Dinner and a show.'

"Annastasia, please watch your language in front of my children." Amelia decides to interject, covering the ears of my niece and nephew, who are 4 and 5. I roll my eyes and push my plate away, muttering a 'whatever' mostly to myself. 

Sam and Bucky remain silent throughout my family's awkward interactions. I almost feel bad for them, but they decided to stay and invite Joaquin. No time has passed, and we are all young again. I swear I saw more gray hairs appear on my parents' heads just from my return, even though they only have gray hair. 

My father decided he wanted to change the subject mid-bite, urgently putting his fork down. "Look at my baby, so strong—my little prisoner of war. I couldn't be prouder. You were wanted by the enemy, which means you were special, just like your old man." He says, dramatically putting a hand over his heart. 

I give him a bewildered look, "Can we not right now? You literally have another brainwashed assassin sitting here," I say, gesturing to Bucky, who looks 2 seconds away from shooting himself. "And he got it worse than me," I added, not exactly sure why. 

"Maybe we should not compare trauma," Sam says, knowing Bucky was frozen from this conversation. Given the circumstances, the look on this man's face would be comical. God, Sam is... Sam. 

Me, however, I kind of wish at this very moment to be back in the cryo chamber. But I might break Bucky in a way HYDRA never did if I said that joke out loud.  

"And the serum! You look great, sweetheart. You put on what? Twenty-thirty pounds of muscle?" 

"William, don't talk about your daughter's weight," my mother says, getting more annoyed at my father's antics. 

"Erika, I'm just simply pointing out that she looks good, more like her every day."

"Am I supposed to have a response to that?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't think you look like a man," Henry interjects, "You look like... something, but we have guests so that I won't say it." That last sentence earns him a glare from Mother. 

Henry smirks. Oh, I could smack that smug look off his old face. Speaking of old, I turn my head to Bucky. Bucky looks at me from the corner of his vision, and I can tell he is about to break a sweat. This must be torture for this man, and I am enjoying it. 

"How about we change the subject?" I say, grinning, with a smug look on my face. Bucky doesn't have time to react before I look over at Amelia. "How about we talk about the fact that Amelia has a husband? I thought you were gay?" 

Forks drop on the plates from that one. Damn I'm good. Amelia glares at me. "I'm bisexual."

"What the hell does that mean?" I ask.

"It means I like both men and women," Amelia replies, rolling her eyes. 

"That sounds like an excuse to sleep with women." 

"It's not an excuse!"

"Speaking of sleeping around, Anastasia, didn't you sleep with Tony Stark?" Henry asks, looking rather pleased with himself.

The shift in the room doesn't go unnoticed this time by anyone, including Joaquin, who was practically licking his plate. 

"Uh...I am not talking about this." I say, my mouth clamping down. Bucky freezes next to me, and Sam looks like he just saw someone murder a puppy. 

"When did you meet Tony Stark?" Sam asked, finally snapping out of the revelation. 

"A party in 1998," I say, somewhat ominously for a reason. After that, little detail was needed; Tony Stark was a billionaire who partied, did drugs, and slept around. I was one of those 'lucky' women to sleep with him. He was a great lay, I'll give him that. 

Everyone glances, but I continue, "and Henry, why aren't you married? You're 41 now, a little long in the tooth?" 

Henry doesn't feed into my act and shrugs, "I like to keep my options open." 

"That means you can't find a woman to put up with you long enough. Or is it an excuse to sleep around?" 

"What? Like you did?" Henry exclaimed, narrowing my eyes. 'It was the 90s!" 

"I'm in my 40s and not married," Sam interjects

"My point exactly," I say, not switching to look at him.  

"Okay, enough, everyone." My mother speaks up. Food is getting cold, and I'm tired of hearing you all argue over who slept with whom. This is not a conversation you have with your parents sitting here, and especially at the dinner table with children."

Shit... my niece and nephew. I quickly look over at them, but they are too nose deep into their iPads to care.  

"Whatever, this is retarded and it's getting late," I say, standing up and grabbing my half-eaten plate.

"You can't say that word," Amelia says disapprovingly.

"What word?"

"The r-word," She said, like she couldn't believe I said it. What the hell is wrong with that word?

"Who says?"

Amelia exchanges a look with Henry then looks back at me, "The Internet, Gen Z" 

I scoff, "Oh, the internet. Fine, I won't say it."

I walk my plate to the kitchen, wash it in the sink, and put it in the dishwasher. I don't want my mom to wring my neck out for leaving a dirty dish in her sink. 

My sister and her husband, whose name I have already forgotten, gather their children, preparing to leave. Henry decided to crash in his old room for a couple of days. 

Henry is an engineer for a company based in Virginia, only an hour from the house. Amelia, however, is a professor at Ohio State teaching Animal Science. Her husband got a nice, cushy job in Columbus, which made them need to relocate away from home. From the way she describes Ohio, I think Amelia likes it. But it's Ohio; how great can it be?

Sam, Bucky, and Joaquin float around the house, unsure what to do, especially after that dinner.

"So that was... interesting," Joaquin says, looking between the two men. 

"That was more than interesting, that was hell," Bucky mutters to himself, but thanks to the serum, I heard him. 

He's right, that was hell. Welcome to family drama, which never changes even after decades apart. 

 

Chapter 12: The Reminders

Date: 2024 (pre-brave new world) 
Location: Washington, DC.

Anastasia's POV:

After dinner, Bucky, Sam, and Joaquin left around the same time. Since Henry was crashing in his old room, Amelia decided to stay, leaving the kids with her husband, who had to fly back to Ohio in the morning. Amelia set herself up in her old room, working from home. I still don't understand the whole internet thing. Henry keeps making fun of me, which is nothing new. He was always good at one-liners. 

It's surreal being with my family again. My father had a house 15 minutes from my mom's. Neither of them remarried; they only dated a couple of times. I learned that my parents still paid the rent for my apartment; they somehow signed a contract with the landlord to never pay more than what I was paying. My mom said they continued to pay for it in case I returned to them. Mother intuition is how she described it. I guess she was right. Henry and Amelia said they would go with me to get my stuff. When I was still in the Air Force, I had to stay on base but leased it out to others to avoid losing it. It's on the cheap part of DC, not a bad spot, close to the base. Mom chased them off when I went missing, said she wanted a place to go when she needed a day to grieve. 

This leads us to Henry sprawling across a chair, legs dangling off the armrest, and his face buried in his phone. He lets out a bark of laughter, causing me to jump out of my skin from my seat on the couch. Mom had an episode of Will & Grace on. It was nearing 8 pm.

"Can you shut up?" I grunted, looking at Henry, who was still laughing at something on his phone. He tossed it to me, and I caught it with ease. I looked down to watch the video that was playing in a loop. 

The video shows Bucky being sent flying into a steel structure with a knife embedded into his shoulder. My eyes widened, recognizing this moment. The video looks like a bystander filmed it. The video was of excellent quality, but I could tell the person was shaking while filming. It shows Sam slumped over, with Joaquin hovering over him, and me, dressed in what HYDRA put me in, my shiny light gray metal leg on display. 

"Dude, you kicked their asses!" Henry continues to laugh, wiping tears away. Amelia snags the phone out of my hand to watch the video and gasps. I bury my head in my hands, groaning. "Stop laughing, it's not funny! Now there's a damn video of me online!" 

"Relax, no one can tell it's you... You have a mask on." Amelia comforts me, returning the phone to Henry when the video stops. 

"Like that's supposed to make me feel better?" I snapped, looking up from my hands. 

They both exchange a look, and Amelia adds, "You looked badass." 

Henry nods like his opinion matters. We all sit in silence for a couple of minutes, I watch Will & Grace, pretending to pay attention while Henry laughs once in a while at something on his phone. Amelia is ass deep in her computer, probably grading papers. She told me earlier that all she had to do was record lectures for the week's topics; the rest was on a school website called Canvas. If only my time from school had been that easy, we had to read textbooks at the library. 

"So what did HYDRA do about your hair? Did they have a specialist to do your nails and toes?" Henry asked with a stupid, smug look, looking up from his phone.

I send him a less-than-amused look. It's not that I want to forget what they did or not talk about it. I don't mind talking about it. Bucky, however, won't talk about it—only a couple of grunts. 

"Yes, they did actually. They had a whole team just dedicated to pampering me for battle," I say, rolling my eyes. There was some truth to it; they did trim my fingernails and the five toenails I now have. They would braid my hair when I had missions, but I was surprised they didn't cut it instead. 

I don't remember much from my HYDRA days because I was asleep for most of it. I may have been brainwashed for missions, but my memory always came back, and the events of the mission came with it. 

Henry goes back on his phone. "What about your period?" Amelia asked, her hands clasped in front of her. Henry peeks from behind his phone again at that question.

"Well, I don't know. I never got my peri-" I start to say, until suddenly the air is knocked out of my lungs as realization dawns on me. I never got my period. I doubt HYDRA knew I was on the pill, and I'd remember if they put a tampon in me. 

Mom had gone to bed at this point, not wanting to be reminded of my torture and despair. Dad had left a couple of hours ago, saying he needed to buy beer and go to bed.

Amelia looks at me like I might just kill someone, which, with my new record, I might.  

"You don't know?" Henry asks with a hesitancy laced in his tone. 

"We should probably take you to a doctor. Maybe they gave you a shot or something."

"Or worse," Henry adds. 

"Henry, don't say that!" Amelia snaps at him, trying to calm my nerves as I am still frozen in my spot. 

"Come on, let's go to urgent care or something," Amelia adds, walking over and holding her hand out for me to take. I hesitantly reach out and lace my fingers with hers. She practically drags me out of the house and to his car, Henry fumbling behind with the keys. 

I reluctantly slide into the backseat, Henry in the driver's seat, Amelia in the front passenger seat. His car smelled like a mixture of mildew and dirt. "Why does it smell in here?" I say, wrinkling my nose. He scoffs, "It does not! I just cleaned it." Henry complains about pulling out of the driveway. This whole super-smell thing is only going to be a problem. It's just great. 

But no matter how bad it smells in this car to me, all I can think about is what HYDRA did. I keep pushing away the 'trauma' or whatever you want to call it. I don't think I have shell shock, which I keep being reminded is now called PTSD. 

The drive to the nearest hospital is quiet, but never too quiet for a super soldier with impeccable hearing. I can hear their hearts slamming against their chest and conversations in other people's cars 50 feet away at a stoplight. I hate it. 

The hospital slowly comes into view, the bright red neon 'Emergency'  sign blinking like it's seen better days—Henry parks by the curb. The lights of the police and ambulance offer the only flash of light in the night sky. 

Amelia and I get out of the car, and she immediately takes my hand and drags me into the building. The two giant plexiglass sliding doors open with a gush of cold air, and my skin immediately prickles. Thanks to the serum, I don't get cold, but the goosebumps spreading on my arms want to tell me otherwise. 

The ER buzzes with late-night activity—like an episode of Scrubs. I recently discovered Grey's Anatomy, a longer-running medical drama. I might have to watch it. Ameila calls it 'bingeworthy'. I'm still figuring out how to use Netflix. 

It's only been a week since I blew up that bunker and killed everyone in it. Do I feel bad? Not really. 

A tired nurse sits behind a wooden desk. She doesn't even bother looking up from her computer to say, "Fill this out." As she shoves a clipboard towards us. Amelia takes a pen and leads us to a corner in the room. I take a seat, looking around. Few people sat in the waiting room at 9 pm on a Thursday. A couple had tissues in their hands, a mixture of sneezes and coughs. One little kid pukes in a bag while his mother rubs his back. 

I grimace. Amelia is quietly filling out the information on the clipboard. My eyes scan the text from my position, and I can read it even at the angle I'm sitting at. She glances at me, "Do you think they'll question you're 50?" She cracks a smile, then goes back to filling out the paper. 

"Technically, I'm 49...trapped in a 26-year-old's body"

Henry rushes in a couple of minutes later, looking a little disheveled. "Geez, I had to park like a mile away." He sits beside me, "So any news yet?"

"No, she's still filling out the paperwork." Amelia handed me the clipboard next. "They need your signature and for you to describe why you're here." 

I look down at the paper, my eyes raking over all the lettering. I take the pen and slowly sign it. My muscle memory must've kicked in because I did it without blinking an eye. 

I summarize why I'm here, but try not to say too much. I can't exactly say: I'm an ex-HYDRA assassin with a metal leg and enough baggage to fill an airport. Oh, by the way, can you check if I have a 20-year-old tampon shoved so far up me that my ovaries are screaming?

So I opted for a better approach: "I haven't gotten my period." 

I know they will immediately take a pregnancy test. I know with 100% certainty I'm not pregnant because I was in the whole forced celibacy thing, and none of those russian soldiers' hands wandered any further than the metal leg. 

Writing the description down was difficult, to say the least. The doctor will see everything wrong with me. Although I don't like to say the metal leg is entirely bad, at least I have a leg. 

I finish some bullshit excuse why we're here because it's easier explaining to a person than it is on paper. I stand up and stride to the desk, sliding the clipboard back to the grumpy nurse. She flicks her eyes up from the computer once to look at me, eyes narrowing, then back to the monitor. 

I nod once and retake my seat. Amelia texts on her phone. I can hear the faint clicking noise of the keypad and her thumbs. Henry openly stares at everyone coming and going, his eyes lingering too long on a pretty blonde. 

"Becker," a nurse says from one of the doors, tablet in hand, eyes scanning the room. All three of us shoot up at once, single-file after the nurse. 

The nurse turned to look at me. "Step on the scale, please." I slowly approached the scale. It was one of those old, clunky ones you must balance by hand. The large metal dial was fixed on a number that made my eyes bulge out of my head. "165 lbs, " the nurse said, jotting it down.

Holy shit, I gained 45 fucking pounds with HYDRA. How is this possible? 

Amelia puts a hand on my shoulder; it must be because my face says it all. "It's all muscle, you still look terrific. Most of the weight is in your ass." She says with a smile, like that was supposed to help. 

I start to panick as my hand immediately shoots down to my butt "What?" 

She puts her hands up, "Oh no, no, that's a good thing! Big butts are totally in right now." I eye her like she's crazy. I grew up in a time where Mom Jeans gave you this ass and it was never a good look, then came the skinny craze of the 90s where you did nothing but Coke and ectasy. Having a big butt was career-ending. You were banished from clubs if you weren't a size 0 in low-rise. 

Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration, but that's what it felt like. 

"Jaw-dropping," Henry adds, nodding his head. I give him a pointed look. "I think I hate the fact my little brother just called me 'jaw-dropping'" 

The nurse's eyes were all on us, and it must've been either the 'little brother' comment or the 'jaw-dropping' that did it. Oops

This should be fun. 

 

 

Chapter 13: The ER

Date: 2024 (pre-brave new world)

Location: Washington, DC

Anastasia's POV:

She leads us to a room and closes the door behind us. Amelia and Henry take their seats as I sit on the bed, legs dangling. I was thankful to wear pants long enough to cover the metal of my ankle, my socks doing the rest to cover any sliver of metal peeking above my shoe. The thing was, HYDRA did do a great job on the leg. It behaves just like a regular limb to the point I forget about it. The knee part bends how it should; I even have a fake ankle and toes.

The nurse typed away at the tablet in her grasp. I pretend to care about the light fixtures and the sound of the machines beeping in the distance. She sets the tablet down and walks over. "I need you to pee in the cup, and we'll need to take blood."

I hum an acknowledgement as the nurse leaves the room. A small, clear cup is on the counter waiting for me. I slip off the table and walk over to the cup, snatching it and striding to the connected bathroom.

I do my business, leaving the warm amber liquid-filled cup in the bathroom. I wash my hands, but my eyes betray me as I finally look in the mirror. This is the first time I've looked in the mirror in a few decades. It's like I don't recognize the person staring back. I look the same, with slight wrinkles from years of smiling and laughter (pre-serum). The drugs and alcohol probably didn't help. 

The thin hospital gown folded on the edge of the bed is screaming with intention. The bright, white walls feel like they are closing in, and the bright white LED lights burn into my skin. The nurse returned a moment later with supplies needed for a blood draw. 

I extended my arm out for her to examine. No words were exchanged while she pricks my skin, and the blood flows out. Finally, when she finished, she looked back at me and said, "The doctor will be in soon after we get the results." And then she was gone, leaving me with Amelia, Henry, and the growing inevitability of endless what-ifs.  

"Are they going to admit you?" Amelia asks. 

"You make it sound like she's crazy," Henry points out.

I sit back and stare at the ceiling, one of the lights flickering.  

I rest my eyes, the lighting still trying to penetrate my eyelids. 

While my mind runs rampant with all the inner turmoil I could conjure up. The sound of a door opening and closing jolted me, and my eyes snapped back open. 

A male doctor stands by the monitor, beeping loudly enough that only I seem to notice. He puts his hands in his pockets, assessing me with his eyes. "I'm Dr Richards, I just finished looking at your blood report, and most of it looks normal. You seem to be healthy, you look fit." He states. The way he said it seemed like there was a massive but lingering. "But," he starts. I immediately let out a humorless breath, so predictable. 

"But your estrogen levels are concerning. Based on your blood work, you have already been through menopause. This could mean one of two things: you're one of those rare women who get menopause early, or...." he pauses, taking a deep breath. I grip the sheet, waiting. 

"Or your ovaries stopped working altogether." The silence was palatable. "I would like to keep you here. This shouldn't be happening to a woman of your age." He said, looking down at my chart. He freezes and then looks back at me. "Your birthday says you're 50 years old. Was that a mistake in your chart?" 

I bite the inside of my cheek, my eyes darting to Amelia and Henry, who are also just as visibly uncomfortable. 

I can only nod while he leaves the room again for me to change into the gown. The nurse stays, gathering the things she needs for me to be admitted overnight. Henry steps out, but Amelia stays. She takes each piece of clothing I give her as I strip down to my bra and underwear. Since being back, I have avoided looking at myself too long. Amelia tries not to stare, but I can see her struggle. This is the first time she's seen me since my reappearance, now with a metal leg. 

The nurse pays no attention to it, like she's seen it a hundred times. Either she has a good poker face, or prosthetics are very popular. The hospital gown does little to shield me. It stops at the mid-thigh and is short-sleeved. "He'll want an ultrasound first, then a pelvic exam." The nurse says softly, her voice having a different tone from earlier. 

"Fake leg, huh? IED?" The nurse raises a brow.

"Something like that," I respond. 

--

"What kind of doctor did this?" Dr Richards asked, shaking his head and looking at the ultrasound monitor. "Why didn't you tell me you had a hysterectomy?" His tone was snippy, probably from overexuastion or him just being an asshole. 

His words made the walls close in, my vision blurred, and I couldn't hear anything for once. There was a sharp ringing in my ears, but I only heard muffled sounds, and the ultrasound wand felt cold against my stomach. 

I don't know how the rest went; everything was a blur. Now I'm alone in the room, curled up with my knees to my chest, staring at nothing. They sterilized me. HYDRA didn't view me as a person, but only as a weapon. 

The sound of a voice I recognize closes in. He's shouting something, while there are other hushed tones.

"WHERE IS SHE?" The voice booms.

"Sergeant Bar-" The door cuts off the other voice to my room, slamming open, the door almost coming off its hinges.  

His footsteps are light as he approaches the bed and hovers. My back faces the door, still curled up. "Hey...they told me you were here." His voice was softer now, vastly different from his yelling match in the hallway. 

"What's wrong?" He asks, slowly sitting down at the edge of the bed near my feet. I know what this question implies: he's not asking about what's wrong in my life; he wants to know why exactly I'm here. 

I stay silent, tears threatening to escape my eyes. He doesn't press, just touching my ankle as a silent reminder he was there. 

"Look, I know there's nothing I can say right now to help, but I want you to know you're not alone."

"This isn't something you could understand," I say, my voice cracking. "They sterilized me like a-a-a-an animal." I stutter out, tears finally falling out. 

I could feel him shift on the edge of the bed, his hand giving my calf a reassuring squeeze before taking it away. "HYDRA didn't see us as people," his voice mirroring my broken one. 

I continue to sob, my hand covering my face while the other one grips onto my legs, holding them against my chest. He didn't say anything else, didn't press, and didn't move. I don't know how long I cried for until my brain finally slipped into darkness. 

 

Notes:

Short chapter. Did anyone predict the reason for her not having her period? Don't forget to leave this book some love!

Chapter 14: The Shower

Date: 2024 (pre-Brave New World)

Location: Washington, D.C.

Anastasia's POV:

It's been at least a couple of weeks since I was in the hospital. I don't remember everything after I got the news that I was sterilized. Bucky was a quiet anchor in my room, and my brother and sister were trying their best to help. However, they eventually needed to move on. Henry went back to work, and Amelia flew back to Columbus. My mom can't look at me for more than five minutes without crying after hearing I can't give her grandchildren. My dad didn't exactly offer much wisdom himself. 

I ultimately decided it was best to move back into my old apartment, to get some alone time to process my emotions. I needed quiet, a subtle level of quiet that eases your mind. But to people like me, soldiers, thrown away by the Government, you aren't awarded quiet. 

Time seemed to blur into one continuous night and day, the sun lighting me up or hiding from the moon.  

I also don't remember getting to my apartment. Boxes are everywhere, and a thick layer of dust covers most of the pictures on the wall. Blankets cover furniture, and the floor creaks from disuse. 

I rot in my bed, only getting up to pee. I can hear my phone buzzing, and texts and calls are coming in regularly. Eventually, the phone fell off the nightstand from all the vibrations, and I haven't picked it up since. 

I spend most days and nights staring at nothing, tears coming when my body produces more. A knock at my door doesn't even startle me, but it gets me to look away from where I tried to burn a hole in the wall with my gaze. I couldn't even take care of myself. 

"Hold her down longer." His hand grips my hair tightly, my face fully submerged in ice-cold water. As he yanks me back up, my eyes open wide. My mouth opens as I gasp for air. Before I can get a good breath, my head is back in the water. As my vision begins to blur from holding my breath, they pull me out again. 

A second knock on the door, this time harder, snapped me back to reality. "Anastasia, are you in there?" Bucky's muffled voice rings out behind my apartment door. "Yeah," My voice cracks from inactivity. 

I don't know how he got in, but suddenly, he was in front of me, staring down with an unreadable expression. "What are you doing?" he asked, tilting his head. 

I don't answer; I flip over and away from him. "Anastasia" 

"Go away," I say, covering my face.

He ignores my request. "Where is your family?"

"Gone"

"Gone where?" 

"Leave me alone."

"You smell. When was the last time you bathed?" 

That caught me off guard. I thought he was going to leave or ask another dumb question. Right... a shower. I couldn't even wash my hands without freaking out and being reminded of HYDRA.

"You can't, can you?" His voice softens from his question. "Listen, I came to tell you I'll be gone for a couple of days...I wanted to tell you in person because you've ignored my texts."

"Where are you going?" I find myself asking before I can stop myself.

"Wakanda, there's a funeral I need to attend." My brows furrow. Wakanda isn't a country I knew much about. It was a poor third-world African country. I don't know why he would need to go there. And against my better judgement, I say: "Can I come?" I peeked behind my shoulder, looking at him. 

This seems to catch him off guard, raising his eyebrows a little. He considers it briefly before sighing, "Fine, but I have rules." 

I situate myself up, sitting against the headboard. He continues, "One, you need to hide that leg. Pants, socks, and shoes. Tell no one about it. Two, you don't tell anyone how you know me except that I'm your friend, and three, don't do anything to embarrass me, and don't talk to anyone unless spoken to." He said a little more sternly on the last part.

I rolled my eyes and muttered, "Okay, Dad."

"And you need to shower." He said it like a parent. For a second, I wanted to throw something at him. "I can't even get myself to wash my hands without freaking out."

"I know how you are feeling. I was just like this when I was freed from HYDRA. They used to waterboard me, too." He says, looking away. His jaw clenches for a moment. I can tell the memory eats away at him. "But this is no way to live. I can help you." 

I consider his offer. I slowly slip out of the bed and pad to the bathroom, flicking on the light. The mirror bounces my reflection back to me; my hair is a complete and utter mess. If I could have eye bags, I'd have plenty. Bucky stands behind me, his height still towering over me slightly. The serum HYDRA gave me made me gain 2 inches, and my height is now 5'9. I hadn't noticed the difference in height until I moved back into my apartment. Going to grab things became easier from higher up and more difficult below me. 

My body shape changed, too. My thigh is thicker and has more muscle. My ass is enormous from where it used to be. My back and shoulders filled out more. Even my breasts and arms followed the muscular tone. I had a properly fit and curvy body. I looked like a new woman. I must say, I do look quite well, given the current situation. Because right now, I have Bucky Barnes standing behind me, telling me I smell but not running away, instead offering me help. 

I stare at my disheveled state in the mirror, the oversized t-shirt offering the only protection from this man's stern gaze behind me. 

He moves and then turns on the water to start a bath. The sound of the water turning on makes me jump; my hand grips the edge of the counter. He must have sensed it because his hand moved to my arm. "You'll be okay; I've got you."

This could be seen as romantic in any other circumstance, especially since I have one of the hottest men caring for me. I will never admit that one out loud. I should hate him for the damage he's done, but I can't. He didn't have a choice, and all he's doing now is trying to make amends. He wanted to cross my name off in his book. 

I step closer to the tub's edge, staring down at the clear water. It ripples as it fills up, the sound filling the bathroom's atmosphere. Bucky looks away as I take my shirt off, my now naked self standing there. Holy shit, I'm naked.

His grip on my arm is a steady anchor. I turn the water off when it reaches close to the top. Bucky continues to look away as I hold onto him, slowly putting a foot into the warm water. "Is the leg waterproof?" I ask, not looking away from the water now swallowing my flesh foot. 

"Yeah, it should be," He says, helping me fully step into the tub. I hold my breath as I slowly slink into the hot water, and it completely devours me. Bucky sits on the edge, his eyes and hands remain respectful. He cups water and pours it slowly on my hair, the act alone causing me to shiver. I close my eyes and focus on breathing as he cares for me. This isn't an act of love, not a promise for something romantic, but a promise of his help. A way for him to say he wants to make things right.

"I wish I had the family and help you're getting when I broke away." He starts, my hair now thoroughly wet. He slowly lathers the shampoo into my long, reddish-brown hair, which has seen better days. 

I sit in the hot water, my legs pulled to my bare chest, my arms hugging my legs tightly. It wasn't that I minded Bucky seeing me naked; plenty of men have, I just wanted the sensation of what little protection I could offer myself. 

"You aren't alone...in more ways than one." He continues, "HYDRA...they sterilized me too." 

This got my attention. I open one eye to peek at him; his gaze remains focused on lathering my hair in shampoo. "The Wakandans helped me, helped get the code words out. I found peace there, for the years I hid from everyone and everything." 

"I owe my life to them, in more ways than one. It's where I got my arm from. King T'Challa was kind to me, although our first time meeting wasn't as pleasant." He lets out a small chuckle, shaking his head.

I sit in the tub listening to him explain pretty much the entire timeline of events I missed, including Tony Stark becoming Iron Man, the formation of the Avengers, the Avengers breaking up, which sounds like this Steve guy broke apart the team for Bucky. Tony Stark is the same as Bucky described him to be when I met him. Stark and I didn't do much talking, though. I was still in college celebrating finishing finals when he stroded over, all cocky and flirty and damn did it work. 

He finishes and stands up, grabbing a towel and holding it open for me. He averts his gaze again like a gentleman, and I wrap myself around the towel. He leaves the bathroom without another word, a silent gesture of privacy. 

I was grateful, even though I don't know how to say it. "Thank you, Bucky," I manage to say, voice rising to speak behind the door. 

I managed to put some clothes on, brushing the tangles out of my hair and looking half decent again. Looking in the mirror is becoming better. I open the bathroom door and walk into my bedroom. Bucky sat on the edge with his back to me, looking down at his phone. I didn't have to see his face to know he was scowling. 

He glances over his shoulder, then stands up, my bed creaking from the sudden decrease in weight. He doesn't hide giving me a once over, his 'someone pissed in my cereal' look doesn't change. He eventually locks eyes with me. "I have rules."

I raise an eyebrow, sitting down on my bed. "Rules?"

"If you are coming to Wakanda for the funeral, I have a couple of rules;

1. No talking to anyone, unless they talk to you. You will stick by me or Sam the entire time. 

2. Don't tell them about your past, how we know each other, or any of that. Tell them we're friends, keep it simple.

3. Hide the leg, I don't want them seeing it."

I nod, listening to him bark orders. If I wanted a chance to go, I needed to keep my mouth shut. 

This should be fun. 

 

Notes:

Bucky is in his soft girl era.

Chapter 15: The Wakandans

Location: Wakanda, Africa

Date: 2025 (pre-Brave New World)

Anastasia's POV:

The flight is silent, except for the mechanical sounds and occasional beeps. Bucky didn't let me touch anything, even though I am a trained Air Force Pilot. I didn't forget my training. I mainly flew helicopters, but also did a few cargo planes. The controls look similar, something I could easily figure out. 

Sam and Bucky sat in front, both navigating the jet while I sat behind them. The flight is long, to say the least, but the voices in my head kept me busy. But not in the crazy way you're thinking. Bucky and Sam chattered with each other, mainly about Sam taking on the role of Captain America. 

"So what am I supposed to wear?" I ask, breaking the silence. Sam looks back at me, then at Bucky, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to answer. 

"Everyone wears white for funerals in Wakanda," Bucky replies, keeping his eyes forward. I hum, nodding my head. It was dark outside, and we had been in the air for about six hours now. The total flight time is approximately 18 hours. 

"I didn't bring anything white...only a black outfit." 

I know, that's why I brought you an outfit. 

I lift an eyebrow at that. He follows up, "It's in the green duffle bag." 

--

The funeral is something words cannot describe; it's genuinely a see-it-to-believe-it experience. Wakanda itself is a stunning, dystopian-looking country with state-of-the-art—well, everything. I am witnessing technology that I could never have dreamed of experiencing. Bucky sticks close by my side, practically sniffing at my neck. Surprisingly, my white shirt and pants, which he brought me, fit well; I'm still unsure how he got my measurements when I wasn't exactly certain of them myself. I've had to go up a couple of sizes due to the serum. 

I had my long hair halfway pinned up; it was a simple look, yet it still gave the impression that I had made an effort. I also applied a little makeup, which earned me a snide comment from Bucky and a smile from Sam. 

There were thousands of people at the funeral, I'd say maybe the entire village. It was crowded. We all lined up, the bright sand reflecting the warm sun. Women wore dresses with a wrap around their shoulders, and most men wore shirts. A variety of headdresses and jewelry styles are on display for all to see. 

Bucky was tense, always on alert. The drums thumped in the background, a beautiful melody, while everyone danced. Bald women carried the casket out. Sam informed me they are called the Dora Milaje, an all-female fighting team. A man sang in the background to the music. It was clear they knew how to celebrate someone. 

Sam and Bucky stood between me, both a little closer for comfort. Bucky was doing it to ensure I didn't run off, which I didn't have any plans to do, and Sam was doing it as a crutch.

The casket was then lifted to a ship hovering above. 

--

After the funeral, we lingered. Bucky greeted a couple of the bald women while Sam stayed by my side. A few people stood out: a tall, large man wearing fur on his back, an older woman with a large head crown, and a younger woman beside her. They looked like royalty. 

Sam leaned in and whispered, discreetly pointing out the people. "That's Queen Ramonda and her daughter, Shuri." He then pointed to the large man. "That's M'Baku, he's the leader of the Jabari Tribe."

I nod as he continues to point out people. 

Before I could come up with anything worth saying, Shuri approaches, with Bucky tailing behind her looking like he shit himself, I don't think I've ever seen him look so... nervous?

He starts mouthing something, but Shuri cuts him off, her eyes roaming over me as if she's trying to see through my skin. "So, Segerant Barnes say's you're a friend?" She raises an eyebrow, her accent strong. 

I clear my throat, not expecting to be grilled on how I know them. "Uh, yes." I crack a smile. 

She narrows her eyes, "He doesn't have friends." Bucky huffs behind her, crossing his arms. 

Well, okay then. What the hell do I say to that?

"When Segergant Barnes said he was bringing Wilson and someone else, I was curious who this someone was. Well, now it all makes sense. You're a soldier." I freeze, my eyes snapping to Bucky, who also looks a little sheepish. 

Her eyes roam over me again. "I see the dog tags peeking out. Bucky tried to hide it, but I'm better." She smiles, given the situation. I've never been comfortable around grief. I usually shut people out and rot for weeks in self-pity. 

The party rages around us as Shuri steps closer. "You're not just a pretty face, there's a story with you." 

"Shuri, can you leave her alone, please?" Bucky finally speaks up, stepping closer to put a hand on her arm. 

"No, I cannot, you brought this beautiful woman who smells of super soldier." I can't tell if I blushed from being called beautiful in front of two beautiful men, or the fact that she just called all of us out on our cover. 

"How did you know I was a super soldier?" I ask.

"Neither of these men is leaving your side, and you're physice... looks very much like a female version of Captain Rogers."

"She does not look like Steve." Bucky cut in, looking repulsed at the thought. 

"I didn't say she looked like Captain Rogers, I'm simply pointing out I could tell from looking at you closely. It's how you hold yourself." She explains. "And you have the beauty of Ms Romanoff." 

That earned the biggest eye roll from Bucky I've seen. I can't help but pull a face, getting annoyed at his attitude. 

"You think I look like Black Widow? I didn't know her, she was after my time as-" I start to say, but immediately clamp my mouth shut. 

"Before what?" Shuri asked, immediately picking up on my shift. Bucky clenches his jaw, all the fun leaving his body. He didn't even have any fun to start with.  

"We're done here, we should be leaving." Bucky grabs my arm and practically drags me off. Shrui was faster though and stepped in front of him. "Now, Segerent Barnes, I simply want to get to know her."

Throughout this situation, Sam remained silent. He likely didn't know how to cope with this. 

"I simply want to borrow her for a couple of hours, pick her brain." Bucky's eye twitched, but he let go of my arm. "Fine, you get two hours, then we're leaving."

--

Shuri was in a good mood considering the circumstances under which we were meeting. She immediately gave me a tour, introducing me to the women of the Dora Milaje.

She leads me into the most advanced lab I've ever seen. My jaw drops, looking around. It's pristine white; she lets me explore. 

"Wow, this is so cool!" I exclaim, trying to contain my excitement. 

She watches me, "How do you know Barnes?" I tense at the question. 

"Like he said...friends" 

"You have a metal leg." 

"How do you know that?" 

"I can tell with the way you're walking. It's similar to how Bucky shifts with his arms. I designed his arm. So, give me the real story." 

"He crashed my helicopter, brought me to HYDRA, and now he feels guilty." I give in, under little to no pressure, because I realized I don't care about keeping it a secret. 

She doesn't seem shocked. I lift my pant leg to show her my metal leg, only a glimpse. She eyes it, "HYDRA gave it to you?" She asked, but it sounded more like a statement than a question. 

I nod, focusing my attention on a machine that appears to be printing some type of weapon. 

"When were you taken? You look young."

"2001, Afghanistan." 

"How old are you?" 

"I should be 50." 

"I don't think I like the way you worded that." She said, grabbing a small device and pointing it at me. A light shoots out from it, scanning me head to toe. "What are you doing?" I ask, eyeing her suspiciously.

"Seeing what they made you into." Her implications were clear; she was nosy. 

"When were you rescued?" 

"I wasn't, I busted out." 

"How did you do that?"

"I found an opportunity and seized it." I stated plainly, as if it were perfectly ordinary to express. 

Shuri examines the device in her hand, reading its display. She then says, "huh," so simply that it made my spine straighten.

She looks back at me, "You are not a normal super soldier?" 

"No, they gave me this orange stuff, and I couldn't find much information on it. It made me taller, more muscular, stronger obviously, but... I knew I was different from what Bucky got. He had to be with me on a mission until they gave up. They never wanted to tell me anything."

"They had you be another Winter Soldier?" 

I don't answer, but I don't need to. The question answers itself. 

"Well, that makes my day even better. I get another broken white soldier to fix." She says, her tone on a more teasing side. 

"I'm not broken," I mutter, toeing the ground. Even as the words fell from my lips, I knew it was a lie. 

"Can I test you?" 

"Test me?"

"Yes, can I find out what they gave you? Shouldn't take me long."

I nod and sit down on a stool, extending my arm out. She rolls up my sleeve and takes blood. 

 "Shuri, what the hell are you doing?" A manly voice booms through the lab; it could only be Bucky. 

"Buck, calm down, man," Sam says, grabbing at his arm. 

"I'm simply testing her blood, Anastasia said Yes." Shuri doesn't bother looking up as she finishes drawing my blood and putting it in a machine. Everything she does in the lab is mesmerizing. Bucky is tense, as if he has a stick so far up his ass that it's blinking for him.  

Sam looks equally uncomfortable but says nothing. 

Shuri reads the results. "They gave you a stronger version; I recognize these numbers from Barnes's blood. What all do you know about it?"

I open my mouth to answer, but Bucky beats me to it. "She can be shot in the head and survive. HYDRA also never told her how strong she was. She's stronger than I." He muttered the last part, probably fighting to reveal it. 

"Stronger, how?" 

"In every way." He states. "HYDRA only showed her just enough to be useful on missions. I watched them, listened to her screams as she fought the chair. She didn't last long like I did, her memories coming back faster."

"They put a thing in my brain," I said, my hand subconsciously going to touch the part of my head where I remember them cutting into me.  

Shuri looks like a kid on Christmas day. "Can you stay here? I would love to experiment." 

"I don't like how that sounds," I say.

"No, absolutely not. I didn't bring her here to ask that of you." Bucky cut in, but Shuri immediately shuts him up by waving her hand. "I offered, I want to help. We can find your purpose." 

Bucky gazes at me, our eyes locking. I swallow, more nervous about finding out what I am than about the idea of being 'experimented' on. I can handle physical pain better than most, like when I stabbed a knife straight through my hand. I felt it, but it was more of a dull ache than, well, a knife through your hand. 

But even so, I find myself agreeing. Bucky doesn't put up much of a protest, instead choosing to just leave me. He said he and Sam have things to do back in DC. 

For once in a long time, I look forward to tomorrow. 

 

Notes:

Things are finally picking up! More to be revealed about Anastasia's powers! Please leave a like & comment!

Chapter 16: The Lab

Location: Wakanda, East Africa

Date: 2025 (pre-brave new world)

Anastasia's POV:

Week One: 

Wakanda was generous enough to invite me into their home. Everyone was so lovely, even the people in the labs, who drew every inch of blood from my body to watch the serum work its magic. 

Shuri was busy trying to find out what the serum was, and most importantly, how it made me 'immortal', as she put it. 

I was visited by Ayo and Okoye, who are the 'leaders' of the Dora Milaje. They seemed curious as they also played an essential part in Bucky's recovery. But Bucky and I are entirely different. I don't need to sweat it out in a damn teepee looking like Jesus tending to goats.

Yeah, she showed me pictures. 

Week Two: 

Exhausting to say the least. With my permission, they began observing my healing factors and how much pain I can tolerate. We started small, with a cut to the arm, and sat and watched my body fix it. Then we went bigger until I took a stab at the heart. 

Turns out I can tolerate a lot more than I thought. My skin burned normally, but I didn't feel it until it neared a second-degree burn after they held it for several minutes at a boiling temperature. Everything feels muted when it comes to pain. 

Eventually, we moved to the larger stuff. Cutting off limbs, and watching my body quite literally grow it back like a fucking gecko. It was honestly freaky. I think that if Bucky had said what the experiments they were running were, he would have lost his mind. 

Week Three:

Shuri was able to find out all the information about the serum. She found the molecular structure and all other necessary information. Being a chemistry major helped me understand most of what she was explaining. She is also developing a new leg for me, entirely custom-made. She wanted to give it to me as a parting gift. 

Week Four: 

It has now been a whole month, and Bucky still hasn't come to visit, although I'm not keeping track, if that's what you're asking. Sam has sent a couple of texts, mostly with updates about being the new Captain America. Ayo has also asked if I wanted to learn how strong I was by practicing with them. 

"I will throw the spear, but I'm not shaving my head," I joke. The bald women stare at me, guessing the joke didn't land.

Three Months Later: 

Everyone was surprised at how fast I picked up my fighting skills, and I was mainly surprised myself, learning how strong I was. We discovered that I can lift 1 ton above my head and run at 80 mph before it's too much. [Bucky can lift ~800lbs (over his head) and run 60-75mph]

Most days, I feel like I'm barely holding it together. On the inside, I'm a mess, but I try to maintain a positive perspective. I've been honest with Shuri about how I feel as though the world has left me behind. She uses the exact words she did on Bucky, which didn't help my case. 

Bucky is constantly trying to better himself and confront his demons. That's why he's in therapy, writing in his journal, and making amends. I, however, am not doing that bullshit. I have nothing to apologize for. I was just as brainwashed as the Winter Soldier; yet you don't see me crying about it. 

I am not making a stupid 'amends' list because, well... I don't exactly remember who I killed. One of the guys had a hood over his head, my first test of HYDRA. I do remember that one as if it were yesterday. 

The Winter Soldier still ended up doing most of the mission because I came out of my brainwashing too quickly to pull the trigger. I did kill that one guy in Afghanistan, but I didn't see his face to remember him. 

Bucky eventually came to visit; his hair was longer, and he had let his beard grow a little. He looked like shit. Not that I cared or paid attention. 

Sam and Joaquin joined him; I'm sure they came just to be nosy. Not that I minded—it was nice seeing their faces. I also spoke to my brother and sister frequently, mainly over the phone. I still refused to get an iPhone that Shuri tried to shove in my face. However, she did show me an app called 'TikTok' where she has millions of followers.

The video of me beating up the World War II veteran and the new Captain America started to lose popularity as Shuri provided updates, and it seemed like the world had moved on to another top story. 

HYDRA hasn't resurfaced since my little throat slit bunker mess I created. I hope it stays that way. 

Shuri and Bucky chat in the corner, his usual pissed off expression burned into his face. Joaquin keeps his hands behind his back as he wanders the lab. He was yelled at too many times not to touch anything. 

"Your mother called me," Sam said, waving his phone a few times. "She said they are having a family dinner next week and expect you, me, Joaquin, and Bucky to join." 

That caught my attention as I raised an eyebrow. "Why is my mother calling you?" 

He shrugged once, "She wanted to make sure we got the message, since you failed to keep in contact."

I grimace, the reminder of me not exactly picking up the phone every time she calls. "Right...next week dinner. Does that mean my sister is coming back to DC?"

Sam nods again, pocketing his phone, "Yeah, said something like 'I miss my sister and my husband can make himself useful and watch the kids'" 

"Sounds like her." 

Bucky makes his way back, eyeing us like he wants to complain about something, but didn't find the words for it. 

"So Shuri tells me you like it here." 

"I do," I say, short, crossing my arms. I recognize that tone, he's annoyed.

"You shouldn't. I didn't bring you here to have fun." 

"Then why did you bring me here?"

"To fix..." He trails off, gesturing to me with his right hand, "this" 

"Wow, I feel so special right now," I roll my eyes, flipping him off.

"Well, that was sweet." Sam pipes in. 

"Okay enough bullshit, I'm leaving with or without you," he said to Sam, not wasting another breath as he stormed off.

Sam gives me a look, "I will kill him one day, I swear."

He gives me a side hug, kissing my temple, "We'll be back in a couple of days for that party Shuri mentioned. Talk to your mother, please, before she blows up my phone with messages."

"Aye Aye, Captain." I give him a mock salute. Bucky is already gone, and Joaquin hides behind Sam like a little kid, afraid to get yelled at more by Shuri after he knocked over a chair.  

--

Well, the day of the party, two weeks later, did indeed come. Shuri and I spent most of our time in the lab, where I learned about vibranium. I kept insisting I didn't need a new leg, didn't want her to waste the materials and time on me, but she wanted to. So we customized it together.

And, holy shit, I needed this leg. It was half the weight of my other one, made of sleek metal just like Bucky's. We opted for black with silver accents. Another cool feature she wanted to test was a fake flesh mod. I tap a secret button near the seam, and the leg does a slow creshinow of fleshy-like skin that mirrors my other leg. Looks like the real deal. Said it would be perfect if I wanted to hide the metal. Even the toes wiggle with real-looking toenails. 

I now stare in the mirror, hands pulling at the dress that one of the women let me borrow. Shuri sits on the bed, her tablet in hand, as she makes last-minute digital modifications to the leg. I balance on my one leg. The dress was a simple, black, long-sleeved, cowl-necked design with a low back. There was a slit up the side, the one where my missing leg was. 

I don't exactly spend a lot of time looking at my missing parts. My scars may have healed, but that reminder is still there, knocking around in my brain. Sometimes I still get a phantom pain like it's getting ripped off again. 

My hair and makeup were done in a simple style. I could only do so much with the supplies given. 

I wouldn't say I was nervous per se, more buzzed with slight anxiety about meeting a lot of people in a party setting instead of wandering the village. 

Maybe I was just excited to see Sam and go home. My one bag is packed with stuff Shuri felt I needed to bring back. 

I hop over and grab the leg when she is done, popping it into my socket. Since she couldn't change the socket to her own, she had to repair the vibranium leg to match what Hydra had installed. 

The leg activated as soon as it clicked into place, the plates whirling to life. I wiggle my toes, slipping my foot into the heels. A non-negotiable was making it so the foot could bend to wear heels, as the one HYRDA installed in me was flat-footed for boots.

I look in the mirror, finding myself smiling at what looks back at me. Maybe I am healing.  

 

Chapter 17: The Party

Location: Wakanda, East Africa

Date: 2025 (pre-brave new world)

Third POV:

The party was in full swing by the time Shuri and Anastasia made their way out of her room. The loud sounds echo off the high ceilings. Anastasia wore simple heels that clicked on the hard marble floor. Shuri wore a tailored suit, her boots silent in comparison. 

As they neared the central part, the music drifted through the air, smooth and rich. Lanterns swayed gently from the trees while light crossed the courtyard. People danced, laughed, and sipped on bright, fizzy drinks. It was the kind of night when even the most guarded souls found reasons to smile.

Bucky stood awkwardly near the edge of the party, one hand shoved in his pocket and the other cradling a drink he hadn't touched. His vibranium arm was on display during the few times he felt completely comfortable showing it off. He tugged at the collar of his tie for the third time—Sam had insisted he wear something 'less grouchy,' which meant a tux. 

"Stop messing with it, Buck. You look good," Sam said with a smirk, patting his back.

"Speak for yourself," Joaquin added, giving a little twirl to show off his outfit. "I feel like a prince tonight."

That's when Anastasia walked in.

She descended the stone steps like the night had been waiting for her to arrive, Shuri by her side. 

Her dress hugged her athletic frame, accentuating both strength and femininity in a way that made Bucky's thoughts derail. Her long, reddish-brown hair was styled in a low-effort way, with loose pieces framing her face. But it was her leg that caught the light and his breath—the sleek vibranium limb, newly polished, glinting proudly beneath the slit of her gown. She walked down the stairs as if her leg were normal, something she had experienced her whole life. 

Sam let out a low whistle. "Well, damn."

His heart stuttered in his chest like a drum. He schooled his face before Sam or Joaquin could notice. 

Anastasia walked over after snagging a drink from the bar. "What?" She asked with a hint of annoyance, as if the sudden attention was unwelcome to her. 

"You're in a dress," Bucky said, his voice a little rougher than he'd intended. 

Sam raised an eyebrow. "New leg?"

Anastasia didn't answer, but the look she gave Sam was her answer, 'Really moron?'

She darted her eyes back over to Bucky, "Wow, you are actually in a tux. I'd say you're almost handsome."

"Almost?" he asked, his grumpy face remaining unchanged, uncertain how to interpret her compliment-or the absence of one. 

Joaquin raised his drink. "To fun nights and good company?"

She clinked her glass to his, then to Sam's, and finally to Bucky's, her fingers brushing his metal ones for just a second too long.

____

The music shifted, slower now—something sensual and rhythmic, drums pulsing like a heartbeat under the Wakandan sky.

People began pairing off, moving toward the center of the room to dance. Shuri was already spinning with Okoye, both laughing freely- a rare change from when Bucky last saw them. 

Sam looked at Bucky, who rolled his eyes. "Don't even ask." He grunted out, but Sam nudged him. "Oh, come on."  

"No, I'm not fucking dancing, especially with you." 

While Sam tried to persuade Bucky to participate, Joaquin gave Anastasia a dramatic bow. "Milady?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "You sure you can keep up?"

"Not even a little," he grinned. "But I'll look good trying."

She let him pull her where the rest of the dancers are, her hand on his shoulder. Anastasia didn't know Joaquin very well, but by the way his hands remained respectful and his eyes sparkled like a Golden Retriever just happy to be there, she felt at ease. 

Bucky stayed where he was, drink forgotten in his hand, eyes scanning the room like there could be a threat at any minute. He stole a glance back over to them, taking in the way her dress clung to her curves, the shimmer of her vibranium leg in motion, and the sound of her laughter. This was the first time he saw her happy, dressed up, and carefree—a dramatic shift from just a couple of months ago. 

His lips tugged together in a soft smile, mostly to himself at how she had also managed to get help from Wakanda, which he had hoped they would provide. His eyes kept locking on her leg, an unknown feeling rising in his chest.

Sam eventually gave up and went over to where Anastasia and Joaquin were, joining in on the dance. Bucky downed his drink, although it did little to help. 

He stiffened when Shuri appeared out of nowhere. "Segargent Barnes, you are as fun as I remember." Her accent was heavy on her tongue as Okoye and Ayo joined in, practically cornering him.  

The two bald women eye him, then glance at each other, both in similar black dresses. 

Bucky does his usual smile, as if it physically pains him to say, "Thank you." 

He didn't need to elaborate further; they all knew what he meant.

Thank you for helping me.

Thank you for helping her.

Thank you for inviting me back even after the whole 'breaking Zemo out of prison' thing.  

Thank you. 

"So, what did you think of my newest creation?" She asks, swinging an arm over his shoulder, not a care in the world that he prefers silence. 

"Looks like a leg." He said, Shuri scoffs, "Barnes, how dare you insult my hard work, just a leg?" 

 Okoyo and Ayo disappeared just as quickly as they had appeared. 

The song picks up a more reggae beat. The two men and Anastasia link hands, all dancing like the world probably isn't still burning. 

 ____

Later in the evening, the four of them ended up at the bar. Joaquin decided he would challenge Sam to a drinking contest, while Anastasia joined in, even though they all knew she'd win. 

"I hate that I can't get drunk." She says and downs another shot. "This sucks." 

"There's a way," Bucky mutters into his however many glasses of whiskey; he lost track after six.

"How!?" Anastasia beams, moving closer. 

"Steve told me about Asgardian liquor, said one time he got drunk off of one shot." 

Sam perked up at the memory, "Dude! I was there for that. Thor brought it and let a bunch of veterans have a sip. It was right before Ultron happened, when you went into hiding in Bucharest."

Bucky grimaces at the memory. Bucharest wasn't exactly a vacation.  

Joaquin started to feel the effects of the booze, munching on a platter of fruit and spiced roasted nuts, the music still pulsing in the background. Anastasia had an entire bottle of vodka, waving the empty square bottle in the air like a prize. 

Joaquin leaned back with his drink, grinning ear to ear. "Okay, real talk—Baker, where did you get that dress?"

Anastasia reached over the bar, grabbing another bottle. She opened the aluminum cap with ease, "I pulled it out of my ass."

Sam and Joaquin laugh a little bit too much at her joke, their little drinking contest long forgotten. They both eyed a skewer of grilled meat, "You walked in and every man in this courtyard forgot how to form words. It was like that moment in the movies where time slows down, music fades, and boom— 'She's All That' but make it vibranium."

Anastasia let out a laugh, but there was color blooming in her cheeks. "Shut up, Sam!"

Joaquin continued to stuff his face with cheese, fruit, and booze. Anastasia follows behind, with her metabolism, she can pack away an army's worth of food without stopping. However, at the same time, she can go weeks without needing to eat due to her particular serum. 

Bucky leaned in closer, but neither Anastasia nor he saw the shift. "I like the leg, looks good." 

He dropped the compliment as if it were the most casual thing in the world. 

"Shuri is a genius; she even put a design feature where it looks like a real leg!" 

Joaquin, now drunk as a skunk, holding onto Sam as his only anchor, looked over at the same time Anastasia pressed the small, hidden button on her vibranium leg, the metal slowly whirling and blending to mirror her flesh leg. Bucky's face betrayed him that time as his jaw practically dropped. 

"WOAH! IT GREW BACK!" Joaquin exclaimed, shaking Sam, who also looked shocked. 

Bucky was frozen, but his hand didn't get the memo. Almost like it had a mind of its own, his flesh fingertips lightly brushed against her now-fleshy leg. He didn't say anything, eyes locked on his hand on her skin. 

Anastasia continued to eat meat and cheese as if it were a typical Tuesday. His fingers ghosted over the skin. "What is it made of?" 

"Silicon, I think? I don't know, ask Shuri." 

"It looks real." He said, nearly breathless. 

The look in his eye wasn't lust; his fingers weren't touching in a way that felt sexual. This was entirely different. This was new. He was looking at the leg as if it might bite him at any moment, yet he couldn't pull his touch away. 

Anastasia took his finger in her hand, and his eyes flickered to her face, but she was still snarfing down a strawberry. She guided his hand up just below her hipbone, where a fleshy seam was. The leg might look real, but the connection point gave it away. 

Bucky's finger hovered over the seam. She piloted it to the secret button and pressed his finger into the skin. The vibraium slowly cascading down again. 

Bucky took a deep breath and finally pulled his hand away. "I don't know how to feel about this." 

Anastasia shrugged, "Well, it's a good thing I don't care about your opinion." 

That caused Bucky's mood to shift back to annoyance. He grumbles and strolls away. 

Joaquin looks like he's about to pass out at any moment while talking to a cube of cheese on a toothpick. Sam follows behind Bucky. 

For a moment, the chaos appears to subside, along with the party. 

Tomorrow would be a new day, and Anastasia was returning home. 

 

Chapter 18: The Things We Shouldn't Say

Notes:

In this chapter, I utilized AI to generate some stories that maintain military accuracy; I do not claim ownership of much of this wording.

Date:  November 4th, 2001 (one week before the crash)

Location: Bagram  Air Force Base , Afghanistan, Middle East

Anastasia's POV:

My boots hit the ground faster than my brain could process it. Grabbing the papers that informed me I was one of the fortunate soldiers being sent to this war, I didn't have time to think. My dad, bless him, was crying tears of joy. 'My baby will make us proud!' My mother cried for a different reason, and my siblings were too young to understand.  

The desert was hot, sandy, and felt like hell. You sweated from standing and passed out from walking. Thankfully, we were the Air Force, and we had our reputation for a reason. 

It was late in the evening when we lit a small fire in the sand and circled around it. We all took turns passing a bottle of whiskey, the smoke from cigarettes blending with the fire. 

I held the cigarette between my lips, inhaling the familiar burn. 

I ditched my jacket, sleeves rolled up, dog tags clinking against my green shirt. I could feel my face flushed from the warmth of the fire—or maybe it was the cheap whiskey; I wasn't sure.

During a war, thousands of miles away from home, no one cared about rank, especially when you shared a bottle of booze and cigarettes because you didn't know when it would be your last sip.

"Okay," said Lieutenant Ramirez, squinting through the smoke of his cigarette. "Have you ever seen a goat climb a Humvee? 'Cause I have. And I swear to God, that thing looked me in the eye like it was about to reenlist."

Laughter broke out around the fire, even from the quietest of them, a wiry kid from Kentucky who hadn't said more than three words since they landed. I chuckled and took a slow sip from the bottle, letting it burn down the back of my throat.

"Alright, alright," I said, raising a hand. "You want a real story? Try flying a CH-47 in a dust storm with half the instruments fried and a colonel puking in your backseat."

"Bullshit," snapped Captain Teller, grinning. "Colonels don't puke."

"They do if you drop altitude too fast and forget to warn them," I smirked. "And don't even get me started on what it did to the cargo manifest. Let's say MREs and stomach acid don't mix."

Another round of laughter. Cigarettes lit. Bottles uncapped. Somewhere in the distance, a helicopter droned like a sleepy hornet. Familiar. Comforting.

Lieutenant Harris leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You scared?"

The group quieted just a little, like the question had tugged at a thread they were all trying not to touch.

I looked at him. Young. Couldn't be older than twenty. Still had that nervous, wide-eyed edge. I didn't answer right away. Just stared into the fire. Let the silence breathe.

"Yeah," I finally said. "Every time I go up. Every time I land. Fear's not a weakness, Harris. It's a survival instinct."

Sergeant Teller clapped his hands. "I heard the Russians are getting involved."

"Who told you that?" Lieutenant Ramirez asked, raising a brow. 

Teller leaned in closer, as if he were about to tell a ghost story. "My bunkmates' cousins' friend said they spotted a Russian helicopter."  

"Why the hell would the Russians get involved?" I ask.

"Oil probably." Ramirez. 

"And why would we listen to your 'bunkmates's cousins's friend? That sounds like a bad game of telephone." Harris spoke up, sipping the bottle next. 

The fire started dying, just red embers and hissing wood. I tapped the ash from the cigarette and handed it back to Teller, who took it without a word.

Lieutenant Ramirez leaned back on his elbows, staring at the sky. "You guys ever hear that ghost story about the Rangers who came through Kandahar last month?"

"Oh God," Teller muttered, "if this is the one about the haunted bunker again—"

"No, no," Ramirez said, sitting up and grinning. "This one's different. Real Cold War spook shit. They were posted up near the mountains for recon. One night, their communication system goes dead. They send out a pair of guys to check it out—both vanish. The next day, they find them halfway down the ridge, throats cut clean. No gunshots, no footprints, nothing but frostbite on their fingers."

I raised an eyebrow. "Frostbite? In Afghanistan?"

"Exactly," he said, eyes gleaming. "They said the bodies were like ice. One of the guys swore he saw a shadow—moving like a ghost, dressed in black, metal arm in the moonlight."

Teller scoffed. "You're telling me the goddamn Winter Soldier is stalking mountains now?"

A few of the younger soldiers stiffened at the mention of the name.

"Oh, come on," Teller said, though a flicker of something—amusement, or caution—passed behind his eyes. "That old Soviet boogeyman? He's a myth. The CIA used the name to cover up the '70s. "It's the '70s."

Ramirez held his hands up. "Hey, I'm just telling you what the Rangers told me. They said the brass went quiet real fast. Scrubbed the reports. Like always."

Teller couldn't help but " crooked smile Next, you're going to tell me Bigfoot's working for DARP."

"Could happen," Harris mumbled, glassy-eyed but sincere. "They already got dolphins doing recon."

That set the group off again, laughter rolling over the fire. Teller nearly choked on his cigarette.

A deep voice cuts in, shifting the air suddenly, "You want a story? One that actually happened?"

The voice belonged to Major Smith, my co-pilot. I smiled up at him as the others looked on in fear. He outranked all of us, and we weren't sure if he had come over to yell at us. He seemed like a hardened man. 

He takes a seat at the fire, to everyone's surprise, and takes a swig from the whiskey. He starts his story, "We're taking fire from three pilots' hits in the shoulder. Crew chiefs are trying to return fire with a busted M60. I had to grab the stick and pull us out of there while one of the medics was halfway dangling out the side, holding onto a guy bleeding from his femoral artery."

Ramirez blinked. "You get out?"

"Yeah," he said, guffawing, "I couldn't feel my hands for hours because I was gripping the controls so tightly. I received a Bronze Star. Never got over it."

"Why not?" Harris asked.

Major Smith looked at the "Wasn't for me."

The silence this time was different. Heavier.

A breeze passed through, lifting a thin veil of smoke. Somewhere in the dark, a generator coughed to life. A distant rumble of rotors reminded them they weren't alone in the desert.

Ramirez finally broke the quiet. "Still think that metal-armed ghost is bullshit?"

"I wouldn't. I'm not sure. War does strange things. Makes people disappear. Makes the story stick." 

"If he is real—and I'm not saying he is—then I sure as hell hope he's on our side." 

"On our side? I don't think he knows sides, only commands." Teller pointed out, lighting up another cigarette. 

"Commands?" I ask.

Teller shrugs, "Yeah, like I doubt he's out there killing for fun, there's always a reason." 

Ramirez was still grinning about his damn mountain ghost story, and the kid—Harris—he looked like he was trying to prewasn't e wasn't Should've .hould've known better than to bring h"im up.

"You know," I said, leaning back onto my hands, "I've heard stories too, they talked a lot during OTS. Everyone used to pass them around like they were trading cards."

They all turned toward me, the same way they would in a cockpit when I took the stick.

"Some pilot out of Germany—C-17 crew—claimed they had to make an emergency landing on a Polish airstrip in the middle of winter. Radio silence, something about scrambled comms. They sit there, thinking they're about to get jumped by Russian border patrol. But no one comes. Just this...something's ike something's watching them through the snow."

I paused, remembering how I first heard it. A drunken lieutenant with a scar on his throat like the truth had strangled him.

"Crew chief goes out to check the cargo. Comes back white as a sheet. Says there were footprints in the snow. Metal-treaded boots. No prints leading to the plane."

Ramirez's smirk is gone now.

"I called bullshit too," I said. "Until the guy showed a photo."

"What was in the photo?" Harris asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"A boot print. Real clean. Looked... off. Like the sole was engineered, not issued. No brand name." They were all quiet again. No jokes this time.

I played with my dogtogs and looked at the dying fire.

"There's another one," I added, voice lower. "NATO guy out of Sarajevo swears he saw a man drop off a rooftop five stories up—landed on his feet—took out three armed targets without a single gunshot. When he got to the bodies, one of them had its neck snapped backward. The bones were crushed like someone used a hydraulic press."

"Jesus," Teller muttered.

I gave a dry chuckle. "Yeah. That was my reaction, too."

"Was it him?" "Harris asked. "The Winter Soldier?"

"I don't know," I said. "They never found the guy. No prints, no casing, no footage. Just... silence. Like he was never there."

Ramirez swallowed audibly.

I never ask for details. Didn't want to know if any of the blood on my cargo bay had anything to do with it. Some things are easier to fly away from than face. I leaned forward and stirred the fire with a stick.

"Have you ever heard footsteps even though no one is there?" Major Smith asked.

Ramirez frowned. "What, like paranoia? I mean, yeah, I guess," he said. 

The wind picked up, tossing sand between us. A distant pop—maybe a generator, maybe not—echoed across the camp.

We all sat there a little quieter after that. Cigarettes burned slower. Canteens stayed capped. Even the boom box had gone silent, batteries finally giving up.

No one wanted to be the first to say it.

"I've got another one," Major Smith said, "Happened on the side. Kind of."

Ramirez leaned forward. Harris looked like he might puke, but he didn't look away.

"This was back in '87," Smith said slowly, watching the fire. "I was at Langley. Just flying VIPs, classified cargo, the usual cloak-and-dagger shI'mt. One night, I'm waiting on the tarmac, waiting for a pickup. Wind's howling. No moon. The guy's pale. He's sweating like he doesn't have a fever. Doesn't speak the whole ride."

I paused the bottle halfway to my lips, engrossed in the story. "After we land, he grabs my arm. Just... grabs me. Says, 'If anyone asks, I never got on the plane. You didn't see me. And if he comes, looking, run."

Teller blinked. "He who?"

Smith glanced at the fire. "Didn't say. But I heard the rumors later. Two agents were found dead a week later, frozen stiff in their motel. The door was still locked from the inside. No forced entry."

"Jesus Christ," Ramirez muttered, and I nodded agreement.

"Here's the kicker," Smith continued. "I told that story once before. Stupid night. Camp Eagle, same kind of crowd. Whiskey, bad music, cold it'd get. Thought it'd be fun. One of the guys listening—Army intel—laughed, said it was all psyops bullshit. Three days later, he got reassigned. No goodbye, no trace. Left his pregnant wife too." 

He paused.

"Two weeks later, I got flagged for a psych eval. Pulled off flight rotation. They said I was 'overstressed.' Said I was 'unreliable under pressure'. One asked if I'd ever heard the name Winter Soldier."

That got our attention.

Teller sat up. "Wait, they said it? Officially?"

He nodded once. "Said it was 'a myth weaponized by Cold War hysteria.' That I'd been around too many conspiracy junkies, but the look in his eye..." Smith trailed off.

Ramirez exhaled slowly. "So, what happened?"

"They cleared me," he said. "Eventually. I kept my mouth shut after that. Transferred and buried it. But now and then, I sometimes feel like I'm being watched."

Ramirez threw the rest of the cigarette into the fire.

No one dared to laugh now. 

Chapter 19: The Friends We Make

Date:  November 5th, 2001 (The next morning)

Location: Air Force Base, East Afghanistan, Middle East 

Anastasia's POV:

They didn't give us much notice before the cargo plane was on the runway, barreling down the track. Its familiar engine hissed as the pilot slowed it down. I stood with the other Officers, a clipboard in my hands. I could recognize that pitch before I even saw the dust cloud rising over the wire.

The sun was there, but not sweltering. I would say it was almost nice, except for our thick Military uniforms. I rolled up my sleeves, my jacket tossed on a nearby crate, dog tags lazily shining under the sun. Lieutenant Ramirez stood next to me, checking off his clipboard. Even at war, our jobs were pretty simple and allowed for a lot of goofing off. 

Major Smith, whom I had just been assigned as co-pilot to, had taken the time to teach me everything he could in the short span of our knowing each other. He was commanding a group of E-2s on how to fuel a plane efficiently.

Even though none of us ever said it out loud, rank didn't matter to us when you could be blown to pieces at any given moment, especially after we all shared ghost stories around a campfire far from home. 

My crew consisted of Major Smith, Lieutenant Ramirez, Sergeant Teller, Private First Class Harris, and a few other individuals I only remember by face. 

Here's what I gathered about them:

Major Smith:

Rank: O-4 (Major)
MOS: Special Tactics Officer / Pilot (CH-47 & classified air ops)
Age: 42
Hometown: Boston, Massachusetts
Home Base (before deployment): Andrews AFB, MD
Status (Sept. 2001): Senior officer, mission planning & co-pilot
Notable Traits: Stoic, haunted, cold, but revered
Known For: Earning a Bronze Star in total silence. Telling stories that end in black sites and psych evals.
Field Reputation: A man who doesn't raise his voice—because he never has to. When he speaks, you listen. Might know too much. Might've seen him before—in a nightmare. 

Lieutenant Ramirez:

Rank: O-2 (First Lieutenant)
MOS: Tactical Intelligence Officer
Age: 29
Hometown: Miami, Florida
Home Base (before deployment): Eglin, AFB, FL
Status (Sept. 2001): Active field intel officer
Notable Traits: Cunning, sarcastic, a natural storyteller
Known For: Telling Cold War ghost stories and casually invoking The Winter Soldier
Field Reputation: Keeps morale up with sharp wit and unnerving tales. Not easily rattled—until he is.

Captain Teller:

Rank: O-3 
MOS: Aerial Gunner
Age: 34
Hometown: Flagstaff, Arizona
Home Base (before deployment): Luke, ABF, AZ
Status (Sept. 2001): Special Tactics unit attachment
Notable Traits: Cynical, seasoned, secretly superstitious
Known For: Rolling eyes at ghost stories... but lighting another cigarette just in case
Field Reputation: Joined late, a solid bet in a bar fight or a blackout op. "Never seen a colonel puke" — until I did.

Lieutenant Harris: 

Rank: O-1 (2nd-Lieutenant)
MOS: Aircraft Loadmaster
Age: 20
Hometown: Bowling Green, Kentucky
Home Base (before deployment): Whiteman AFB, MO
Status (Sept. 2001): First overseas assignment
Notable Traits: Smart, Quiet, observant, inexperienced but thoughtful
Known For: Asking the tricky question no one wants to answer: "You scared?"
Field Reputation: Youngest Officer in the group; glassy-eyed but pays attention. Curious about legends, but regrets when things get scary.

And me: Captain Anastasia Becker

Rank: O-3 (Captain)
MOS: CH-47 Chinook & HH-60G Pave Hawk Pilot / Tactical Transport Officer
Age: 26
Hometown: Washington, D.C.
Home Base (Before Deployment): Joint Base Andrews, Washington, D.C.
Status (Sept. 2001): Active flight ops; medevac, troop insertion, and classified cargo missions
Notable Traits: 

Navigating a dust storm with half-fried instruments and a puking colonel in the back

Trading war stories around the fire like cigarettes

Shutting down testosterone-fueled ghost tales with colder ones of my own

Haven't seen direct combat—just flying when told, praying I never have to drop into the middle of hell

Known For: Flying like death is just another checkpoint.
Field Reputation: The kind of pilot who'll drop altitude without warning to prove a point. Dog tags always visible, sleeves always rolled up—always looks like I just wrestled a storm and won. I joke when it's too quiet. I fight when it's too loud. I smile when I shouldn't. And when it's time to fly, I don't ask why—I grab the stick and go.

We are a misfit group.

Boots hit the ground, and the sound of the door slamming against the tarmac grabs my attention. I turn my head just in time to see a dozen Pararescue troops file out of the plane, a bunch of fresh, bright faces eager to do their duty. 

The ones who take everything too seriously. 

"The birds are here," Harris whispers, moving closer. 

You can always tell the difference between the birds that land like they've been here before and the ones who want you to know they just arrived.

Teller groaned. "Pararescue? Great. Angels with egos."

"More like pigeons in helmets," I said flatly.

The usual chatter kicked up: guessing which cocky sergeant would challenge who to a pull-up contest, whether anyone would try to flirt with the medics, and how many of them would claim to have seen combat ghosts in the mountains.

Teller lit a cigarette with one hand, the other resting on his hip beside his folded flight gloves. The sun had just begun its lazy descent behind the ridgeline, stretching long shadows across the sand and tents. We watched the C-130 take off just as fast as it landed. 

Behind me, Teller cracked his neck, boots scuffed and unlaced like always. "Great. More wing boys who think they're invincible."

"Try not to punch one before dinner," I muttered, smoke curling around me as I took a hit from his cigarette. 

"I make no promises." He holds it out while I inhale. 

Harris stood off to the side, nervously adjusting his sleeves. He'd been quiet ever since we sat around the fire telling ghost stories, still absorbing what war felt like in real-time. The stories had stopped being fun.

Major Smith, as if summoned by smoke and intuition, appeared at my side with his usual grim calm, "Everyone be nice, I can already see this going bad."

As they approached, a young soldier with a buzz cut and Swagger built into his posture, as if he'd practiced it in the mirror, shot us a smile. 

A cocky, haven't-seen-combat-yet smile.

He took off his helmet and scanned the base as if he were casing it.

"Afternoon," he said, approaching like he was walking into a barbecue, not a warzone. "Which one of you flies the school bus?"

I raised a brow. "Depends. You offering to ride shotgun or puke in my cargo net?"

The guy grinned wider. "Neither, ma'am. Just trying to find the fastest ride outta hell."

Teller made a sound between a cough and a growl. "Fastest ride? Hope you brought wings, Tweety."

"Real original," the kid fired back. "What's next? Feather jokes?"

"Probably," Ramirez said, standing now, spinning his knife lazily. "Just remember, you're the ones who show up late and take credit for the rescue."

The kid didn't flinch. "Only if your asses need saving. Which, statistically, they usually do."

That shut Teller up for about two seconds.

"I like him," he muttered, nudging me with his boot. "He's got teeth."

I just shook my head. "Not sure he's got scars yet."

The kid dropped his gear beside the fire like he belonged there. No hesitation, no waiting for permission.

"Name's Wilson," he said casually, stretching his legs. "58th Pararescue."

Ramirez whistled. "58th? Fancy birds."

Wilson leaned back on his elbows. "Birds fly. You just taxi."

I couldn't help it—I cracked a grin.

"How old are you, Wilson?" 

"22" So not a kid, but to us, that's close, even if that's only a few years behind me. 

Major Smith gave Wilson a single nod.

"Glad you made it," Smith said.

"Appreciate the strip, sir," Wilson replied. "We're staging for quick-response medevacs. Heard this side of the mountains was getting hotter."

Smith didn't blink. "It will."

Everyone could feel the tension, but the temperature wasn't the type of heat they were referring to. The silence that followed sat heavier than usual.

Ramirez tried to lift it, because, of course, he did. "So what do they call you, Pararescue? Hawk? Angel? Birdman?"

Wilson just smirked. "Wilson."

"Too bad," Ramirez said. "You look like a Carl."

That earned a laugh from Harris—first I'd heard in days. Felt good to hear something human again.

Wilson turned to me. "You're the one they talk about at Joint Base Andrews? Fried gauges and a puking colonel?"

"I might be," I said. "Depending on who's telling it."

"I heard you landed blind with a net full of MREs and shame."

"Sounds about right."

He raised his imaginary drink like a toast. "Respect."

"Damn right."

Before anyone could stay nice, the storm approached. I clocked him before he even opened his mouth. Knew the type. Knew the noise before it made sound.

"Afternoon, Air Force," he called, loud enough for anyone within 50 yards to hear. "Looks like we finally made it to the varsity team." He practically skipped over, holding in his helmet a harness still attached, like he wanted the extra attention. 

Ramirez blinked. "Did that guy just call us the junior squad?"

Teller stood, cracking his back like it was his spine's fault. "I'll give him a varsity beating if he wants to see stars."

The PJ (parajumper) walked right up to our little group as if it were his idea. "Who's flying our school bus?"

Wilson sighs, "I already asked that." 

I lit my cigarette, opting to stay quiet.

He grinned at me. "You must be Captain Becker. Heard you fly Chinooks like you stole them."

I exhaled. "You planning to challenge me to a race, or just trying to compensate for something with your entrance?" 

That got Teller to laugh. Harris looked down quickly to hide his smirk.

"Name's Rojas," he said, thumbing his chest. "58th. Pararescue." 

Like that meant I was supposed to clap.

"We can read," Said Teller with a scoff. 

Ramirez offered him a deadpan once-over. "You always roll into a combat zone like it's a CrossFit mixer?"

Rojas just smiled broader and flexed, "Only when the welcome committee's this cute."

Teller barked out a laugh. "Oh no."

"Say that again," I warned flatly.

He did. "Cute. Little. Fierce."

Major Smith's voice cut through like cold steel. "That's Captain Becker to you, Lieutenant."

Rojas straightened up slightly—just slightly—but that smile didn't go anywhere. "Of course, sir."

"You've got a lot of confidence for someone who hasn't hit a hot zone yet," I said, standing just enough to match him. "Let me guess—you practiced that walk down the ramp?"

"Only every time I wake up," he said. "Look, don't get me wrong—I've got respect for pilots. Especially those who fly buses. But Pararescue? We're the ones picking up what you leave behind."

Teller stepped in, arms crossed. "What we leave behind are body bags and broken gear. You sure you're tough enough to handle our scraps, pretty boy?"

Rojas fed into it. "Tough enough to carry you out when your knees give."

Harris chuckled under his breath. "You mean if he ever went down. Teller's got the survivability of cockroaches."

"Damn right I do," Teller growled.

I leaned forward again, flicking ash into the sand. "Tell you what, Rojas. You get through your first op without crying, puking, or calling for your mom, then maybe—maybe—we'll let you sit at the grown-up table."

He grinned, cocky to the core. "Deal. But when that day comes, I expect you to call me when your Chinook gets too heavy for takeoff."

"You bring anything heavier than that ego?" I asked, deadpan.

Smith raised an eyebrow, but didn't interfere. He never did unless someone was about to bleed.

It didn't take long for Harris to ruin the fun.

He piped up suddenly, surprising even himself. "So...you, uh, seen anything weird in the mountains?"

Rojas and Wilson tilted their heads. "Weird how?"

"Like...ghost stories. Shadows. Metal boots in the snow."

I sighed and passed the cigarette. "Great. You've corrupted him, Ramirez."

"Hey, don't blame me, we all were sharing last night."

"Is that all you've been focused on, Harris?" I ask. 

He stays quiet, picking at his uniform. 

_____

It was evening now, and all of us gathered around the fire, along with a couple of new faces. Major Smith was noticeably absent, saying he wanted to sleep instead of drinking. 

The desert air was sharp and cold, a stark contrast to the afternoon.

We sat in a loose circle. Boots kicked out. Dog tags clinked. Smoke curled around silent glances and half-shared stories. Everyone had that look—shoulders slightly hunched, fingers brushing the dirt or drinking their booze. That look people get when they know sleep won't come easily, so they try to burn the night down with company instead.

Harris sat cross-legged beside me, his jacket zipped too high, eyes flickering like he was trying to memorize the way comfort looked. The poor kid still held his bottle with two hands, as if it might escape. If you are willing to die for your country, underage drinking doesn't look so bad. 

Teller leaned on one elbow, face lit up by firelight, boots unlaced and stretched like he ran the place. Which, in some ways, he did.

Ramirez was sharpening his knife again, not because it needed it, but because movement kept his thoughts at bay.

Wilson was next to him, warm smile, sleeves rolled, radiating calm like a damn space heater. You got the sense that nothing knocked him off balance, but that didn't mean he hadn't been shaken.

And Rojas—well, he was still leaning too far back on his elbows, smirk half-loaded, sunglasses pushed up on his stubby hair like he couldn't quite commit to being off duty. He was still determined to get a reaction. 

Lieutenant Jodie Park, with short brown hair tucked under her backwards cap, still had visible grease stains on her uniform. She was sharp-tongued, hands constantly moving, and she sat beside Ramirez like they'd been arguing for years.

And Lieutenant Natalie Reyes, long legs stretched out, rifle across her lap even now. Braided hair under her patrol cap, face unreadable. She spoke little, but when she did, people shut up.

"I'm just saying," Jodie was saying now, poking the fire with a bent piece of scrap metal, "if you hand me a wrench and a manual, I can rebuild your turbine in the dark. But if you tell me to run laps, I will pretend an IED is hunting me."

Teller took a swig of whatever was in his flask. "You're all under the false impression that you're important. Mechanics, pararescue, officers. Let me tell you something—I am the backbone of this operation."

"Pretty sure your spine's the first thing to give out," Reyes muttered without looking up.

Harris choked on his laugh. I shot him a smirk.

Sam leaned forward, arms on his knees. "Anyone else notice it's only the loud ones who've never been shot at?"

"Tell me about it," I muttered.

The fire popped. Somewhere in the distance, a generator coughed and fell silent.

We all went quiet for a bit. Just the wind and the crackle. That silence didn't feel awkward. It felt like armor. Like a breath between rounds.

"I had a dream last week," Harris said suddenly. His voice was soft. Everyone looked at him. "That we were on a flight. Back home. Just... flying west. And no one was talking. Not one word. But it felt good. Like I'd forgotten what peace sounded like."

No one laughed.

"I dream about flying sometimes," Sam said after a pause. "But I never see where we're landing. It's just sky. Blue sky. Nothing else."

Ramirez nodded slowly. "I had that once. But I wasn't flying. I was falling."

Reyes finally looked up again. "Maybe we all are. Just depends on who hits the ground first."

Jodie threw another stick in the fire. "Okay. Too philosophical. Somebody tell a ghost story before I start crying."

Teller sat up, eyes glittering with mischief. "You want ghost stories?"

"No," I said immediately.

"Yes," Ramirez said at the same time.

Sam grinned. "Here we go."

"I heard one," Park started, voice low and slow. "Out of Jalalabad. Two weeks ago. Night op. The PJ unit was dispatched to retrieve the wounded. They land, secure the zone. Find three guys, bleeding, barely breathing. Load them up. Pilot calls in—everything checks out."

She paused, leaning forward.

"Except when they get back to base, only two were real. The third? No ID. No wound. No pulse. Just... sitting there. Staring. Then he was gone. Not off the bird. Not back on base. Gone."

Rojas shook his head. "I call bull."

Teller grinned. "Probably. But you'll still be watching the corners of your tent tonight."

Reyes, deadpan: "I always do."

Sam passed the bottle. I took a sip, let it burn.

Someone turned on a small radio—soft static, low jazz. It barely cut through the night, but it was something.

And in that moment, with firelight on our faces and no one calling for evac, no one bleeding, no one yelling—we were just people.

Not soldiers. Not ranks. Just... human.

Even if the war is waiting for us tomorrow.

Later in the night, when half of us were asleep around the dying fire, Wilson asked the question that made me go still.

"You scared?" He asked it in the same way Harris did, as if he were looking for someone to ease the pain. 

I looked at him for a while. Young, strong, brave—but still soft in the way you can only be before a bullet hums past your ear.

"Yeah," I said. "But fear's not weakness. It's a survival instinct."

He nodded like he already knew. Or wanted to believe it.

After getting a snippet of the damn para squad, here are my updated cards on the newbies: 

Lieutenant  Oliver Rojas:

Rank: O-2 (First Lieutenant)
MOS: Pararescue (58th Pararescue Squadron)
Age: 25
Hometown: San Diego, California
Home Base (Before Deployment): Nellis AFB, Nevada
Status (Nov. 2001): First combat deployment; medevac and field extraction operations
Notable Traits: Loud, cocky, lives for attention, thrives on competition
Known For: Strutting off aircraft like he's walking into a fashion show, calling Bagram the "varsity team," and trying to flirt with literally anything that moves
Field Reputation: All swagger, no scars—yet. Leans into bravado, constantly testing boundaries, especially with me. Might crash hard when reality hits, but he's got teeth and potential under the ego and is still determined to get a reaction.

Lieutenant Jodie Park:

Rank: O-2 (First Lieutenant)
MOS: Aircraft Maintenance Officer / Flightline Engineer
Age: 28
Hometown: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Home Base (Before Deployment): Tinker AFB, Oklahoma
Status (Nov. 2001): On-ground flightline support for rotary and fixed-wing aircraft
Notable Traits: Fast-talking, grease-streaked, hands always in motion
Known For: Rebuilding turbines faster than anyone else on the base; turning wrenches better than she follows orders; never running unless chased
Field Reputation: The kind of mechanic who talks back to officers and aircraft. Gives as good as she gets. Sharp-tongued, unbothered, and probably smarter than you. Sits next to Ramirez because no one else can handle both of their sarcasm in one blast radius.

Lieutenant Natalie Reyes:

Rank: O-2 (First Lieutenant)
MOS: Security Forces Officer (Combat Operations Liaison)
Age: 30
Hometown: El Paso, Texas
Home Base (Before Deployment): Lackland AFB, Texas
Status (Nov. 2001): Deployed to coordinate security and recon between forward teams and air support
Notable Traits: Quiet, stoic, always armed—even around the fire
Known For: One-liners that cut deeper than bullets; always watching; speaks only when it matters
Field Reputation: Cold, calculating, and unshakable. Scares Rojas without trying. Has the energy of someone who's already buried too many people to waste time talking. If you hear her voice in a firefight, it's probably your last warning.

And finally, a quiet guy who only hung around Wilson:

Lieutenant Ronald Riley.

Rank: O-2 (1st Lieutenant)
MOS: Pararescue Specialist (58th Pararescue Squadron)
Age: 23
Hometown: Houston, Texas
Home Base (Before Deployment): Moody AFB, Georgia
Status (Nov. 2001): Active deployment with the 58th; medevac and combat search-and-rescue missions
Notable Traits: Silent, observant, loyal to a fault; rarely speaks unless necessary
Known For: Always one step behind Sam Wilson — quiet in his shadow, covering blind spots, pulling injured men out of hot zones without ever asking for thanks
Field Reputation: The one nobody notices until the bullets start flying — then he's everywhere at once. Doesn't joke. Doesn't brag. Just works. Keeps his opinions to himself, his gear immaculate, and his eyes on Sam like he's guarding something sacred.
If Riley speaks, you shut up and listen because he's probably the last one to panic—and the first one to die for you.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

What do we think of the flashbacks? I love exploring who Anastasia was before HYDRA. Finally introduces how she knows Sam Wilson. 

Chapter 20: The Sunday Supper

Date: 2025 (Pre-Brave New World)

Location: Washington, DC

Anastasia POV:

The jet hadn't even touched down before my flip phone lit up. What felt like millions of texts from the family group chat about dinner and when I would be there. 

I can't escape my family. 

I flip open the screen and start reading the thread:

Henry: When is Captain Biotch coming?

Amelia: She's ignoring us. 

Mom: Dinner's at 6 pm, and don't call your sister a biotch.

Henry: Captain Dumbass?

Mom: Better, I'll allow it

Amelia: I'll bring the booze.

Dad: That's my girl. I'm also bringing the GF. 

I gasp dramatically, causing Bucky to visibly tense and immediately jump into action, "What's wrong?"

"My dad has a girlfriend!?"

Bucky bites his tongue and gets into the SUV, waiting for us. 

I slide in after him. The car ride was silent, mostly because I was catching up on texts after I ditched my phone.

When the SUV parked in front of my mom's house, I turned to look at Bucky. "You don't have to come in."

"I wasn't planning to," he said, that familiar blank look he has. 

But as I stepped out of the car, the front door swung open like a trap had been sprung. And there stood my mother, hands on hips, apron tied around her waist like a general ready for war. Her gray streaks were more prominent, but the expression was timeless: no-nonsense and ready to weaponize guilt at the drop of a hat.

"Well?" she barked, eyes assessing. "You're coming in, right?"

Bucky rolls the window down just enough to peek out. "No," Bucky replied, shifting uncomfortably.

She tilted her head, eyeing him like she could see every century of trauma behind his eyes. "James Buchanan Barnes." 

Bucky visibly stiffens.

"Jesus Christ," I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Mother, can we please just have a normal dinner?"

She doesn't answer, turns, and walks back into the house. I look over at Bucky, who has slowly rolled the window back up and exited the SUV. "I don't have a choice, do I?"

"Guess not," I mutter, walking inside the house, Bucky slow behind me. 

When we go inside, it's the everyday sibling chaos.

"I'm just saying, maybe you're just immature because you aren't married," Amelia says, raising a glass of wine to her lips.

"I don't want to be tied down," Henry said, flailing dramatically, a beer sloshing in his grasp.

"Tied down? That sounds like you're gay." I say as Bucky closes the front door behind us. 

They look over at the same time, "I'm not gay, I just like to sleep around."

"You mean you like to run away from any emotional feelings other than an orgasm?" Amelia smirked.

Henry rolled his eyes and flopped onto the sofa with a dramatic sigh. It was almost like he was accepting defeat. 

Bucky stuck by my side as I sat on the sofa next to Henry. I could tell he was uncomfortable being here, first of all, and second of all, discussing anything to do with sex. 

I nudged Bucky lightly with my elbow, trying to shake the tension from his shoulders. "Relax, they'll get tired of harassing each other in ten minutes and move on to me. That's your real cue to run."

He didn't smile, but his lips twitched. Progress.

"And Mom still thinks I'm the family's embarrassment," Henry muttered.

"She's not wrong," Amelia quipped, taking another sip.

Our mom breezed back in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "I can hear everything, you know," she said.

"That's the problem," Henry said.

Mom's eyes zeroed in on Bucky again, and I could see him physically preparing for whatever psychological warfare she had planned. She walked over and put a hand gently on his shoulder, surprising all of us.

"We set a place for you, James," she said. "It would be rude not to eat."

Bucky blinked like someone had short-circuited his brain. "I... okay."

I watched him like a hawk as we filed into the dining room. He sat stiffly, metal hand carefully placed in his lap, his other hovering over the napkin like he didn't quite know what to do with it. 

As if things couldn't get worse, my dad showed up fifteen minutes later with a woman half his age. Henry, Amelia, and I all exchange looks, silent sibling telepathy. 

My dad cleared his throat and put an arm around the short blonde, who looked in his mid-thirties or early forties. 

"...Everyone," Dad said like he was introducing a damn foreign dignitary. "This is Kendra."

Kendra smiled way too widely, waving with an awkward cheerfulness like she hadn't just walked into a warzone. "Hi! I've heard so much about all of you."

"Can't say the same," Amelia muttered between her wine sip. 

Henry didn't even pretend to be subtle. "So, is this your mid-life crisis or a permanent situation?"

Mom huffed, "Henry. Be civil."

"I am civil," he replied. "This is me being civil. If I weren't, I'd have said something about him bringing his new sex trophy into my childhood home like it was a Chili's."

Kendra blinked. "I work in environmental law—"

"I didn't bring her here for you three to jump on her. Things are getting serious between us, and with Anastasia back from wherever she was off doing, I wanted you three to meet her before you all leave to live your lives."

We three look at each other again, silently agreeing to be quiet.

Bucky just looked down at his lap, fiddling with his gloves. 

Mom finishes with dinner and calls us to the table.

It begins with the clatter of silverware and a tense silence that felt like it had weight. Bucky sat beside me, chewing slowly like he was waiting for someone to throw a punch. Amelia downed what had to be her fifth glass while Henry moved to something more substantial, whiskey. 

Bucky barely touched his drink, but he was snarfing down food like it was his job. I could understand because it's like a bottomless food pit in my stomach. 

My dad tried small talk. "So, James. What do you do these days?"

"I go to therapy," Bucky said flatly. I try not to crack a smile at that. 

"Nice," Henry said. "Same. Except I ghost my therapist and go to the gym instead. Same result, less crying."

"I like crying," Amelia said. "It's cleansing."

"Great," I muttered, stabbing my mashed potatoes. "We're a family of emotional disasters."

"Some of us," Amelia said, eyes flicking to Bucky, "are disasters with a body count."

Bucky set his fork down slowly.

"Amelia," I say sharply, sending a glare her way. She smirks and sets her wine glass down. "Oh, come on. I think Kendra wants to know how many people HYDRA made you kill."

Kendra didn't get a word in before I cut her off, "I didn't kill much."

"Are you seriously making trauma small talk at the dinner table?" Mom said with a sigh, looking between me and my siblings. "Can't we, for one night, just pretend to be normal?"

"We've never been normal," Henry said, pouring more whiskey.

"And we've never pretended," Amelia added, leaning back in her chair like this was a big performance piece. "Besides, if I had a body count, I'd be bragging too."

"Wouldn't shock me," I muttered.

Bless her delusional soul, Kendra smiled politely and attempted once more to steer the conversation. "It's brave," she said, looking between Bucky and me like she couldn't decide who was more broken. "To face your past like that. Not everyone does."

Bucky's jaw flexed.

Amelia opened her mouth.

I kicked her under the table. Made sure to use my flesh foot.

Hard.

She winced and glared at me. "What the hell was that for?"

"Consider it a preemptive strike," I said, sweetly.

"Could've aimed for Henry," she grumbled.

I flip her off. 

"No way," Henry said. "I'm on your side this time. No one brings a new girlfriend and lets her talk about healing over dinner. That's a war crime."

"That's a war crime?" Bucky muttered, mostly to himself.

"Don't encourage them," I said out of the side of my mouth. "They'll only get worse."

Bucky glanced at me with a look that might've been a smirk or a sneer. It was hard to tell with him. "Hard to imagine worse."

"You haven't seen Christmas yet."

"I will not be here for Christmas," he said flatly.

"You say that now..."

"I mean it."

"Christmas hasn't been the same while you were missing." Mom said, tears already forming in her eyes.

"Jesus Christ," I mutter, slinking further into my seat.

"Great job, Anastasia, you made mother cry," Henry said smugly, downing his whiskey like water. Bucky slowly followed in the drinking, even though I knew it won't do anything to him. 

"You should be proud of the kills you've done, it makes me proud thinking of my child surviving being a HYDRA prisoner," Dad said, getting choked up, too, while shoving mashed potatoes in his mouth.

"We get it! You're proud she was a brainwashed assassin and frozen for decades. You never once said you were proud of us for getting degrees, or for me starting a family." Amelia said, slamming her wine glass down.

"You don't get brownie points for doing as you're told. I expected the same from my children, college, military, and family. It's all any father wants."

"So what about me? I didn't start a family." Henry said mid-gulp.

"Your mother and I knew when you were young, you weren't going to marry."

"No one can put up with you long enough," I smirked. 

As dinner progressed, things started to become less awkward. 

Bucky left after dessert, and my dad and his girlfriend soon after. 

I stare numbly at the TV screen, deciding to watch Grey's Anatomy, which I'm told is a binge-worthy show. 

Everyone went to bed hours ago, but sleep rarely comes to me. 

Chapter 21: The Rooftop Conversation

Date: 2025 (Pre–Brave New World)

Location: Washington, D.C.

Anastasia's POV

The stars looked different when you hadn't seen them for twenty years. Or maybe I was different.

The rooftop shingles were cold beneath my palm as I sat cross-legged near the chimney of my mother's house, one leg stretched out, the other tucked in. I wasn't supposed to be up here, not anymore, not at my age. But I climbed the old lattice like muscle memory. Like nothing had changed, even though everything had.

Below me, the house was finally quiet. No family squabbles. No new girlfriends. No awkward silences or sarcastic one-liners. Just the sky.

I was counting constellations when the attic window creaked open behind me.

I didn't look. "If you fall off the roof, Barnes, I'm not dragging your corpse inside."

"You'd miss me," Bucky muttered as he carefully maneuvered out the window and onto the roof. His boots made soft taps as he approached, slow and cautious.

"I'd trip over your corpse and roll my ankle," I corrected.

He didn't argue, just lowered himself to sit beside me. A bit of space between us. Not too close. Not too far. Close enough to share the silence.

"You left after dessert," I said after a beat.

"Figured I'd leave before the therapy circle turned into a bloodbath."

"Wise."

He didn't respond right away. Just leaned back on his palms, glancing up at the stars.

"You used to come up here a lot?" he asked.

I nodded. "When I was a teenager. Back then, I thought the world was small enough to fix. That all the problems I couldn't solve would fade with time." I gestured to the night sky. "Turns out the stars don't really care what we lose."

Bucky hummed quietly. "They've seen worse."

"Yeah? You ask them?"

"Something like that."

We fell into quiet again. It wasn't uncomfortable. Just... heavy. The kind of silence only people like us know how to sit in.

"Did you mean it?" I asked finally. "When you said you weren't coming for Christmas?"

He didn't answer right away. His jaw clenched, flexed. Then: "Holidays were never my thing."

"I noticed," I muttered, then added, "They're not really mine either."

More silence. More stars. A plane blinked red across the sky, barely visible.

Then Bucky said quietly, "You ever wonder if it would've been better to just stay gone?"

My breath hitched.

He didn't look at me, but I could see the weight behind his words. The same shadow I saw every time he flinched at loud voices or stared too long at his own hands.

"Every day," I admitted. "Some days I think about walking into the woods and disappearing again. Not because I want to die. I just don't know how to live here. With them. With all this."

"Yeah," he murmured. "Yeah, I get that."

"I feel like a ghost in my own life. And they all want me to just... pick up where I left off. As if I can plug myself back into a family that grew up without me. A world that changed without me."

"You're not a ghost," he said.

I gave him a look. "Then what am I?"

He didn't hesitate. "A survivor."

"Of what, though? HYDRA? Cryo? My own family?"

"All of it."

I looked back up at the sky, biting my lip. "Why'd you really come up here?"

He hesitated. "You didn't come say goodbye."

"Thought you'd prefer it that way."

"I wouldn't."

That surprised me. I turned my head to look at him. He wasn't looking at me, but I could see his profile—the faint stubble, the scar near his hairline, the faraway look that crept in when he was too honest.

"You scare the hell out of me, you know," I said.

That made him smile, barely. "Why?"

"Because you know what it's like. You see all the ugly things I try to hide from everyone else. And you don't flinch."

He looked at me finally. Really looked.

"I see you," he said. "All of you. Not just the soldier. Not just the girl who got left behind. You."

My chest ached in a way I wasn't ready for.

"And you don't hate me for it?"

He shook his head. "Not even close."

A gust of wind brushed over us, and I shivered without meaning to. He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto my shoulders without a word. It was warm. Worn. Smelled like soap and leather.

I exhaled slowly. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

We sat there for a long while, letting the silence speak for us.

And then, just before the wind picked up again, I whispered, "If I asked you to stay for Christmas... would you?"

He hesitated. But not long.

"I'd think about it."

That was the closest to a 'yes' I'd get.

And for now, it was enough.

--------

I didn't thank him again. I just pulled the jacket tighter around my shoulders and leaned back on my hands, matching his posture. My fingers brushed the rough edge of a shingle. My leg had gone numb beneath me, but I didn't shift.

I didn't want the moment to break.

He sat quietly beside me like he wasn't going anywhere. That was rare—people like us didn't know how to stay still unless we were waiting to strike. But he sat there anyway, breathing like he meant it, like the air wasn't heavy with all the things we weren't saying.

I caught him glancing at me when he thought I wasn't looking.

"You still have blood on your shirt," I muttered.

He glanced down at the dark red stain on his collar. "Leftovers."

"From what?"

"Not everything needs explaining."

I nodded. "Fair."

But I still stared at the stain. Because it meant something. That he hadn't gone home. That maybe something had happened between dessert and now. Or maybe he just didn't care anymore.

"Can I ask you something?" I said.

"You just did."

I gave him a look, and he gave me a crooked smile.

"Go ahead," he said.

"Why me?"

His brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Out of all the people, why did it have to be me?"

He looked away again, jaw tightening. I didn't expect him to answer. But then, after a long pause, he did.

"You were never the target, just the wrong place and time."

I blinked. That wasn't what I expected.

The silence fell again, but it wasn't the same as before. There was something else in it now. Like the space between us had gotten smaller, even if we hadn't moved.

"You know I'm a mess," I said.

"I know."

"And I'm not done being angry."

"I wouldn't believe you if you were."

"I still have nightmares. I still wake up thinking I'm strapped to a table. I still look at my own reflection and expect someone else to blink back."

"I know," he said again, softer this time. "So do I."

I swallowed hard. "I don't want to do this alone."

"You're not."

I let out a shaky breath.

"I'm scared, Bucky."

"Me too," he said.

Chapter 22: The Letter

Date: 2025

Location: Washington, D.C.

Anastasia's POV

The attic smelled like dust and cedar and forgotten time.

I stood at the top of the narrow pull-down ladder, squinting into the golden afternoon sunlight filtering through the tiny round window near the rafters. It warmed the old floorboards and cast long shadows across forgotten boxes, an old exercise bike, and a yellowed plastic Christmas tree with tangled lights.

"Check the back corner," Mom called up from below. "That's where I kept most of your old stuff."

I didn't ask why she kept it. She didn't offer.

The attic groaned as I stepped forward, brushing cobwebs away with the sleeve of my hoodie. My metal leg made a dull thud with every step. It still startled me sometimes, that sound. That weight.

I found the box quickly. It was labeled in thick black marker:

ANASTASIA – 2002
DO NOT OPEN.

It was sealed with layers of brittle masking tape, yellowed and peeling at the edges. I crouched and traced the writing with my fingers. Mom's handwriting. Neat, even back then. Sharp corners, decisive strokes.

I didn't realize I was holding my breath until I cut through the tape.

Inside were fragments of a life I'd forgotten I missed.

My old flight jacket. Dog tags. A framed photo of me with my arms around Amelia and Henry at Henry's 7th birthday party, our faces sticky with frosting. A faded envelope from Sam Wilson, marked return to sender.

There was a tin of cheap military jewelry I never wore. A half-used bottle of perfume. Letters from friends. Graduation cards. My Academy patch.

And at the very bottom, wrapped in tissue paper, was a single white envelope.

For Anastasia.
April 2002.

It wasn't sealed. But the flap was neatly tucked in, as though it had been closed with reverence. The handwriting matched the box.

I stared at it for a long time. Something in my chest trembled, like a wire pulled too tight.

I took the letter downstairs and sat at the kitchen table. The old wood creaked as I leaned on it, fingers curled around the envelope like it might vanish.

Mom was humming in the garden. Amelia was running errands. Henry was god knows where. 

The house was quiet.

I unfolded the letter with careful hands.

My dearest Ana,

If you ever find your way back to us, I want you to know something: I never stopped believing. Even when they told us the crash site was unrecoverable. Even when they handed us the folded flag. Even when we buried an empty box.

I still felt your heartbeat in mine.

I kept your room the same for years. I waited for your boots at the door, your laugh in the kitchen, your arguments with Henry over cereal. I watched the front steps every night until I couldn't stand the silence anymore.

They said I should let you go. I never could.

I don't know where you are, or if you're still my little girl, but if some part of you is still out there... I hope you feel how much I love you. That it's wrapped around you like a thread, pulling you home.

You were always stubborn. Brave. Kind. Reckless. You looked like your father, but your soul was mine. If you're reading this now—if by some miracle you came back—know this: I forgive you. I love you. I never stopped.

Come home when you're ready. We'll be waiting.

Love always,
Mom.

By the time I reached the end, the paper was blurred through my tears.

I pressed the letter to my chest and bowed my head.

I hadn't cried like this since... since the hospital. Since that awful white room. But this was different. This wasn't grief. It wasn't pain. It was something raw and aching and warm. Like being seen. Like being known again.

Like being found.

I didn't hear Amelia come in. She stood in the doorway for a moment, watching.

When I looked up, my eyes swollen and red, she crossed the kitchen silently and sat beside me.

She didn't ask.

I handed her the letter, and she read it slowly, lips moving with each word.

Then she laid it on the table and leaned against me, resting her head on my shoulder.

"She kept it all," I whispered. "Every last thing."

"Of course she did," Amelia said softly. "You're her daughter."

I didn't answer. I just let the silence wrap around us like a blanket.

----------

That night, after dinner, I slipped into the hallway in socks and padded quietly to my parents' room. Their door was cracked open. The light was off, but I could see the flicker of the television across the bed.

I didn't go in. I just stood in the doorway and said, barely louder than a breath:

"Thank you... for the letter."

My mom looked over, her eyes soft behind her glasses. She didn't say anything.

She just smiled.

And that was enough.

Third POV:

The house was quiet when Bucky stepped inside, just before midnight.

The porch light cast a soft golden hue through the front windows, throwing long shadows across the floorboards. He moved soundlessly through the entry, passing the living room without so much as a glance.

On the kitchen counter sat a single folded sheet of paper, weighted by a familiar ceramic mug with a chipped lip. No note. No message.

He didn't need one.

There was something about the stillness of the house—the absence of her presence—that told him more than words ever could.

He picked up the paper with careful fingers. The edges were worn, softened from handling. The handwriting was neat but trembled in places, aged but intimate.

It wasn't addressed to him.

It was addressed to Anastasia.

As he read, something shifted in his posture—shoulders falling slightly, jaw clenching not in anger but something more complex. Regret? Guilt? Something heavy, something that lived just beneath the surface of his usually unreadable expression.

The letter was a goodbye. A confession. A mother's last attempt to reach the daughter she thought she'd never see again.

I forgive you. I love you. I never stopped. Bucky closed his eyes briefly.

Then, without a word, he folded the letter neatly again, returned it beneath the mug, and turned toward the door.

He left just as quietly as he arrived.

No message.

No explanation.

No goodbye.

Later That Night
Location: Sam Wilson's Apartment

Sam opened the door in a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeve compression shirt, blinking blearily at the unexpected knock.

"What the hell are you—" he paused, taking in the sight of Bucky standing in the hallway, looking like a man who'd walked through a storm. "Jesus. You look like shit."

Bucky didn't respond. He just held up a hand in vague acknowledgment and walked past Sam into the apartment.

Sam shut the door, brow furrowed, arms crossing over his chest as he followed.

Bucky didn't sit. He hovered near the kitchen counter, jaw tight, eyes unfocused.

"I read the letter," he said finally, voice low.

Sam tilted his head. "What letter?"

Bucky shook his head. "The one her mom wrote from back when they thought she was dead."

That gave Sam pause.

"You read it?" he asked slowly. 

Bucky nodded once.

Sam waited. When no further explanation came, he said flatly:

"Dude, you're being stupid."

Bucky didn't react.

"You read a letter meant for her, written by her mother, and your response is to walk out like a ghost in the damn night?"

"I needed to leave," Bucky muttered.

"No, what you need is therapy and a damn GPS tracker so people stop thinking you're dead every time you disappear."

Bucky's eyes finally flicked to his.

Sam stepped closer. "What happened? What did that letter say to make you run?"

Bucky looked at him for a long moment, then answered with a shake of his head. "It's not that simple."

"Of course it isn't," Sam snapped. "Nothing ever is with you two. Always dancing around the damn truth until it's too late and someone ends up bleeding or in therapy or both."

"I'm not trying to hurt her."

"Then stop leaving."

Bucky's jaw flexed. His fists clenched at his sides, not in anger—but restraint.

"I have to stay away"

Sam's expression softened slightly, though his frustration didn't fade.

Silence hung thick in the air.

He turned toward the door.

"Don't," Sam warned. "Don't walk out again without a plan."

"I always have a plan"

Chapter 23: The Disappointment

Date: December 24, 2025

Location: Washington, D.C.

Anastasia's POV

The first snowfall of the season came without warning.

Thick flakes drifted past the frosted kitchen window, gathering on the sill like delicate lace. The world outside had gone quiet, wrapped in a hush only winter could bring. The street was nearly empty, lit by golden streetlamps and the soft glow of holiday lights wound around porch railings and crooked fences.

Inside, the house was warm with the scent of cinnamon, pine, and whatever Henry was attempting in the oven. Amelia had insisted on real garlands this year. The entire staircase reeked of fir needles and sap. Somewhere in the living room, a Christmas movie played too loud—probably one of the kids put it on and vanished.

I sat on the worn couch with a half-empty mug of hot cocoa and my phone face-down beside me, pretending not to look at it every five seconds.

It had been months.

Since Wakanda. Since the rooftop. Since the letter. Since the look on Bucky's face when he thought I wasn't watching—the one carved out of regret, the one that slipped like a ghost through the house at midnight and never returned.

No calls. No visits.

No explanation.

Until now.

The screen lit up. Just a single message. No emojis. No punctuation.

Bucky:  "going to sam's for christmas"

I stared at it for a full minute.

Not hey. Not how are you. Not merry christmas.

Just... logistics. Cold, sterile, five words that said nothing and yet somehow still hurt.

I swallowed against the dryness in my throat and typed back.

Me:  "good. merry christmas."

Then deleted it.

Typed again.

Me:  "okay."

Deleted that too.

Finally, I settled on the only thing I could manage:

Me:  "drive safe."

And even that felt like more than he deserved.

I locked the screen and shoved the phone under a pillow.

"Everything alright?" Amelia asked, stepping into the room with a glass of wine and suspicious eyes.

"Yeah. Fine." I took another sip of cocoa. "Just tired."

She didn't push. She just flopped down beside me and tossed her legs over mine like we were sixteen again. "If you want me to fake a boyfriend and make Mom uncomfortable tomorrow, say the word."

I snorted. "I thought you were the responsible one."

"I am." She grinned. "That's what makes the chaos so believable."

Henry yelled something from the kitchen about the oven being possessed, and one of the kids screamed with delight as a pillow fort collapsed in the hallway. Christmas lights blinked unevenly from the mantle, and the radio switched to Bing Crosby halfway through Mariah Carey.

I should've felt full. Surrounded. Loved.

Instead, I just felt... vacant.

Like something had been left out in the cold.

Later That Night

Location: Louisiana

POV: Bucky Barnes

"Man, you didn't even tell her you were coming here?"

Sam handed Bucky a beer and sat across from him, wearing a Santa hat and a pair of fuzzy reindeer slippers.

"I texted her," Bucky muttered.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "You sent a six-word death notice like you were filing a report."

Bucky didn't answer. He just stared out the window, jaw tight.

The Wilson apartment was full of light, laughter, chaos. Sarah had turned the kitchen into a buffet war zone. Joaquin was building some ugly-ass gingerbread thing with the kids. And someone had managed to get "All I Want for Christmas" stuck in an endless loop over the speakers. Again.

Bucky sat in the middle of it all like a statue carved out of guilt and silence.

"She's not mad, you know," Sam said after a long moment. "Not really."

"I didn't say she was."

"You think she hates you?"

Bucky's jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

Sam leaned forward. "She doesn't. She's just tired. You broke her heart a little. And you keep doing it."

Bucky looked down at the bottle in his hands. His voice was low. "That letter... what her mom said. The part about feeling her heartbeat still. About watching the steps every night."

Sam's expression softened.

"It wasn't meant for me," Bucky went on. "But I read it, and I saw her. All those years. It's my fault. I made it worse. I'm one more shadow she doesn't need."

"Bullshit," Sam said firmly. "You were following orders, just like all the others. When are you going to stop blaming yourself?"

Bucky looked away.

"You helped get her out, man," Sam said. "That's what matters."

"She'd be better off without me."

"She'd probably be worse," Sam snapped. "And you know it."

The music changed. The lights flickered. Sarah called for everyone to come help with dessert.

But Bucky stayed where he was. Still. Silent.

Sam watched him, then said quietly, "You left because you care about her. I get it. But maybe what she needed... was for you to stay."

Bucky didn't respond.

Because deep down, he knew Sam was right.

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

Date: December 24, 2025

Location: Washington, D.C. – The Becker Household

POV: Anastasia Becker

The chaos arrived promptly at 5:03 p.m.

It started with a ding-dong, followed by the unmistakable thud of a snow boot kicking the door open before the knob could even be turned.

Henry had left for a good hour, and when he returned, he was not alone.

"Why is no one answering the damn door? It's a thousand degrees below freezing out here," Henry called as he barged inside, dragging a lopsided gift bag, a half-empty bottle of wine, and a tall, freckled blonde who looked like she'd rather be anywhere else.

"This is Scarlett," he added, already toeing off his boots on the welcome mat like he lived there. "We're in our 'seeing where it goes' phase."

"Is she the one from your gym or the one with the OnlyFans?" Amelia asked from the kitchen, barely glancing up from basting something aggressively in the oven.

"Gym," Henry said proudly. "We met doing squats. Real romantic."

Scarlett blinked. "I actually teach yoga."

"Same difference."

I gave her a polite smile. "Welcome to the madhouse."

She nodded cautiously, eyes scanning the house like it might bite.

It would.

By 5:45, the kitchen was packed, the thermostat was ignored, and the wine was flowing a little too freely.

Amelia's husband, Ben, hovered behind her with a dish towel slung over his shoulder and a toddler on one hip. He'd already changed two diapers, soothed one tantrum, and taken a call from their oldest kid's kindergarten teacher asking why they hadn't turned in the December craft project.

"Hey, babe?" he asked gently, holding up a wooden spoon like a white flag. "Do you want me to start plating or—?"

Amelia turned, eyebrow arched. "Ben, if you ask me how to do one more thing I've already told you twice, I swear to God, I will throw you into traffic."

He kissed her forehead. "That's my girl."

I turned away so she wouldn't see me laugh.

At 6:10, our father arrived.

With her.

Kendra.

Wearing a red sequined dress, knee-high boots, and enough perfume to fumigate the first floor. She tottered in on four-inch heels and immediately tried to hug everyone like this wasn't a war crime.

"Hi, Ana!" she said with fake cheer. "You look great!"

I stared at her like she was a gas leak and gave a flat, "You look... red."

Dad coughed awkwardly and muttered something about traffic before making a beeline for the bourbon.

Henry mouthed help me from the couch, trapped between Scarlett and Kendra asking if he "got his strong jawline from daddy."

Ben, the MVP, handed me a glass of whiskey without being asked.

Dinner was a disaster in the best way.

The turkey was dry. The potatoes were lumpy. The kids refused to eat anything but dinner rolls and marshmallows. Amelia threatened to uninvite Henry for life. Scarlett ghosted halfway through dessert. Kendra started crying during "Silent Night" because it reminded her of her late Yorkie. And Henry clogged the upstairs toilet.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, I stepped out to the porch.

The cold slapped me in the face. I leaned on the railing, watching snow fall under the glow of the porchlight. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Bucky:  "going to sam's for christmas"

That was it.

After everything. After months of silence. He didn't even say my name.

I didn't respond. I just stared at the screen until it dimmed, then slipped it away like it hadn't happened.

Behind me, I could hear laughter. My family, loud and chaotic and borderline criminal, arguing over board games and stealing the last deviled egg. It should've felt like enough.

But I couldn't shake it.

Bucky had been here. Not in this house, not on this porch—but he'd been here.

And now he wasn't.

And that emptiness? It was starting to feel permanent.

Chapter 24: The Christmas Sadness

Date: December 25, 2025

Location: Washington, D.C. – The Becker Household

Anastasia's POV

Christmas morning is quieter than last night. Less shouting, fewer footsteps. The only sounds are paper being torn by eager hands and an old Christmas record humming low through the stereo. That, and my mother trying not to cry.

The kids wake up first, of course— already wrestling over whose toy is better. I smile and play along, handing them gift after gift like it's muscle memory. It almost is. I haven't done this in over two decades, but it's coming back like a dream I used to have on repeat.

Ben follows them into the room with a mug of coffee and an eye-roll, looking exhausted but proud of himself for assembling everything that "required a goddamn screwdriver and a degree in engineering." Amelia trails after him, mumbling about breakfast and batteries.

Henry comes in last, looking like hell warmed over—shirtless, yawning, clearly didn't sleep alone. Typical.

And then there's me. Sitting cross-legged on the floor in old sweatpants and a hoodie. No makeup. No prosthetic polish. Just me.

Unwrapped. Unarmed.

I keep my focus on the kids. They're loud and honest and distracting. But then I see her.

My mother. Sitting alone on the recliner, holding a mug like it's the only thing tethering her to the present moment.

She's trying so hard not to cry.

And I know why.

I rise slowly, walking over with soft steps.

"Mom?" I ask, already crouching down beside her.

"I'm fine, sweetheart," she whispers, smiling that brittle, trembling smile I've seen far too much of lately. "I'm just... I'm just happy you're here. That's all."

That's not all.

She's cried three times today. Once when she saw my stocking still hung on the mantle—red, stitched with gold thread, made before the war. Once when Henry handed her a framed photo of us from 2001. I looked so young in it. Baby-faced. Naive.

And now—because it's Christmas.

Because it's my first real Christmas back.

Because I'm here.

I lean into her arms before she can think of another excuse. Her warmth is instant, arms wrapping around me like they used to when I'd come home from training, or deployment, or a bad date. Like I'm still her little girl.

"I'm here now," I whisper, just so she knows it's real.

She loses it then. Full-body sobs that shake through both of us.

Her hands cradle my face, thumbs brushing tears from my cheeks before they even fall. She rocks me, and I let her.

And for the first time in a long time, I don't feel like a ghost.

I hear Amelia sniffle from the other side of the room. Henry turns his back, but his shoulders are stiff. Ben quietly slips out with one of the toddlers, giving us space.

No one says anything for a long time.

After lunch—what little anyone ate—I step out back for some air.

The cold bites at my face, but I welcome it. It feels sharp. Real.

I pull my hoodie tighter around me and check my phone.

Still no new messages.

Just the one from last night:
Bucky: going to Sam's for Christmas

Short. Distant. The first thing he's sent me in weeks.

I never replied.

I don't know why I thought he might follow up. A photo, maybe. A dumb meme. Some snarky comment about Joaquin being too loud. Something.

But there's nothing.

Just silence.

Just me.

I shove the phone back in my pocket and close my eyes. Snow's starting to fall again. Light and slow. Gentle.

Inside, I hear Amelia laughing. My mom teasing Henry over his cooking. A baby crying.

It's not perfect. Not even close.

But I'm here.

And this time, I'm staying.

Third POV:

The Becker household in D.C. was filled with warmth and chaos and grief—familiar threads woven into the first real Christmas Anastasia had experienced since the war took her.

Across the country, under the slower skies of Delacroix, Louisiana, the Wilson home smelled like pecan pie, gumbo, and a hint of saltwater.

Bucky sat stiffly on the worn couch, a plate of food balanced on his lap, untouched. The sounds of holiday music drifted in from the kitchen, interrupted every few seconds by a laugh from Sarah or a scream of excitement from one of her sons.

Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him.

"You're gonna pretend you're not hungry," he said finally, "but Sarah's gonna notice, and then she's gonna get mad at me for not feeding you."

Bucky didn't look up from the plate. "I'm not really hungry."

"Uh-huh." Sam pushed off the wall and crossed the room. "Let me rephrase that—Sarah will drag your stubborn ass back into the kitchen and hand-feed you if she thinks you're being disrespectful."

"I'm not being disrespectful."

"Then eat the damn pie."

Bucky let out a breath—something between frustration and defeat—and dug his fork into the slice of sweet potato pie like it had personally wronged him.

"There," Sam said, grinning. "Was that so hard?"

Bucky chewed slowly. "It's good," he admitted, mouth full.

"I know it is. That's why I told her to make two." Sam sat across from him, the mood shifting slightly. "So? You gonna tell me what's going on or am I just supposed to keep guessing?"

Bucky didn't answer.

"I know you saw something," Sam pressed. "You don't vanish for two months because someone breathed too hard in your direction."

Still nothing.

Sam leaned forward. "Was it the letter?"

Bucky stiffened.

"Thought so," Sam said softly. "What has you worked up now?"

"It wasn't meant for me. She left it on the counter. I don't even know why I looked."

"You looked because you care."

Bucky swallowed hard.

"It was from her mom," he said. " It wasn't even... it wasn't just sadness. It was love. All the love in the world poured into a few pages. Hope. Faith. The kind of hope no one should have to carry for that long."

He set the empty plate on the coffee table. His hands were shaking.

"She was twenty-six," he said. "A kid. And I took her from her family. I put her in that place. I know it wasn't me, not really, but it was. I put her through hell, and then she gets that letter, and she still hugs her mom and smiles like she hasn't been turned inside out."

Sam didn't say anything at first. He let it sit, let Bucky work through it in his own time.

"You ran again," Sam said finally.

Bucky looked up, startled.

"You always run," Sam continued. "Soon as it gets hard, or messy, or you feel something you can't fix? You disappear."

Bucky's jaw clenched.

"She deserves better than that," Sam said gently. "Hell, you deserve better than that."

Bucky stood, restless now. "I don't know how to be around her, Sam."

"She doesn't need you to be perfect."

"She needs me to be someone I'm not sure I can be."

Sam looked at him for a long moment. "Well, that's not your call to make, is it?"

Bucky didn't answer.

"She text since?"

"No."

"Then she's giving you space. Not slamming the door. Don't mistake silence for punishment."

He walked over, clapped Bucky on the shoulder.

"You're spending Christmas with us, man. You're family now, whether you like it or not. So get over yourself, stop being dramatic, and help me open these gifts before AJ and Cass raid everything."

Despite himself, Bucky let out a short laugh. Just a breath. Just enough.

As Sam turned toward the kitchen, Bucky lingered by the window. Snow wasn't falling here, but the wind off the bayou carried a familiar chill.

Somewhere far away, Anastasia Becker was celebrating Christmas with a family that grieved and loved her with equal fire.

He wondered if she missed him.
He wondered if she hated him.

But most of all—
He wondered if it was too late to fix it.

Chapter 25: The TV Alert

Date: 2026 (During CA: BNW)

Location: Washington, D.C.

Anastasia's POV 

By the time the snow melted and the days stopped biting, the house felt a little too quiet again.

Amelia packed up her little circus and headed home—her husband's job couldn't be done remotely anymore, something about an in-person contract. She cried when she left, full-on sobbing as if I was disappearing again, even though I promised to visit. Her youngest gave me a sticker on the way out—a sparkly blue shark with glittery teeth—and stuck it on my chest like I was a refrigerator. I didn't take it off until bedtime.

I miss the chaos. The morning cartoons too loud, kids yelling over cereal, Amelia and Henry arguing about coffee filters. I miss all of it more than I expected.

But Henry stayed.

He said it was because his job was flexible and he could work from anywhere. Truth is, he didn't trust leaving me alone with Mom and Dad just yet. And honestly, I didn't blame him. Some days I didn't trust myself either.

He set up a desk in the basement. Brought me coffee most mornings like we'd lived this routine for years instead of months. We didn't talk much, just... existed around each other. It was comforting. Familiar. Real in a way not much else felt anymore.

It was the kind of peace that made the kitchen smell warm when pancakes were cooking, the kind that made you feel like maybe—just maybe—you weren't a ticking bomb. Not anymore.

But underneath all of it, I could feel something shifting. Something cold.

It started small.

News flashes I couldn't unsee—blurred footage of an incident in South America, static-filled clips of black ops gear and a red star half-shattered on the screen. Government talking heads pretending not to panic. One morning, I found Mom watching it with the remote clenched in her hand like a weapon.

"Turn that off," I told her.

She did, without a word.

Then there was Sam. Last time he visited, he looked... tired. Not just physically, but in that way you get when you've seen the cracks forming and no one else is looking. He asked about my leg, my sleep, my nightmares. He didn't mention Bucky.

Neither did I.

Bucky hadn't texted since Christmas Eve. Just that one damn message—Going to Sam's for Christmas—like it was nothing. Like I hadn't noticed the silence before or the way it stretched afterward.

I wasn't going to chase him.

If he wanted to disappear, fine. I knew how to do that too.

But the dreams had changed lately. No longer just echoes of Siberia or the weight of a metal cuff around my wrist. Now they were fragmented—jungle heat, the hum of helicopters overhead, someone shouting my name through the static. Sometimes I saw him—Bucky—standing in a place I didn't recognize, with the wind in his hair and fire at his back. And sometimes, I woke up with my jaw clenched and my palms bleeding from my nails.

I haven't told anyone about the dreams. Not Mom. Not Henry. Not even Sam.

Because for now, the house is still warm. Henry still brings me coffee. Mom still makes breakfast on Sundays like it's a ritual that will save us. Dad still grumbles at the newspaper like we're back in 2001.

But something's coming.

I can feel it in the way the news avoids eye contact. In the way the headlines glitch and skip. In the way my chest tightens every time I hear the name New World Council whispered between the lines.

The world's turning again.

And I don't know if I'm supposed to stop it—or if I'm just going to get caught in its path.

----------

I didn't want to care. Not about politics. Not about elections. And definitely not about James Buchanan Barnes.

But then Henry turned his laptop toward me one morning and said, "He's actually doing it."

I blinked at the screen. There he was—Bucky—standing behind a podium with the Brooklyn skyline at his back, sleeves rolled up, voice calm but firm as he talked about transparency, justice, reform. The words Independent Candidate for the 14th District flashed across the bottom of the screen like a dare.

No security detail. No metal arm showing. Just him.

Trying to fix a system that broke both of us in different ways.

I didn't know what I felt. Pride? Annoyance? A twist of something that lived between admiration and pure, unfiltered rage?

He never told me he was running.

Hell, he never told me anything after Christmas.

But here he was on TV, talking about his past like it was a footnote instead of a war. Owning it. Spinning it. Rewriting the narrative before someone else did. His words weren't polished, not like a politician's. But they were real. Grounded. Intentional.

He said, "I've made mistakes. I've hurt people. I've been used. And I've been lost. But I've also been given a second chance, and I intend to use it for good."

Henry watched me out of the corner of his eye like I might break something. I didn't. I just stared at the screen while Bucky talked about VA reform and intelligence accountability like he hadn't ghosted the woman who watched him bleed in a Siberian bunker.

Typical.

Still... it made sense, didn't it? If anyone knew how broken the system was, it'd be him. If anyone had the strength to stand there and demand change without flinching, it'd be someone who already survived the worst of it.

But none of that explained why he couldn't send one goddamn message after the letter.

It shouldn't matter. I kept telling myself that.

He wasn't mine.

He never had been.

But watching him on that screen—confident, calm, collected—it felt like something sharp under my skin. Like he was building a new version of himself and I hadn't even been invited to the foundation.

I shut the laptop before the segment ended. Got up. Poured more coffee.

Didn't say a word.

Henry didn't either. He just quietly moved his computer aside and asked if I wanted to go for a walk later. We both pretended it wasn't because I looked like I wanted to scream.

The next day, Mom brought it up.

"I saw Bucky on the news," she said, stirring something over the stove. "He looked... good. Tired. But good."

I nodded.

She didn't push. She never did. But the quiet lingered between us like a shadow. Like we both knew something was missing and neither of us could name it without choking.

I wonder if he knows what that letter did to me.

I wonder if he knows what it did to him.

Because I saw his face the moment he put it down—shaken, guilty, like the words from my mother reached into his ribs and cracked him open. And maybe that's why he left. Maybe that's why he disappeared again. Not because he didn't care... but because he did. Too much.

Maybe guilt was the only language either of us truly understood.

And maybe he's finally trying to rewrite his.

Even if it means leaving me behind to write mine alone.

Chapter 26: The Rush

Date: 2026 (During CA: BNW)

Location: Washington, D.C.

Anastasia's POV

I wasn't even paying attention when the news broke.

Henry had left early for a run. Mom was out back pruning her garden like it was a battlefield. I was still in pajamas, sipping lukewarm coffee and staring at the living room ceiling fan like it might reveal the secrets of the universe.

The TV droned on in the background. Same loop: political chaos, celebrity scandal, economic inflation. I wasn't listening.

Not until the words BREAKING NEWS flared across the screen in angry red and the volume auto-spiked. That got my attention.

"Reports are coming in now—Sam Wilson, the current Captain America, has been spotted engaging hostiles above the Pacific. U.S. officials confirm attempted bombing runs targeting the coastline of Japan—"

I sat up so fast I spilled coffee on my thigh.

The screen showed shaky footage—someone filming with a phone from a cargo ship or a fishing boat. The camera swerved wildly, but I saw it.

The wings. The shield. Sam, mid-flight, weaving through debris as explosions rocked the airspace behind him.

The voiceover continued, frantic. "Unconfirmed reports say multiple bombs were intercepted mid-air. Captain America appears to be coordinating efforts with unidentified Wakandan aircraft—"

My heart slammed against my ribs.

Then the feed cut again—to a satellite shot.

The Indian Ocean.

Something was rising out of it. Something massive. Gray in color, sleek, wrong. Too smooth to be natural. Too big to be man-made. Looked like a face and hand. 

A shadow beneath the waves, a swell of water pushed back like a curtain.

"What the hell..."

I didn't even realize I'd said it aloud.

The image changed again—split screen now. One side still on the ocean anomaly, the other showing footage of Joaquin. My stomach dropped.

He was airborne, suit torn, wings sparking. Tumbling. Falling.

"No."

My hand went to my mouth as if I could stop the sound, stop the drop, stop gravity itself.

But he fell—straight into the ocean.

The screen froze on a wide shot: whitecaps swallowing him whole.

And then the broadcast cut to static.

I stood in the silence, remote in hand, blood rushing in my ears.

Joaquin.

Sam.

Whatever the hell was clawing its way out of the Indian Ocean.

A tremble worked its way through my hands, and I clutched the edge of the couch like it was a lifeline. My vision blurred—not from tears, not yet—but from the sudden, unbearable tightness in my chest.

Breathe. Just breathe.

I hadn't been on a battlefield in years. Not really. But I knew what this was.

War.

Not the kind fought with rifles and boots and airstrikes.

The kind that changed the shape of the world.

I didn't know where Bucky was. I didn't know if he'd gotten the news. If he was watching. If he was suiting up or running away again.

But I knew one thing for damn sure.

This wasn't over.

And I wouldn't be sitting this one out.

Not this time.

I don't remember grabbing my boots.

I don't remember yelling for Henry or tossing on the first sweatshirt I could find or barreling down the porch stairs with coffee still in my hand.

But I remember the text. No—the call.

Sam's voice, tight, urgent.

"Anastasia, it's Joaquin. He's in surgery. They pulled him from the water."

I was already running before he finished.

I didn't have a driver's license yet—technicalities—but Henry threw on his shoes and grabbed the keys without question. I barely waited for the car to stop before I flung the door open and sprinted for the entrance of Walter Reed.

My hair was a mess. My shirt was inside out. My boots were unlaced. I had no bra on. And I didn't give a single damn.

I crashed through the automatic doors so fast a nurse yelled after me. Security turned, but Henry called something behind me—"Veteran emergency! She's cleared!"—and they backed off.

The halls blurred.

I followed the sound of shouting. The flurry of scrubs. The tang of antiseptic so sharp it punched memory into my gut.

ICU. Second floor.

I slammed open the stairwell door and took the steps two at a time, my lungs burning. My leg didn't slow me down—not anymore.

Then I saw them.

Through the glass. On the other side of the surgery wing window.

Sam, arms crossed, face hard as steel.

And next to him—

Bucky.

I stopped so fast I nearly lost my footing.

He didn't look at me. He didn't move. Just stood there in a dark suit, hair in a bob with scruff, tie crooked like he'd tugged at it on the drive over. His hands were in his pockets. His eyes—icy, unreadable—locked on the operating table beyond the glass.

I couldn't breathe.

"Anastasia." Henry finally caught up, his voice low, steady, like he thought I might shatter.

But I didn't move. I couldn't. I was still half-dressed, heart pounding, frozen in place with my hands clenched at my sides.

Sam saw me first.

His mouth pressed into a line. He motioned me in.

Bucky still didn't look.

I stepped forward on autopilot.

The hallway was too bright. Too sterile. The overhead lights buzzed like they were mocking me.

As I came to stand beside Sam, I caught my first full glimpse of Joaquin—barely visible through the blur of surgeons and machines and too much blood.

My stomach twisted.

"He flatlined twice on the flight," Sam said quietly. "Suit shorted out. They got to him just in time."

I swallowed hard. "And now?"

"Still bleeding internally. They've stabilized the spine, but his lung collapsed."

I wanted to scream. Or throw something. Or pull Bucky's damn tie and ask if this—this chaos, this horror—was the price of fixing things ethically.

But I said nothing.

Bucky didn't either.

He stood still as stone. No greeting. No apology. Just the stiff form of a man who looked like he'd buried whatever was left of his soul weeks ago.

Coward.

I didn't say it. But I thought it loud enough to rattle the windows.

Sam must've felt the tension, because he cleared his throat and shifted slightly, putting himself between us like a human buffer.

"I called you because Joaquin would want you here," he said to me, voice softer now. "No one knows how long this'll take. You might want to sit."

I nodded, numb.

I didn't sit.

Neither did Bucky.

We just stood on opposite sides of the silence, watching the boy who held all our love fight for his life beneath cold lights.

And in that moment, I realized something brutal.

Sometimes the worst heartbreak doesn't come with screaming or slamming doors or final words.

Sometimes it just stands next to you in a suit, hands in pockets, refusing to look at you.

Chapter 27: The Things We Lose

Date: 2026 (Pre-Thunderbolts)

Location: Washington, D.C.

Anastasia's POV

I thought we'd have more time.

That's the stupid part. The arrogant part. The part of me that believed if I just kept everyone breathing long enough, time would bend for me. That I could put off grief until I was ready for it.

But time doesn't ask for permission.

I was in the kitchen, barefoot, staring at the toaster. One slice of bread was stuck. Burning at the edge. The smell filled the air like something trying to remind me I was still here, still grounded, still human.

Then Kendra screamed.

It wasn't loud—not the panicked, sharp kind. It was small. Shaky. The kind of sound that barely escaped a throat already closing in on itself.

I dropped the plate.

My feet carried me before my brain did. I took the stairs two at a time, skipping the fourth one because it still creaked, muscle memory from a childhood I barely felt part of anymore.

She was on the threshold of the guest bedroom, one hand braced on the doorframe, the other pressed over her mouth.

And my father wasn't breathing.

I stopped cold. My stomach dropped. My body went ice.

For a second, all I could do was stare.

He was lying on his side, the way he always did. One arm curled under his pillow, his jaw slightly slack. But there was something too still about it. Something hollow.

"Kendra," I said, my voice low. "Go get Mom."

She didn't move. She just shook her head, tears already spilling.

"Kendra," I said again, louder this time. "Go."

She ran. I walked in.

The room felt too warm. The sun was coming through the window in soft gold beams. The kind of morning that shouldn't be allowed to coexist with death.

"Dad," I said quietly. "Come on."

I touched his shoulder.

No give. Cold skin.

I knew it was too late, but I checked anyway. Pressed two fingers to his neck. Laid my ear over his chest.

Nothing.

He'd been gone for hours.

I sat back on my heels. My hands were shaking. I'd seen a lot of death—messy, violent, slow, controlled, hell, I've caused death. But this was different. This was him.

He wasn't supposed to die in his sleep.

He was supposed to argue with me about the thermostat. About the way I hung up my coat or left dishes in the sink. He was supposed to be there, hovering too close when I had a headache, acting tough when he was worried, pretending he didn't care when he clearly did.

He was supposed to live long enough for me to say the things I'd been holding.

Now he never would.

Behind me, I heard the soft thud of my mother dropping to her knees. Heard her voice break. Henry's voice rose an octave as he stumbled into the room. And Kendra—sweet, anxious Kendra—sobbing like her lungs were folding inward.

But I just sat there.

Not crying. Not blinking.

Just... silent.

Because when a soldier dies, there's usually warning. A mission. A phone call. A gunshot.

But when a father dies in his sleep, the world keeps spinning.

And I wasn't ready for that.

I don't remember the rest of the day.

I remember people arriving. Neighbors. A coroner. Someone from the funeral home. My mother clutching his wedding ring so tightly I thought it would pierce her palm.

I remember Henry calling the VA. Amelia's voice breaking over speakerphone while Mom makes the call. 

I remember sitting in the hallway with my back to the wall, knees pulled to my chest, watching Kendra pace back and forth.

And I remember the quiet.

The kind that doesn't settle. The kind that lingers in the gaps between breath and thought.

That night, I stood in the doorway of the guest room.

The bed was stripped. The windows cracked open.

I should've said something sooner. I should've thanked him. I should've yelled louder. Apologized more. Asked about the time he drove across state lines just to see me graduate officer training, even when I told him not to come.

I should've stayed longer.

Now all I had was silence.

I walked back to my childhood room and shut the door behind me. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor.

And for the first time since I'd come home, I felt like a little girl again.

Lost.

Alone.

Afraid.

But I wouldn't cry.

Because if I started, I didn't know if I'd stop.

---------

I make the call to Sam with shaky hands.

It takes me two tries. The first time, I hit his name and immediately hung up before it even rang. My thumb hovered over the screen like it weighed a thousand pounds. The second time, I pressed it and made myself wait.

It rang twice.

"Hey," he answered, warm and casual, like always. "Everything okay?"

I opened my mouth and nothing came out.

"Anastasia?"

I swallowed hard, but it was like trying to breathe around a stone lodged in my throat. My eyes burned. My voice finally scraped out.

"He's dead."

A pause.

"Who?"

"My dad," I whispered. "This morning. In his sleep."

Sam didn't say anything at first. Just silence, but not the empty kind. The kind that listens. The kind that steadies.

"Oh, Ana," he said finally, and his voice cracked like he'd taken the hit for me.

"I—I don't know what to do," I admitted, chest tightening.

I hated saying that. I hated not knowing. I'd survived cryo, HYDRA, war zones, brainwashing. I'd killed men with my bare hands. But this?

This felt worse.

"Okay," he said, steadying himself before trying to steady me. "Okay. You don't have to do anything right now, alright? I'm coming over. Don't worry about anything."

"Sam—" My voice cracked.

"I'm coming."

And then the line went dead.

I sat there, staring at the phone in my hand like it was someone else's. My knuckles were white. My breath shallow.

I hated how fast he picked up. How easy he made it sound. I hated that it didn't bring him back. That no matter who I called—Sam, Bucky, God himself—my dad would still be lying upstairs in a body bag by nightfall.

And yet...

The moment I heard Sam's voice, I didn't feel so alone.

He arrived less than thirty minutes later, with that quiet walk of his, the one that didn't ask for attention. Just presence. Comfort.

My mom threw her arms around him before he even made it through the threshold. Kendra followed. Even Henry.

Sam let them all cling.

When he finally looked at me, we didn't speak. He just pulled me in. I didn't cry. Not then. I just pressed my forehead to his shoulder and inhaled the faint smell of cedar and jet fuel and the world I left behind.

"He was proud of you, you know," Sam murmured. "God knows he said it a lot."

"I know," I whispered. And I did.

But hearing it helped.

Just a little.

I didn't ask about Bucky.

Sam didn't offer.

But I wondered if he'd told him. If Bucky knew. If he felt anything at all—or if he was too far gone into whatever campaign-trail version of himself he was playing now.

I didn't need him here.

I didn't.

But I think... a part of me wanted him to know what it felt like.

To lose someone you loved while they still thought there might be time.

Chapter 28: The Funeral

Date: 2026 (Pre-Thunderbolts)

Location: Arlington National Cemetery

Anastasia's POV

The dress blues barely fit.

The jacket stretched tighter across my shoulders than I remembered. The sleeves cut slightly short at the wrists, and I had to suck in my stomach to fasten the final button.

I hadn't worn them since before the deployment that never ended. My mother had kept them perfectly preserved in a garment bag, tucked in the back of her closet, like she knew someday we'd need them again. Maybe she was right.

The medals clinked faintly against the fabric as I moved, silver and bronze and fading. A uniform that belonged to someone I didn't recognize anymore. Captain Becker. Air Force. A rank frozen in time.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

The woman staring back looked too young for the weight in her eyes. Too worn to be twenty-eight. And still too alive to feel as hollow as I did.

The cemetery was too quiet.

Rows upon rows of white headstones spread across the manicured green like bones beneath a battlefield. The spring wind moved gently through the trees, stirring the flags and ribbons tied to the markers. Even the birds seemed to fly a little softer over Arlington.

I walked alongside Henry and Amelia, all three of us in our blues.

My brother's uniform was crisp—retired Major now, squared shoulders and ironed creases. Amelia looked radiant and grief-stricken, her cap tucked neatly under one arm. She had pinned on Dad's wings over her heart.

The moment we arrived, the three of us fell into step like we used to—tight formation, slow march, back straight even under the weight of the loss.

Our mother waited by the canopy, dressed in a sleek black gown that fluttered in the wind. Her hands were folded tightly, lips pressed into a line that never quite stopped trembling. Kendra stood beside her, clutching a small American flag someone had given her.

There were no wails. No sobbing. Just silence.

The kind that wraps around your lungs and squeezes.

Sam arrived just before the flyover.

He didn't come in civilian clothes.

He came in the Captain America suit.

The navy and silver gleamed beneath the sunlight, the star on his chest polished to perfection. The wings folded neatly along his back. No shield—just Sam, standing proud in the same uniform my father always believed in.

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat.

He didn't say anything. Just nodded at me from across the path and took his place near the front, shoulders squared, hands clasped behind his back.

He knew what this meant.

Dad would've wanted the uniforms. The honor. The flags and rifles and twenty-one-gun salute. He would've wanted everyone to stand tall, to cry only when the jets passed overhead.

To make it clear—this wasn't just death.

It was duty fulfilled.

The chaplain began to speak.

Words about service, legacy, love of country.

I didn't hear most of them.

My eyes stayed fixed on the flag-draped casket. Air Force seal pinned to the cloth. The silence between each phrase thundered louder than the speech itself.

Then came the sound that always broke through.

Taps.

The lone bugle's song cut through the wind, piercing and slow, every note a blade. I didn't realize I was crying until one drop landed on the medal at my chest.

The Honor Guard folded the flag slowly—precisely. Every corner tucked. Every crease perfect. The senior officer stepped forward and placed it into my mother's trembling hands.

"On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Air Force, and a grateful nation..."

She didn't cry.

But her knuckles turned white around the flag.

After the flyover—four jets in a perfect V, one pulling skyward and away—I turned to see Sam already walking toward us.

He said nothing at first. Just reached for my hand and squeezed it. I didn't let go.

"He would've been proud of you," Sam said quietly.

I shook my head. "He'd be mad I didn't polish my buttons."

Sam gave me a faint smile. "He'd be mad I wore boots to his funeral."

"You're wearing a suit of vibranium."

"Still boots," he muttered.

I cracked a tiny, broken laugh.

Then fell silent again.

We all stood shoulder to shoulder as the casket was lowered into the ground, standing tall and saluting. A familiar feeling, even after all these decades. As they slowly placed him in the six-foot hole, a single tear rolled down my cheek. 

We didn't stay long after. There wasn't much to say.

Some of his old friends from the Force came by—most of them older now, silver-haired, limping. They saluted in silence. One of them, a retired General, gripped my shoulder and whispered, "You remind me of him."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

Henry, Amelia, and I walked back toward the car in slow steps. The wind moved through the trees again.

I glanced over my shoulder.

The headstone was simple.

William Grant Becker
Beloved Father. Devoted Husband. Proud Serviceman.
"Always Forward."

Third POV: 

Bucky didn't wear a uniform.

Just black.

Black suit, black shirt, black tie. The kind of outfit that blended into the crowd but still clung to him like a shadow he could never shed. Bucky stood under the wide canopy of a tree on the outskirts of the cemetery lawn, far enough not to be noticed, close enough to see everything.

He didn't belong in the front rows.

Not after everything. Not after the silence. Not after the letter.

And yet he was here.

Because even when he tried to stay away, some invisible tether kept pulling him back to her.

From the tree line, he could see the family approach—the three children of William Becker, now grown, now grieving.

Anastasia walked in the center.

Her dress blues hugged her like they didn't quite remember her, the sleeves tight at the shoulders, medals dulled with age. She held her chin high, face unreadable, not a step out of line even as grief curled at the corners of her mouth.

Beside her, Henry stood tall, his own blues sharp and ironed, jaw clenched like it took everything in him to stay composed. Amelia looked barely held together, tears swimming in her eyes, her husband's hand on her back as she marched.

Bucky's jaw tightened as he watched them. It was a family fractured by time, by trauma—and still, here they were. United in grief.

The ceremony began with all the military honor due to a man like William Becker.

A chaplain spoke.

The Honor Guard folded the flag with reverent care.

Taps echoed through the open sky.

Bucky remained still beneath the tree, his fists in his coat pockets. He didn't move, didn't flinch, didn't breathe too loud.

He remembered funerals like this.

Too many of them. Brothers-in-arms. Ghosts of war. Innocents buried under the weight of other people's politics. And now, one more name etched into stone—another consequence of time lost.

He remembered what Anastasia had told him once, not long after Wakanda:

"My father served thirty years and still woke up like he was in a foxhole. The war never really ends for men like him."

And now... it had.

When the jets flew overhead in the missing man formation, Bucky's gaze flicked to the sky. One veered off, soaring alone into the blue.

He hadn't cried in years.

But his eyes burned.

Not just for William. But for the girl in the uniform who stood ramrod straight despite the storm raging beneath her surface.

Sam arrived late, dressed in the Captain America suit, standing tall like a sentinel. Joaquin stayed off to the side like he didn't feel like he belonged. Bucky wasn't sure if Anastasia even saw him. 

Bucky watched him from a distance—watched as Sam offered quiet comfort, as he stood beside her like he belonged there.

Like Bucky didn't.

He turned his gaze away, jaw clenched.

He didn't approach. Didn't offer a single word.

What could he say?

He had failed to protect Anastasia before. Failed to say the right thing. Failed to show up in every way that counted.

He wouldn't intrude now.

When the casket was lowered, Bucky finally stepped back.

The gravel beneath his boots didn't crunch. The shadows swallowed him whole. And when the crowd began to disperse, no one noticed he was ever there.

Not even her.

Anastasia's POV

But I couldn't move. Not yet.

My heels were sinking into the soft earth as I sat staring ahead. The wind tugged at the edges of my dress blues—ones that barely fit anymore. Mom had saved them all these years.

I stared at the brass plaque like it might blink. Or breathe. Like maybe this was a bad dream, and if I just stayed still long enough, I'd wake up to him yelling at the news again from the kitchen.

Instead, I heard footsteps. Soft. Deliberate.

By the time I turned, she was already beside me.

A woman—early fifties, maybe—dressed in a sleek navy pantsuit that looked custom-tailored to a war criminal's budget. Black hair with a streak of blue. Red lipstick. Calm eyes that studied me like I was a specimen.

She didn't offer condolences. Just spoke.

"Grief is like a blade with no hilt," she said. "You bleed every time you pick it up. But sometimes—if you're strong enough—you can learn to use it without getting cut."

I blinked at her. "Excuse me?"

"You don't know me. Not yet. But I know who you are, Captain Becker. I know what they did to you. What they took from you. And I know what that kind of rage does when it has nowhere to go."

I stiffened. Every word felt like a trap. "Who the hell are you?"

She smiled. Just barely. "Someone who works with people like you. People who don't fit neatly back into the box. People with a little too much fire and nowhere to aim it."

I wanted to snap at her. Tell her to shove her riddles and walk away. But I didn't. Because something in her voice felt familiar. Not her tone—her certainty.

Like she'd done this before.

"I don't want a purpose," I told her. "I want my dad back."

"So did she."

My eyebrows pulled together. "Who?"

She didn't answer. Instead, she slipped a slim card from her blazer and held it out between two fingers. I didn't take it.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine
CIA Director & OXE– encrypted line only.

"Call me when you stop crying and start burning," she said.

I didn't move. I didn't take the card. But she stepped closer and tucked it into the chest pocket of my uniform herself, giving it two gentle pats.

"I'll be seeing you, Captain," she said, like a threat wrapped in silk. Then she turned and walked off as if she hadn't just cracked something open inside me.

I didn't stop her.

I didn't say a word.

My hand hovered near the card, still in my pocket. I didn't pull it out.

Not yet.

But I knew one thing for sure:

She had found me for a reason.

And I didn't know if I should be scared of her...

...or of what part of me wanted to call.

-------

Later that night, I stood alone in the hallway outside my old bedroom.

The uniform hung from the back of the chair. Unbuttoned now. The medals and ribbons resting quietly on the desk.

I looked down at my hands.

I had spent so many years learning to kill, to survive, to erase emotion in the name of duty.

But I couldn't stop shaking.

The grief came in quiet waves.

It would shape me from here on out—this loss. This hole in the map of my life. The same way the cryo shaped me. The serum. The missions. The silence.

But this?

This was the first time I felt it.

The real cost.

Not in blood.

In absence.

But all I could think about was Valentina's words. 

 

Notes:

AHHHHH It's happening!!! Valentina has officially sunk her claws in. Stay tuned for the next chapter!!

Chapter 29: The Silence That Follows

Date: 2026 (pre-thunderbolts)

Location: Washington, D.C.

Anastasia's POV

Time moved both quickly and slowly. This might be worse than what HYDRA did because there's no cryo to ease the pain. 

The next few weeks were a blur of blankets, bad posture, and Olivia Pope monologues.

I haven't even thought about Bucky. Okay, that was a lie; I thought about him a lot. Especially when they showed Olivia, Fitz, or Cyrus on Capitol Hill. 

It is weird, right? That he's in Congress? Like 'yep, let's make this war criminal in charge...'

I don't know why I chose Scandal, of all things. After Amelia and Henry kept praising it, I finally sat down to watch it. It helps numb the pain and serves as a good distraction. I enjoyed pretending I had a white hat, even though mine was black and bloodstained.

Or maybe I just liked the way she didn't cry.

I rotted on the couch, half-covered in the quilt my mother made during her quilting phase in 1997. It smelled faintly like lemon detergent and grief. The volume stayed just loud enough to fill the silence, not loud enough to drown the thoughts. I kept my vibranium leg unplugged most days—just left it by the couch like some dead thing. I didn't need it to press play. Or pause. Or order Thai food for the third time that week.

Sometimes I moved to the bed. Not for rest—just for variety. I didn't sleep much. Or eat much. I just...existed like static. Not that I needed to do either. 

Mom hadn't left her room since the funeral. Not even once. She didn't even open the door when I knocked. I can hear her heartbeat, so I know she's alive. 

Amelia had to go back for Ben's work. 

Which left Henry.

Henry was the only one who didn't pretend I wasn't crumbling. He came by every single night—sometimes with dinner, sometimes with ice cream, once with a six-pack and a very bad idea involving whiskey and rewatching Top Gun and Top Gun: Maverick. 

He never pushed. Never asked how I was doing. Just sat with me and watched TV, occasionally muttering about plot holes or bad acting or how he missed when television didn't stress him out.

"You've watched this episode five times," he said once, gently elbowing me.

"I like this one," I muttered, even though I couldn't remember what happened in it.

We didn't talk about Dad. We didn't talk about the funeral. We didn't talk about the woman in the pantsuit with the card still sitting untouched in the pocket of my dress blues, hanging in my closet like a ghost.

I didn't tell him that I held it in my hand some nights and just stared at it, imagining what my dad would say if he knew I was even thinking about it.

Probably: "You should kill people for a job, Stasia."

Or maybe: "Do what you have to do to survive."

I didn't know which version of him I'd become.

All I knew was that the house was quiet. Too quiet. And I couldn't feel my hands most days from keeping them clenched so tight.

Henry hugged me before leaving every night, even when I didn't hug back.

He always said the same thing: "See you tomorrow, kid."

I fucking hate when he calls me that. 

And every time, I wanted to cry.

But I didn't because I couldn't.

Because if I started, I might never stop.

______

Well, tomorrow sure did come. 

Henry doesn't know, and he never did. Apparently, he didn't learn his lesson the first time when he walked in with my then-boyfriend and me doing very not-so-little-brother-should-see things. 

He opened the door to my bedroom and leaned against the frame with a sigh that said everything.

"You haven't moved all day," Henry said, his voice soft but heavy with frustration. "You know Dad would hate this, right?"

I didn't look at him. Just stared at the ceiling like it might crack open and swallow me. "Leave me alone."

I heard him cross the room. Felt the mattress dip beside me. He didn't say anything for a minute, just sat there while I burrowed deeper under the covers like a rotting burrito of grief and poor hygiene.

"He'd want you to use those superhero powers for something, you know," Henry said eventually. "We all know how pro-fight he was."

That made me crack a dry smile. Barely. "You mean how he yelled at the TV during every Captain America news segment like he was the coach of a team that never listened?"

Henry chuckled, eyes going a little glassy. "Exactly."

Silence.

Then: "He was proud of you, Stasia. We all know how much he said it."

My throat tightened. "I didn't ask for this."

"I know."

"I didn't want this."

"Too bad, get up and do something."

I finally turned my head, meeting his eyes for the first time that day. He didn't flinch at whatever he saw on my face. "You think I'm broken."

"No," he said without missing a beat. "I think you're grieving. And I think you're wasting perfectly good powers rotting away in a blanket cocoon watching political soap operas."

I blinked. "Wow. Thanks."

"You're welcome." He nudged me with his elbow. "Shower. Eat. Walk around the block. Or punch through a brick wall, I don't know—whatever helps. But do something."

I rolled onto my side. "What if I don't want to?"

"Well let me just say this: I found an underground fight club we could check out. Maybe you could finally prove your worth." 

"Really? Do I look like Brad fucking Pitt?"

"No, you look like an ugly rat that resembles my sister". 

I roll my eyes, "Asshole."

"I'm just saying! I think it would be worth seeing the competition, you could win a shit-ton of money."

"You know HYDRA never actually taught me much right? So I don't even know how to fight..."

"You can't die either, so just get tossed around until you figure it out." I give him a look, finally sitting up completely. "Are you serious right now?" Henry just blinks. "Uh, yeah, I am." "Okay, Henry, where the fuck is this fight club?"

"Madripoor."

"You must be out of your damn mind." I scoff and kick him.

"Oww! Dickhead! What was that for?" Henry says, standing up and rubbing his side where I kicked him.

Henry stood with his hands on his hips, trying to channel our father. It didn't work—Dad never wore old Nirvana T-shirts with a mustard stain on the hem.

I leaned back on my hands and tilted my head. "Have you always looked this stupid?"

"Yep," he said proudly. "Oh, and I brought cupcakes."

That made me pause. "You brought cupcakes and didn't lead with that?"

Henry smirked and reached into the plastic bag he had dropped by the door. "I was waiting for the right dramatic beat. You know—emotional breakthrough, sarcastic quip, then sugar."

He pulled out a small bakery box and walked it over to me like it was a peace offering. I opened it slowly.

"Vanilla with chocolate frosting," I said, stunned. "You remembered."

"Of course I did. You made me bake those stupid things every time your boyfriend broke up with you. I used to eat the frosting out of the piping bag when you weren't looking."

"You little shit," I muttered, but I was smiling. Really smiling.

He flopped back down on the bed beside me and watched as I picked up the smallest cupcake. My hand was still trembling, but I didn't drop it.

"You ever think maybe Dad wouldn't want us to be okay yet?" I asked quietly, peeling the wrapper. "Like... maybe he's somewhere up there saying, 'Don't you dare move on without me, ya bastards.'"

Henry snorted. "That sounds exactly like something he'd say. But he'd also want you to shower before you start your vigilante arc."

"Oh, for God's sake—can't I grieve in peace without a hygiene lecture?"

"Nope. That's my job now. Official Grief Gremlin and Occasional Nag."

We sat in silence for a moment, the kind that wasn't heavy anymore. Just warm. Familiar. Safe.

After I finished the cupcake, I leaned my head on his shoulder. "Thanks for not giving up on me."

He didn't answer right away. He just leaned his head against mine and exhaled.

"Stasia," he said finally, voice softer than I'd heard in weeks, "I never could. Not even when you were a pain in the ass."

"Still am."

"Yeah. But you're my pain in the ass."

I rolled my eyes, but I didn't move. His arm slid around my back and squeezed once, just enough for my ribs to remember how it felt to be held.

"Hey," I said after a minute. "If I ever do decide to go full vigilante..."

"I'm making the playlist," he said immediately. "Something badass with electric guitar. Maybe a little Black Keys."

"I was thinking more along the lines of Fiona Apple."

Henry looked personally offended. "This is why you don't get to be in charge of the soundtrack."

I snorted, then actually laughed. It hurt—something in my chest cracked like thawing ice—but it was real.

Maybe it was the chocolate frosting, the familiar weight of his arm, or the scent of old laundry detergent and our childhood bedroom, but for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel like a ghost in someone else's house.

I felt like myself.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to stand up again tomorrow. 

 

Chapter 30: The Brother's Bad Idea

Date: 2026 (pre-thunderbolts)

Location: Madipoor

Anastasia's POV

I hadn't been on a plane in God knows how long, and I definitely hadn't planned for my reentry into international travel to involve fourteen hours of layovers, three suspicious customs checks, a boat, a broken jeep, and a drunk guy with a parrot named "Jeffrey" who insisted on being our guide to Madripoor. 

TSA alone was a nightmare with my fucking leg. I almost got tackled and tased. 

The agent's mustache was the real crime. 

I had to remove my prosthetic in front of a crowd, which made a toddler cry and a teenage boy ask if I was a robot. It was—delightful. Then I was asked why Wakanda thought I was special enough for this $350 million dollar leg. I nearly choked someone and threw my leg at another agent. 

I was still glaring at Henry as we climbed a sketchy, rusted fire escape on the side of a neon-lit building that smelled like sweat, motor oil, and instant regret.

"You said this would be fun," I hissed at him.

"It is fun. It's just... gritty fun. Seedy, back-alley, bloodsport fun."

"You dragged me to an illegal underground fight club in Madripoor, Ana. This is not what normal people call fun."

He turned and grinned at me. "Since when have we been normal?"

I sighed, gripping the rail. "Seriously, can we talk about the guy with the eyepatch who tried to trade me a grenade launcher for your watch?"

"That was just Jeffrey's friend."

"The parrot Jeffrey?"

"Yeah. Pretty sure he was in charge of the whole operation."

I groaned.

We reached the rooftop, and I knocked twice on a rusted steel door that looked like three different species had punched it. A slit opened at eye level, and someone with a gravel-thick voice asked for a code.

"Bluebird," he said casually. I side-eye him. How the fuck does he know this?

Pause. The slot shut. Then—

CLUNK.

The door opened. WHAT???

Stepping inside was a blast from the past. I don't remember much from HYDRA'S nastier years, but I do remember: sweat, leather, bloodstains, the sound of bodies hitting metal. (mostly Bucky). 

A chain-link cage dominated the center of the warehouse-turned-arena, surrounded by people in every shade of drunk, dangerous, and desperate. Neon lights flickered overhead. Somewhere in the back, someone was cooking meat over an open fire. Probably not USDA-approved.

Henry leaned in close. "If I die here, I'm haunting you."

"Please," I muttered. "You wouldn't even haunt me properly. You'd leave passive-aggressive notes in the fog on the bathroom mirror."

"You'd deserve it."

"You thinking about jumping in?" Henry asked, arms crossed, scanning the crowd with the nervous tension of a man fully out of his depth.

I looked at him. Scowled. "That depends. You think the world's ready for a one-legged psychopath with too much rage and nothing to lose?"

He didn't even flinch. "No. But you should do it anyway."

I bumped his shoulder, warmth blooming in my chest. 

-----

The fights were...brutal. Not flashy, not theatrical. Just bone-snapping, teeth-rattling violence that made you feel alive and vaguely afraid for your own dental plan. Henry and I stayed until the late rounds. He called me a pussy for not jumping in. I called him a dumbass. He told me that was a term of endearment now.

Eventually, I caved. The crowd had thinned to a manageable size, and the fighters left were mostly drunk and overconfident. Henry bet his entire paycheck. What a dumbass.

My opponent was enormous. I'm talking boss-level tank in a video game. Horizontally gifted and vertically intimidating. He probably moonlighted as a literal bulldozer.

But he was slow.

I dodged his first two swings, ducked under the third, then spun and nailed him square in the ribs with my prosthetic leg. The shock sent him stumbling into the cage wall. The fourth kick brought him down. Hard.

The silence after the bell rang was loud.

Then—cheers. Loud, sweaty, filthy cheers. Henry's voice was the loudest among them.

We won four thousand dollars. In cash. In untraceable, possibly bloodstained cash.

As we limped away from the arena with my knuckles bruised and his face shining with pride, he grinned at me. "You're gonna get addicted to this, aren't you?"

I shook my head, trying to catch my breath. "God, I hope not."

But yeah. Maybe.

Just a little.

----

Brass Monkey Saloon.

That was the name of the bar, painted in cracked gold lettering across the window like it had something to prove. Henry said it "looked fun," which was already a red flag, but we were buzzed off the fight club win and flying high on adrenaline and bad decisions. So, naturally, we walked right in.

Big mistake.

The music hit me first—low, throbbing, like the pulse of something alive and mean. The walls were stained with years of cigarette smoke, whiskey, and probably blood. A neon sign flickered above the bar, casting a sickly green glow over a room packed with exactly the kind of people your mother warned you about: mercs, smugglers, black-market dealers, and at least one guy in the corner cleaning a machete with a bar napkin.

"Henry," I muttered, pulling my jacket tighter around me. "This place doesn't feel right."

Henry, of course, was already halfway to the bar, grinning like an idiot. "Relax. We're just getting a drink. What's the worst that could happen?"

I scanned the room. At least three men had knives visible on their belts. One woman near the dartboard was nursing a gunshot wound like it was a mild inconvenience. And in the far corner... Was that a guy in a HYDRA jacket?

Oh good. Home sweet home.

I elbowed through the crowd to catch up to Henry, who whispered, "This is definitely John Wick vibes. "

I give him a look. "What does that even mean?"

"If we survive, I'll show you the movie."

We bellied up to the bar. The bartender—an older man with one eye and a limp—looked at us like we'd pissed in his favorite drink.

"What'll it be?" he growled.

Henry flashed a smile. "Whiskey. Two. Whatever's not poison."

The bartender didn't smile back. He poured two glasses of something brown and dangerous and slid them over.

I eye the whiskey as he pours it. 

"Is this the one Zemo had a shootout here once or something?"

The bartender stuck a knife into the bar top, then pointed to the wall on our left. Henry and I looked over at the same time to see what had to be a dozen or more pictures on the wall. Some have doodled on framed pictures, including ones I can't miss: Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson. Over the framed pictures is a giant "BANNED" sign. Henry pointed out which one Baron Zemo is. 

That's not good. 

Henry clinked his glass against mine rolling his eyes, "I think we might die."

I clinked his glass against mine, then we drank. It burned. Hard. I coughed and wiped my mouth. "Jesus. Is this jet fuel?"

"Probably. Makes the leg hurt less, though." 

I was about to answer when someone at the pool table shouted, "Hey!"

I turned in time to see a mountain of a man—bald, scarred, and wearing combat boots older than my current identity—staring right at me.

"You're that chick from the cage match," he growled, pointing with a crooked finger. "The one with the freak leg."

Ah. There it was.

Henry tried to step in. "Hey, man, we're just having a drink—"

"No one asked you, pretty boy," Scarface snapped.

A hush settled over the bar like a storm cloud. I straightened, turned, and gave him my best unimpressed look. "You trying to start a fight or compensate for something?"

That earned a few snickers from the back. Scarface did not like that.

He stomped toward me. "Think you're tough, huh? Think that leg makes you better than the rest of us?"

"I know it does," I said flatly. "Because I'm still standing, and your ass got dragged out of the ring before round two."

There was a beat—then his fist came flying.

I ducked. He hit the bar instead, hard enough to crack the wood. Henry tackled someone else who tried to jump in, and suddenly the whole place erupted into chaos.

Glasses shattered. Chairs flew. Someone screamed in Russian. Still don't know it. A pool cue snapped across a guy's back, and I ended up kicking Scarface square in the gut with my vibranium leg, sending him flying into a booth like a damn ragdoll.

"TIME TO GO!" Henry shouted, ducking as a bottle flew past his head.

"NO SHIT!" I yelled back, grabbing him by the arm and yanking us toward the back exit.

We burst through the kitchen (a health code violation nightmare), barreled past a very confused cook holding a meat cleaver, and spilled out into the alley behind the bar, breathless and still half-laughing.

Henry bent over, hands on his knees. "That... was awesome."

"I hate you," I wheezed. "You owe me a liver."

"Worth it."

We kept walking, adrenaline still thrumming through our veins as the Madripoor skyline lit up above us.

Honestly?

It was kind of fun.

Chapter 31: The Fight That Was Promised

Date: 2026 (Pre-Thunderbolts)

Location: Washington, D.C.

Anastasia's POV

"So anyway, he framed Bucky, and then Tony found out he killed his parents, Steve fled or something, I don't know."

Henry said it like it was the weather. Like that wasn't the most convoluted, emotionally catastrophic superhero drama of the last thirty years. He had a bag of frozen peas on his jaw and a bag of barbecue chips in his lap—classic Henry duality.

He continued, voice slightly muffled from the swelling, "Then during the blip, he like... disappeared for a bit. But after everyone came back, some weird-ass group called the Flag Smashers tried to punch the world back into the blip. That's when Zemo got dragged out of jail—by Bucky, Bucky—to help them stop it."

I blinked at him from the other end of the couch.

I had stopped listening about two minutes ago, if we're being honest.

"And you're telling me Zemo's not in jail now?" I asked when I tuned back in.

"Allegedly." Henry winced as he shifted on the couch. "Apparently he's in Wakandan custody. You know, spa prison."

I snorted. "Right. The Wakandans are just letting him exfoliate while the rest of us spiral."

"Hey, maybe their idea of justice actually works."

"He wasn't there when I was in Wakanda." He just shrugged at that. 

Henry had a split lip and probably a mild concussion. I had some bruises and a twisted shoulder that had already popped back into place. Serum perks. My body healed like a damn lizard. My soul? Not so much.

"I still can't believe you bet your whole paycheck on me," I said, stretching my leg out with a slight groan.

Henry shrugged, smug. "I had faith."

"You also once tried to microwave a protein shake."

"Faith and poor judgment. I'm complex."

I threw a pillow at him.

He yelped. "Assault."

"Try testifying," I muttered, pulling my hoodie tighter.

There was a moment of quiet. The kind that settled deep in the bones. The kind that felt like we were back to being siblings on a snow day, hiding from the world with bad snacks and worse decisions.

Henry looked at me, expression softer now. "You know... you looked alive out there."

I blinked. "What?"

"In the ring. In Madripoor. You looked... like you. Not the grief-burrito version. Not the ghost. You moved. You fought."

I didn't say anything right away. I didn't know how.

Instead, I glanced toward the window, where the city hummed faintly outside. Buses. Distant sirens. Life.

I breathed in, slow and deep. And maybe, for the first time in months, it didn't hurt quite as much.

"...Maybe I needed it," I admitted.

Henry leaned back, wincing as he shifted the peas. "Good. Because I may or may not have signed us up for another one next weekend."

"You what?!"

------

Location: Washington, D.C. – Underground Fight Club (just outside the city)

I should've known he wasn't kidding.
Should've known the second he brought me Thai food two nights in a row and started being suspiciously nice.
Henry Becker is only this generous when he's about to ask for a kidney... or rope you into a felony.

And I was right. Because three days later, I found myself in the back seat of his car, arms crossed, wearing a black hoodie and basketball shorts over compression gear like I was about to do CrossFit—if CrossFit involved body slams and broken teeth.

"You said next weekend," I muttered, glaring at him as we pulled into a gravel lot behind an abandoned auto shop that definitely looked like a murder scene from Miami Vice.

He shrugged, chewing a protein bar like a smug golden retriever. "Well, technically, this is next weekend if you start counting on Tuesday."

"I will kill you."

"Please wait until after the fight. I have twenty bucks riding on you not being arrested tonight."

I rolled my eyes and climbed out of the car, adjusting the strap of my sports bra under the hoodie. I'd healed up completely from Madripoor, but I still had that lingering soreness. That good kind. The kind that reminded you you were alive.

A chain-link fence had been set up in the center with makeshift bleachers around it—rusted metal scaffolding draped in tarps and oil-stained cushions. The smell of sweat and stale beer filled the air, mixed with the sharp tang of motor oil.

The "arena" was a gutted body shop. Hydraulic lifts still bolted into the floor, tire rims stacked high in the corners, walls covered in graffiti and what might've been blood. Or paint. I didn't look too hard.

It wasn't Madripoor, but it wasn't not Madripoor either.

A guy with a clipboard looked up as we approached. Bald. Built like a linebacker. One ear cauliflowered to hell.

"Names?" he grunted.

Henry smiled and pointed at me. "She's fighting. Anastasia Becker. Or, uh—her fight name is..."

I blinked. "My what?"

Henry beamed like a man who had definitely filled out the online form without me. "Yeah, you need a name. For the bracket."

The guy stared at us.

"Please don't say anything stupid," I whispered.

Henry grinned. "Her name is Leg Day."

There was a long pause. Clipboard guy raised one unimpressed eyebrow.

I stared at my brother in pure betrayal. "You absolute menace."

Henry just shrugged. "You've got a vibranium leg. It writes itself."

The guy scribbled it down. "You're up second. Warm-up area's to the left. Don't puke on the mats."

I walked away muttering threats, but not before I saw Henry gleefully slip a wad of cash into the betting pool.

The warm-up space was just a roped-off corner with some battered mats and a cracked mirror. I pulled off my hoodie and started wrapping my hands, trying to ignore the adrenaline building behind my ribs.

Henry was right—again. I did feel alive here. Hyper-aware of every tendon, every muscle, every breath. Like my body finally remembered it could do something besides grieve.

My opponent was announced—"Tank"—which didn't bode well. He looked like someone had crossbred a fire hydrant with a linebacker. But his footwork was lazy, and his center of gravity was too high.

The bell rang.

We circled.

First punch, I dodged. Second, I caught on my forearm and retaliated with a leg sweep that knocked him halfway into next Tuesday. The crowd roared as he hit the mat. Hard.

I didn't stop. Two more strikes to the ribs—controlled. Precise. Painful. He tapped out a minute later, groaning like someone had knocked the air out of a moose.

Henry screamed like a proud little league parent from the sidelines. "THAT'S MY SISTER!"

The guy collecting bets handed him a thick roll of cash. Henry saluted me from the bleachers. "Dinner's on me!"

I just rolled my eyes and tried not to grin.

Later, sweaty and buzzed on leftover adrenaline, I collapsed into the passenger seat with a bag of tacos in my lap.

Henry drove with one hand, grinning like an idiot.

"You're a menace," I told him between bites.

"You love it."

"Maybe."

A beat passed. The wind howled low outside the cracked window. DC was quiet this late. Lights blurred across the windshield.

"You think Dad would've liked this?" I asked softly, not looking at him.

Henry was quiet for a second too long.

Then he said, "He would've been in the front row. Screaming louder than me."

That one hit a little too hard.

I didn't say anything.

I just nodded, leaned back, and let the tacos fill the silence.

 

Chapter 32: The Call

Date: 2026 (Pre–Thunderbolts)

Location: Washington, D.C.

Anastasia's POV

The tacos were long gone. The bruises were already healing. The soreness, though? That lingered in the best way.

I was laid out on the floor of my bedroom like a chalk outline. No lights. Just the ceiling fan spinning slowly overhead, and the warm hum of the city muffled through the window. I was so still, I might've passed for a corpse if not for the steady rise and fall of my chest.

It wasn't peace. But it was something.

Then Henry knocked once and barged in anyway.

"You have no boundaries," I muttered, not even bothering to sit up.

"I brought you a smoothie," he announced, dropping a cup on my nightstand like it was a peace offering. "Also, I have thoughts."

"Great." I closed my eyes. "Maybe write them in your little diary like a normal person."

He flopped onto my bed dramatically. "You're wasting your potential."

"I just took down a guy twice my size with a vibranium leg and unresolved trauma. What else do you want?"

He shifted on the mattress. "I want you to stop hiding. Stop pretending like you're only built for bar fights and couch rot."

"I am built for couch rot."

He ignored me. "You have skills. You have powers. You survived HYDRA. You have a whole ass super serum cocktail running through your veins, and you're sitting here like you're waiting for the universe to text you a mission briefing."

I glared at him, barely. "You make that sound like a bad thing."

Henry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Dad would want you to use it. Not waste it."

"He wanted me to do a lot of things."

"Well," he said, taking a sip of his own smoothie, "Dad wasn't picky about specifics. Let's be honest—he wanted you to use your serum for... well, killing. Mostly."

I snorted. "That's dark."

He grinned. "And accurate."

I turned my head toward the closet, where my dress blues still hung, untouched since the funeral. The card from Valentina was still in the jacket pocket. I hadn't moved it. Hadn't even looked at it since that day.

"Are you seriously telling me to reach out to her?" I asked, voice dry.

Henry shrugged. "I'm just saying... she showed up for a reason. You think she goes to every military funeral and hands out creepy little business cards with government logos?"

"She could be a war criminal."

"You were brainwashed by HYDRA. Let's not pretend we're too morally upright for weird spy ladies with streaky hair and villain vibes."

I sighed and finally sat up, grabbing the smoothie. It was mango. Nice.

"You don't even know what she wants from me," I said.

"Sure I do." Henry leaned back on his elbows. "She wants to offer you a job. Something off-book. Something dangerous. Probably slightly illegal. You'd hate it."

My lips twitched. "You don't sound very convincing."

"I'm not trying to be. I'm just saying... maybe it's time you stopped playing house with grief. Maybe it's time you started being the version of you Dad saw."

The room went quiet.

I stared at the closet again. At the shape of the jacket behind the door. At the idea of making something out of all this pain instead of just surviving it.

Eventually, I got up.

I opened the closet.

And I reached into the pocket.

The card was still there—white, heavy stock, almost too clean. Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. No title. Just a number.

I stared at it for a long time. Then looked at Henry.

He nodded once. "Whatever this is? You're not doing it alone."

I took a breath.

And I dialed.

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

The phone barely rang once.

"Anastasia Becker," came the voice on the other end, smooth and smug like a glass of expensive wine you weren't sure you could afford. "I was beginning to wonder when you'd call."

I didn't sit down. Didn't pace. Just stood in the middle of my bedroom like the floor might give out.

"I'm not calling because I trust you," I said flatly. "Let's make that clear."

"Oh, sweetheart," Valentina Allegra de Fontaine purred, "I would be worried if you did."

Henry leaned against the doorframe, watching me silently with a raised eyebrow. I turned my back on him.

"I want answers. I want specifics. And I want to make it very clear..." I gripped the edge of my dresser with my free hand, my knuckles turning white. "I only want to hurt bad guys."

There was a pause on her end. Then, the tiniest scoff of a laugh. The kind that said she was already two moves ahead on the chessboard and hadn't even broken a sweat.

"Oh, Ana." Her voice dropped into something colder, silkier. "There are no good guys. Only bad guys... and worse guys. And trust me—there are always worse guys."

I closed my eyes.

"I'm not one of your brainwashed pets," I said. "I don't take orders. I don't wear matching tactical gear. If I do this, I do it my way."

"Perfect," Val replied, almost too cheerfully. "I hate uniforms anyway. They're so... constricting."

I could hear something faint in the background—glass clinking, a low hum of chatter, maybe jazz. She sounded relaxed. Like this was a call she'd already had in a dozen variations, with a dozen versions of people like me.

"Here's the thing, Ana," she continued. "The world is spinning faster than most people can keep up. New threats. Old shadows. Hidden players. And someone like you? You don't fit in the clean, polished boxes that the Avengers used to hold. But that doesn't mean you're useless. It means you're needed."

I leaned back against the wall, heart pounding.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked quietly.

Val didn't answer right away.

Instead, she said, "I want you to start by meeting someone. Not a mission. Not a kill order. Just a conversation."

"Where?"

"I'll text you the address. Wear something comfortable. Don't bring your brother—he's cute, but a liability."

I scoffed. "I'll bring whoever I want."

"Oh, please do," she said, amusement curling around her words. "Just know I'll be watching. We always are."

The line went dead before I could respond.

I stood there, phone still in my hand, pulse thudding like a war drum in my ears. A text came through almost instantly: a location in New York. Brooklyn, of all places. Of course it was Brooklyn.

Henry raised an eyebrow as I turned around. "So... that a yes?"

I didn't answer. I just shoved the phone in my pocket, grabbed my hoodie, and looked at him.

"You still got that fake passport?"

His grin said everything.

"Let's go meet the devil."

Chapter 33: The Meeting

Summary:

TW: John Walker (jkjk we kind of like him here)

Date: 2026 (Pre–Thunderbolts)

Location: Somewhere outside Quantico, Virginia

Anastasia's POV

I didn't know what I expected when Valentina said, "I've got someone you should meet." But it sure as hell wasn't a guy with the energy of a caffeine-riddled frat boy and the lingering bitterness of a fresh divorcee.

The place was some nondescript government training facility off the grid, tucked behind enough layers of fences and security clearances to make Area 51 look like an open house. Henry dropped me off with a salute and a "Don't start a war," before peeling off in my mom's beat-up Ford.

Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they were trying to trigger a migraine. Val met me in the hallway, her pantsuit crisp and spine straighter than a damn flagpole. She didn't even say hi. Just nodded, turned, and walked.

I followed.

"This guy's been off the leash for a bit," she said casually, like we were talking about a rescue dog. "Fresh off a mission, freshly divorced. Mutual hatred for Barnes. High-strung. Just your type."

"I have a type now?"

"I'm guessing based on the emotional trauma and moral gray area you bring to the table."

"Flattered."

We stepped through a set of double doors into what looked like a private gym, all concrete and steel and punching bags hanging like corpses from the ceiling.

And there he was.

John Walker.

U.S. Agent.

Legendary disgraced Captain America. Now Valentina's newest favorite toy.

"So that's where he went, " Henry mutters behind me. 

He was beating the absolute shit out of a training dummy, fists flying with a kind of manic energy that said therapy isn't working. The dummy had already lost its face. Probably its soul, too.

"Agent Walker," Val called, voice crisp.

He turned, breathing hard, sweat clinging to the collar of his black tactical shirt. His eyes—blue, a little too sharp—flicked to me, then to Val.

"This her?"

"Yep. Play nice," she said, and then clapped me on the shoulder. "Don't kill each other. Not yet."

And then she left. Because of course she did.

Walker didn't offer a handshake. Just picked up a towel and wiped his face like he was trying to erase it.

"So," he said finally. "You're the one with the miracle serum."

I crossed my arms. "You're the one who turned a guy's head into soup on live television."

He smirked. "He had it coming."

I couldn't help it. I snorted. "My dad loved that moment, by the way. Said it was the first time a 'Captain' actually did something worthwhile."

"Smart man."

We stared at each other for a beat, the air charged with mutual suspicion and the kind of quiet assessment people like us always carried.

"So what'd she tell you?" I asked, jerking my chin toward the door Val had disappeared through.

Walker shrugged. "Not much. Just that I'd like you. Which usually means she wants something messy done."

"Sounds about right."

He walked over to the bench and grabbed a bottle of water, then took a long swig. "You actually looking to join this shitshow?"

"I'm not looking for anything. Just... not hiding anymore."

He gave me a look. "You say that like you've been buried."

"I was. HYDRA took me in '02."

His brow rose slightly. "Jesus. You're older than me."

"You flirt like someone who got dumped in a Denny's parking lot."

Walker laughed. Like, a real laugh. It startled me.

"Okay," he said. "That was good. I deserved that."

"Same," he muttered. "That's probably why I'm divorced."

I didn't say anything at first. Divorce wasn't something I could relate to—not directly, anyway—but I recognized the look in his eyes. The kind that came after your whole life got flipped and no one stuck around to help you pick up the pieces.

"You know," I said, "she probably couldn't handle that you were too good at violence."

"No, I was a shit father."

I nodded slowly. "Yeah. That'll do it."

We sat in silence for a while, the hum of old gym lights buzzing above us.

Then, because I'm me and I ruin perfectly good silences, I said, "So what's it like having to rebuild your entire reputation while being on government payroll?"

He gave me a look. "What's it like having the government pretend you don't exist?"

"Touche."

He stood and stretched, shoulders popping with the strain. "Val says you've got anger issues."

"She says that like it's a bad thing."

"She said the same thing about me."

I watched him for a moment. He didn't look like the man the headlines painted. He looked tired. Wired. Desperate to do something right for once. I knew that look. I saw it every time I glanced in the mirror.

"You ever miss it?" I asked. "The normal life."

His jaw twitched. "I never had one."

That made me pause.

Then I said, quietly, "Me neither."

He nodded like that made sense. Like we'd found some weird, shared wavelength.

"Well," he said, tossing his towel into the corner. "You want to spar, or are we just trauma bonding?"

"Do I get to hit you?"

"You can try."

"Oh, honey," I grinned, "I will hit you."

Twenty Minutes Later

We were both flat on our backs, breathing hard, bruises blooming across our skin like purple regrets. He had a busted lip. I had a sore shoulder. But neither of us cared.

"That all you got, soldier?" he asked between gasps.

"You wish," I muttered.

He chuckled, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his glove. "You fight dirty."

"I fight to win."

We lay in silence again, the kind that felt earned. Comfortable. Just two broken weapons trying to remember how to breathe like humans again.

"Hey," he said suddenly, looking over at me.

I turned my head.

"You ever wonder if we're just the backup plan?"

I blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Like... Rogers is gone. Stark's dead. Romanoff's dead. Hell, even Barton's playing family man now. We're the leftovers. I mean, fuck, Barnes is in Congress!"

I thought about that. About my father's folded flag. About the attic. The rooftop. My mom's locked bedroom. About Val's card in my coat pocket.

"We might be the leftovers," I said softly, "but we're still dangerous."

He smirked. "Damn right."

Later That Night

Val texted me one word: Impressed.

I didn't answer.

Instead, I opened a note app on my phone and started writing something that looked suspiciously like a list. I didn't know what I was calling it yet.

But the first name I wrote down?

John Walker

Maybe the world was burning.

But at least now I wasn't burning alone.

Chapter 34: The Partnership

Date: 2026 (pre-thunderbolts)

Location: Somewhere outside Kraków, Poland

Anastasia's POV

I don't know what I expected for my first mission. Maybe something loud. Something theatrical. Maybe something that let me kick a guy out of a third-story window while yelling a one-liner I thought of weeks ago.

Instead, I got cold mud, static in my comms, and John Walker chewing gum like we weren't crouched behind a decrepit barn in eastern Poland about to raid a weapons trafficking cell.

He's also carrying around a dumbass, all-steel shield that looks like it's seen better days. What a joke. This is our first mission together. Val gave us a week to either kill each other or like each other. We came to a mutual decision that it's 50/50. 

John Walker is the type of guy you avoid in the military because he looks at you like he's better. Now that Captain Dipshit gave himself the serum, maybe he is. He also isn't built for stealth ops, so I guess that's why Val assigned me. Like I keep reminding myself, HYDRA didn't teach much, but what they did teach was how to move through a building quietly. 

He looked over at me like this was casual. Like this was brunch.

"You good?" he asked through the earpiece, already pulling down his balaclava.

"I'm freezing my ass off," I muttered, "Why do these places always smell like wet cardboard?"

He gave a low laugh. "You sure you weren't in the military before the brainwashing?"

"Air Force. You?"

"Too patriotic for the Navy. Too smart for the Marines."

"Wow," I deadpanned. "Do all your jokes involve insulting your allies?"

"Only the ones who can throw me through a wall."

We went quiet again, watching the compound from behind an old fence that probably used to keep livestock but now served as a mildly inconvenient security suggestion.

"You're a supersoldier, right? You aren't supposed to get cold."

"Shut up, Walker. I still feel the cold, and I see my damn breath in front of me. Stop asking dumb questions," I snap at him. Walker just glares and slips on his helmet like it's supposed to make him look less dumb. 

The compound wasn't large—maybe four buildings, two guards at the gate, and more inside, based on Val's intelligence drop. Old HYDRA leftovers were repackaged and rebranded like the worst off-brand cereal on the shelf.

Our job? Get in. Wipe the data drives. Retrieve the weapons manifest. Get out.

Minimal casualties preferred, Val said.

John and I had different definitions of "minimal," but we agreed not to kill anyone who didn't shoot first.

So far, no one's dead.

Yet.

"You want left or right?" he asked.

"I'll take the tower. You're too loud for it."

"Ouch. That hurts."

"No, your breathing hurts. I can hear it from here."

"I swear to God, you and Val are trying to make me feral."

"You're already feral."

"Yeah. But I'm fun about it."

I rolled my eyes and adjusted my grip on the sidearm sheathed in my tactical vest. My knife was already strapped to my thigh, and the adrenaline was already pooling in my gut like old whiskey and spite.

"On three," I said.

He nodded once.

"One... two..."

"Three."

We split like muscle memory, like we'd done it a hundred times already.

Inside the compound

The building was colder than the outside air, which I didn't think was physically possible. The walls were thick cement. There was no heating. There were no cameras. There were just old security habits and cocky men who thought they could run weapons out of Europe without being noticed.

Quickly and low, I moved like a shadow, my boots muted against the concrete.

I could hear John in the earpiece. There were faint movements, grunts, and one loud thud, followed by "He's asleep."

"You knocked him out?"

"No, I complimented his mother and tucked him in. Yes, I knocked him out."

Rolling my eyes, I slide up behind a corner of the hallway. I peer out and see one guard. Shit.

Okay, maybe I've never choked someone out, but today I get practice. 

Right now, all I hear is Walker's heavy fucking breathing tickling my ear — and not in a fun way. I'm about to rip out the earpiece. Luckily, the guard turns his back long enough for me to sneak behind him and put him in a headlock. He immediately tries to elbow me, and dammit, he does — but when it hits my ribs, I only feel a dull ache. Nothing too bad. As I tighten my hold, he tries to grab his knife, but it slips from his grasp as he collapses to the ground, knocked out. I put my hands on my hips, staring down at him. 

Nice job. 

I advanced further, to the part where the guard stood. 

I glance around the empty corridor, "I'm in." I whisper in the comms as I find the room I need. 

"Copy. I'm going to sweep east and clear the cargo room. If you find the manifest, flag it."

The server room was easy. Too easy. I didn't like it.

There was one tech guy inside. Maybe nineteen. Skinny. Didn't even have a weapon in hand. He turned, saw me, and raised his hands so fast I thought they'd hit the ceiling.

"Don't scream," I said calmly, pointing my sidearm at the floor between us.

He nodded so violently I thought his neck would snap.

I cuffed him to the pipe under the desk, yanked the hard drives from the servers, and stuffed them into my tactical bag. On top of the pile, I found a file marked EXPORT–C2S-WINTER and slid it out for later.

"Becker," John's voice cracked. I need you out back. Someone set a fire."

"What?"

"No clue. Might be a failsafe. Might be a distraction."

"Might be a trap."

"Of course. That's just great." I say sarcastically as I look back over at the kid cuffed to the desk. He stares at me. It's weird. I knock him out with my gun and uncuff him long enough to escape. 

I jogged out, ducking behind a few crates just as an explosion rocked the back lot. The sky lit orange and smoke bloomed fast—too fast.

Walker was watching the flames with what looked like a crazy look in his eye. He sat behind the wheel of our Humvee. 

"You okay?" he asked as I slid in beside him.

I scanned the area. "This mission sucks," I said, slamming the door shut.

Walker grinned. "You'll miss it when we're back in D.C. with lattes and fake smiles."

"I don't drink lattes."

"Guess I'll have to teach you how to live."

Later That Night
Safehouse, Poland

The safehouse was... actually kind of cozy. It had peeling wallpaper, one mattress, no heat, and a weird collection of porcelain cat statues by the window.

Walker tossed his bag in the corner and sank onto the mattress with a groan. 

I stood, arms crossed, staring at the wall like it had answers.

"You good?" he asked after a beat.

"No."

"Yeah," he said. "Same."

A long pause.

Then, in a softer voice: "You did well today."

I turned. "So did you. Surprisingly."

He smiled. Just a little. "Guess we're not such bad backup plans after all."

"No," I said. "We're worse. But we get shit done."

We didn't talk much more that night. Just fell into a kind of exhausted, blood-crusted silence. Him on the mattress. Me in a rickety chair beside the door, knife still strapped to my leg, gun in hand.

Ready for the next mess.

Because if there was one thing I was sure of?

This wouldn't be the last time John Walker and I got thrown together.

And maybe... I didn't mind. This might be a problem because Walker is not supposed to be likable. 

 

Chapter 35: The Loud Reappearance

Date: 2026 (Pre–Thunderbolts)

Location: Washington, D.C.

Anastasia's POV

The door creaked when I opened it — the kind of old, familiar sound that made me think of childhood and burnt coffee and winter boots piled by the door. I stood there for a moment, hand still on the knob, duffel slung over one shoulder, dirt on my boots, and blood under my fingernails.

It wasn't my blood. Probably.

"Stasia?"

Henry's voice came from the living room. Of course he was here. It was practically his full-time job now: Grief Babysitter.

"I swear to God," I muttered under my breath, "if you changed the Netflix password again—"

I stepped fully into the house and froze.

My mother was on the couch.

Not in bed. Not behind a door. Not silent.

Sitting on the damn couch in her house slippers and cardigan, her hair pulled back in a loose braid, eyes puffy but open. The TV played some rerun of Wheel of Fortune. The volume was just low enough to let the house hum settle around her.

She looked up when she saw me—not surprised. Just... tired.

"Hi, sweetheart," she said softly.

I swallowed around the knot in my throat. "Hey, Ma."

She smiled. Faint. Crooked. Like it hurt. "You hungry?"

I blinked. "I just got back from Poland."

She nodded like that made sense. "So... no?"

Henry appeared from the kitchen with a half-eaten granola bar and a can of Diet Coke. "She's lying. She ate like three sad airport pretzels."

"We didn't fly commercial," I muttered, brushing past him to drop my bag by the stairs. My body ached in the way only missions could bring—like my muscles had been wrung out and left to dry.

My mom was still watching me. "How was it?"

"Messy. Loud. Probably Illegal."

"So like your father's poker nights."

I blinked. "Did you just make a joke?"

She shrugged and pulled the blanket tighter around her. "I'm still allowed to be funny."

Henry snorted. "Barely."

I gave them both a long look. Something about the scene made my chest clench—the three of us still here, still breathing, still trying. It wasn't healing. Not really. But it was a movement. And that was more than I expected when I left.

I sank down into the recliner, stretching my leg out with a sigh. "You won't believe who Valentina paired me with."

"Someone competent?" Henry asked.

"No, worse. John Walker."

Henry choked on his granola bar. "Captain Face Smash?"

My mom raised a brow. "The one from the news?"

"The one who made Dad yell at the TV," I said, tugging off my boots. "He's... not what I expected."

"Hot?" Henry asked.

"No!" I paused. "A little." I make a face at the words that fell from my mouth. Did I think Walker was hot, or is it because I haven't gotten laid in decades? 

Mom gave me a look over the rim of her mug. "Was it weird?"

I shrugged. "He didn't talk about feelings. So, no."

Henry plopped down on the other end of the couch and cracked open another soda. "Well, if you're going to start a weird murder-friendship, at least it's with someone who's already publicly disgraced. That's easier to explain at dinner."

"Thanks," I muttered. "That's super helpful."

My mom reached for the remote and turned the volume up a few notches. Vanna White was spinning letters as if the world hadn't ended for us a few months ago. I could tell by her body language that she didn't want to hear more. 

And maybe, just maybe, it hadn't.

Maybe it just cracked a little.

We were still here. Still orbiting each other in quiet grief and bad TV and sarcasm-laced conversations.

I leaned my head back and let the sound of the letters fill the silence. I didn't say anything else.

Neither did they.

And for the first time in weeks, that was okay.

-----

The knock on the door was sharp. Precise. Like it had been calculated down to the second.

Henry and I both looked at each other.

"You expecting someone?" he asked.

"Only death and taxes," I muttered, already standing. I popped my neck once, dragged a hand through my hair, and opened the door without checking the peephole.

"But you can't die," Henry mutters behind me. 

And immediately wished I hadn't.

Bucky Barnes stood there in a black suit and navy tie, congressional pin still clipped to his lapel. His hair was neatly combed back, and his beard trimmed just enough not to look like a threat on C-SPAN. But his eyes?

His eyes were a storm.

I blinked. "Oh."

That was all I could manage. Just... oh.

It had been months. No calls. No texts. Not even a shitty meme forwarded to my phone. The last time I saw his face, he was reading my mother's letter as if it would undo him.

Now here he was. It looks like he has stepped out of a courtroom and into a fight.

"We need to talk," he said. The storm behind his eyes is just as strong as I remember. He looks rough. 

I leaned against the frame, arms crossed. "Depends. Are you gonna disappear again right after?"

His jaw twitched. "I'm not here to fight."

"Then maybe take the scowl down a notch, Congressman."

Behind me, Henry made a dramatic escape into the kitchen with a loud, "I'm just gonna pretend I didn't hear any of this," and disappeared.

Bucky, however, did not notice my comment. His eyes narrow as he looks past me and into the house. He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Typical.

He barely glanced at the living room. Just zeroed in on me like I was some enemy asset he needed to debrief before it detonated. 

"You're working with Valentina."

It wasn't a question. It was a charge.

I blinked once. "And hello to you, too, James."

"Don't start, I'm serious, Becker," He said my last name like it was supposed to hurt. "You have no idea what she is."

"Then maybe you should've stuck around and warned me," I snapped.

He didn't flinch. "I can't believe you'd work for someone like her. She's basically HYDRA."

My blood went cold, then hot. 

"Okay, first of all: you don't get to show up in a three-piece suit after vanishing for months and tell me how to live my life, and second, where the hell do you get off barging in here and telling me what I can and can't do, huh?" My voice gets higher and louder. 

My mom has already disappeared, and Henry is watching from the kitchen, a glass of whiskey in his hand. 

"You think this is living?" he hissed, voice low but dangerous. "Letting someone like her sink her claws into you? You think this ends with you being a hero? Because it doesn't. I've seen the way this plays out, and you're not some exception."

"Go fuck yourself!" I say, pointing my finger at him. He doesn't even blink at that, just steps closer, eyes burning into me. 

"Doing this won't bring your father back." I look away, tears burning at the brim of my eyes. Do not cry right now. 

Bucky doesn't stay after that. He clenches his jaw and slams the front door behind him. Only then do I let the tears fall. 

Because this isn't a game of revenge; it's a game of guilt. No matter how much I try to move on from his death, there's no one to blame. Maybe that's why I blame myself and let Val control me. 

But the other part of me, the one currently winning... doesn't want to stop. Bucky can come in and scream until he turns blue, but everyone knows that when you tell someone not to do something, they want to do it more. 

So  fuck him...I'm not done yet.

Chapter 36: The Congressman

Date: 2026 (pre-thunderbolts)

Location: Washington, D.C.

Anastasia's POV

The thing about Valentina that everyone underestimates isn't how she does illegal shit all the time; it's how she has no remorse about sending in a clean-up crew. It's been two months since Bucky stormed into my mother's house, accusing me of being a bad person (which is what I interpreted as. I am probably being dramatic). 

But what was the damn difference between Bucky and me? He's over there playing dress-up with a bunch of dumbass congresspeople who are probably voting against everyone's rights. The only difference is that I kill people. But it's technically bad people, so where's the line?

I haven't been watching the news much. Joaquin is still recovering from the incident in the Indian Ocean. Bucky has also been dodging cameras and letting his constituents do the talking. Henry, however, has been watching, especially since he thinks Bucky is more famous over this. 

I don't want to watch the Republicans try to take away every right they can. According to Henry, Bucky hasn't been doing much besides voting with his party; all of his bills, I don't want to watch the Republicans try to take away every right they can.

According to Henry, Bucky hasn't been doing much besides voting with his party; all of his bills keep appearing as 'socialist,' and apparently, that's a big no-no for Republicans. Politics have changed a lot since Hydra took me. I only remember George W. Bush. After that, please don't hesitate to ask. The US is in shambles right now after President Ross (who I just found out was former Secretary Ross and a massive asshole) turned into a Red Hulk. (apparently there's a green Hulk too). I don't know, okay? Don't ask. 

Valentina seems to love how I cannot die, making me go into deadly fucking missions where my head can get blown off by a damn sniper in seconds. I know this bitch is trying to find other plans, probably selling me back to Russia so she can run away into the sunset. 

Which is how I found myself standing in front of Capitol Hill. Val told me to dress 'Business casual' and texted an encrypted file. The target? A goddamn Senator. She must be out of her damn mind. Valentina is supposed to be the Director of the CIA. Why the hell does the CIA want me to shake down a senator?

So what I have figured out is... Val uses the CIA as a front for her illegal operations. Which is fine, I get paid not to ask questions. This Senator is being accused of child abuse. I get to question him. Val wants him alive. 

My heels click on the marble steps as I enter. Flaunting a smile and my badge, which Val had specially made for me, I slip right in. Since she labeled me as 'security,' they let me keep my gun. Suckers. 

I knew precisely where Bucky's office was, so I avoided it. I'm convinced his assistant has me printed all over his office with a red X. 

It was lunchtime when I entered the Senator's office. I walked right past Senator's tary, who tried to block me with her tiny body. I gently pushed past her and into his office. 

He looks up from stuffing what looks like a BBQ sandwich in his mouth and pales like a ghost. "Do we have an appointment?" he asks shakily. I lock the door behind me. "That depends, Senator. How much are you willing to cSenatore?" 

He takes a big bite of his sandwich and sets it down. I stand by the window, hand resting on my belt. "I'll let you finish your food, then we'll talk, okay?" I ask in a sweet tone. He probably suspects why I'm here, but for now, I'll be nice. 

After that, he takes his time, much like a child would if they knew they were waiting for a beating when they finished cleaning their room. 

When he finishes, I step behind his desk and say, " Open your computer." He hesitates, as he always does. 

"I don't have to listen to you." Okay, great. We're going down this route. I sigh and pull my gun, letting him see it: "Do it now, Senator." 

He reluctantly unlocks his desktop. "What now?" 

"Don't play dumb, show me all that nasty shit you love to look at." 

He glares at me, cocky bastard. He's so lucky I don't pistol-whip him right now. 

He refuses again, so I press the gun to his bald ass head. "Now, don't make me ask again." 

That got him this time. He goes to a file on his computer labeled PRIVATE LEGISLATURE, which is how original, and inputs the passcode. 

The pictures, videos, and other content in the file are so bad that you can't look at them for long without wanting to puke. 

You slip the drive into the computer and upload all his information. He's sweating and trying to find a way out. 

"Okay, so here's how this will end: You're going to pick up the phone and make a call."

"Who am I calling?" 

"The FBI" 

His blood runs cold; if he wasn't already white as a sheet, he looks five seconds from passing out. With a shaky hand, he picks up the phone and dials it. You put it on speaker, gun still pressed to his head. 

----

I left the office just as the FBI and camera crews surrounded the Senator's office. The hard drive was mysteriously missing, even though they stole his computer. 

My phone buzzes with breaking news. 

SENATOR CAUGHT WITH 600 GB OF CP

Henry is already blowing up my phone, probably because he knows I was involved in the arrest. 

Just before I leave the building, a small woman, probably 5'3" on a good day, blocks my path. She's got a phone in one hand and a stack of papers in the other. I recognize her immediately. She is Congressman Barnes's assistant. Heather. 

Unfortunately, this is not the first time I've met Heather. Yesterday, she sent not one but four emails, all an hour apart, requesting to speak to me. I blocked her. 

"Ms Becker, sorry to bother you, but Mr Barnes requests you." She gives a small smile. Her tactic is to use niceness; if it doesn't work, she gets mean. 

"Tell him to kiss my ass." I brush past and walk, taking my badge off with a sigh. 

She follows anyway, her kitten heels clicking into the concrete. "Congressman Barnes is requesting you." 

"I heard you the first time, for fucks sake, and my comment stays the same. I do not care what he wants."

She huffs and blocks my path again. For being a tiny woman, she scares me, so no doubt she scares Bucky. "I don't care what you want, Ms. Becker; you are being requested." I roll my eyes. "Fine, what is it this time? He wants to hug and make things better or yell at me more?" She purses her lips, already annoyed with me. I don't let her finish; I move past her again, flashing my gun on my hip as an incentive to shut her up. It worked. 

I finally get to my car and slip inside. 

I have two messages. 

Val: Good Job. 

I stared at the message for a long second, thumb hovering over the screen. Good job. That was it? Just Good Job, like I had fetched her dry cleaning instead of blackmailing a government official into confessing on speakerphone.

I dropped my head against the steering wheel, laughing—one of those slightly hysterical, what-the-fuck-is-my-life laughs. Because yeah, I was officially that person now. CIA-adjacent, morally gray, and being summoned.

I looked back at my phone, seeing a text from Henry.

Henry: "Was that you on the news?" "Mom wants to know if you're coming to dinner."

I groaned and sent back:

Me:  Tell her only if she makes the lemon chicken.

I tossed my phone into the passenger seat and exhaled.

The senator was going down. The hard drive was already in the FBI's hands. And as far as the press was concerned, it was just another day of shocking American political corruption exposed by "anonymous sources."

But for me? It was something else. It was the first mission where I didn't feel like I was bleeding out in someone else's war. It wasn't HYDRA. It wasn't vengeance. It was... messy justice.

And maybe part of me wanted to shove it in Bucky's face. Just a little. Because while he was out giving vaguely patriotic speeches about "healing" and "moving forward," I was out here doing shit. Saving kids. Putting monsters away. With a gun in my hand and blood in my teeth and no apologies.

But even as I thought it, something twisted in my gut.

He looked wrecked when he showed up at my door. Not just angry—scared. Scared for me. Scared in a way only Bucky can seem. And maybe that's what made me the angriest—that he still thought he had the right to care.

Well, he didn't.

Not anymore.

I started the engine. I had two days until Valentina called again, and I intended to spend at least one of them eating lemon chicken and watching trash TV until my brain melted out of my ears.

Let Bucky chase ghosts in the Capitol. I had bigger things to worry about.

Like what kind of psycho assistant he hired who could keep up with me in kitten heels?

I hadn't even put the car in gear when there was a knock on the driver's side window.

I turned slowly, sighing like it physically pains me because it does. 

Sure enough, it was her. Heather. Five-foot-something of relentless ambition in a navy pencil skirt and a blouse so sharp it could've filed a court brief. She gave me a cheery little wave with her clipboard, like we were sorority sisters instead of mortal enemies in a congressional sitcom.

I cracked the window just enough to talk. "Do you ever take no for an answer?"

She leaned in, voice syrupy sweet. "Not when it comes to congressional directives."

"Do you hear yourself?" I asked. "You sound like you print LinkedIn quotes onto throw pillows." Don't ask how I know about LinkedIn. 

She didn't flinch. "Mr. Barnes asked me to deliver this personally." She held out a thick manila envelope with my last name scrawled on it in what I knew—knew—was Bucky's handwriting.

I stared at it. "Is it a subpoena? A restraining order? A job offer?"

"Honestly?" she said, still smiling. "Probably some combination of all three."

I grabbed it through the crack in the window, to get her to back off. "Thanks. I'll be sure to file it under 'Things I Didn't Ask For.' next to "He Can Go Fuck Himself' and 'The Audacity This Man Has'"

Heather didn't move. "He's trying, you know." I did not like her chipper tone on that one. 

I paused. My hand tightened around the envelope. "Trying what?"

"To be good at this. At life. At—" she hesitated, visibly debating whether to finish that sentence. "—not being a total disaster."

I stared at her for a moment. "You say that like it's my problem."

"It's not. It's his," she said evenly. "But it becomes your problem when he keeps putting your name in every goddamn staff meeting. We've had to implement a code word for you."

I blinked. "You made me a code word?"

"It's 'frostbite.'"

I nearly choked. "Excuse me?"

"Because every time he brings you up, the room temperature drops ten degrees and no one knows whether they're about to get fired or punched."

"Sounds like a management issue," I muttered.

Heather finally straightened, taking a step back from the car. "He's not the enemy, Anastasia. Even if he's terrible at saying what he means."

I stared out the windshield. "Gag, you sound halfway in love with him."

She sighed and turned on her heel, kitten heels clicking like punctuation on a final line. "Drive safe, Ms Becker." Haha, she didn't deny it. 

I stared at the envelope like it might bite me.

Still sealed. Still smug.

It sat on the passenger seat like it belonged there—like it wasn't burning a hole straight through the upholstery. I could practically hear Bucky's voice echoing from inside it: gruff, righteous, and five months too late.

Instead of opening it, I grabbed the gum from the glovebox and shoved two sticks in my mouth like it could keep the feelings down. I tossed the envelope onto the backseat without a second glance, letting it land among the empty water bottles and tactical gear like it was just another piece of trash I didn't feel like sorting.

If Bucky wanted to send love letters through his assistant, he could do it the old-fashioned way—with a therapist present.

My phone buzzed again. Another text from Henry, probably with the news headline already screenshotted, annotated, and followed by a dozen question marks.

But I didn't check it.

I just shifted the car into drive and pulled out into traffic, chewing gum like it was vengeance.

Let the envelope wait.

Chapter 37: The Photos

Notes:

We love a good angst. Is Anastasia right in her feelings?

Date: 2026 (pre-thunderbolts)

Location: Washington, D.C.

Third POV:

Heather didn't knock when she entered Congressman Barnes' office.

She never did.

That was one of the few privileges she'd earned after 6 months of babysitting the world's grumpiest ex-assassin-turned-elected-official. She wielded her clipboard like a shield and her phone like a sword, her kitten heels clicking as she crossed the marble floors with lethal efficiency.

Bucky was behind his desk, reading over a redlined draft of a veterans' aid bill—his third version. His brow was furrowed constantly, shoulders tight beneath his black button-down. He didn't look up.

"Don't say it," he muttered.

Heather ignored him. "I saw her."

That got his attention.

Bucky blinked once, then slowly raised his head. "Where?"

"Capitol. Today. Right after the FBI raided that dirtbag senator's office. Guess who was spotted walking out, looking smug and righteous?"

He set the pen down.

"She say anything?"

Heather lifted an eyebrow, lips twitching like she was trying not to laugh. "Yeah. I told her you were requesting her presence."

He groaned softly, already sensing where this was going.

"She said—and I quote—'Tell him to kiss my ass.'" She paused, letting the words hang in the air like incense. "Then she added, 'I don't care what he wants,' and flashed her gun at me."

Bucky leaned back in his chair, dragged both hands down his face, and sighed dramatically. 

Heather's expression softened. Just a bit. "She looked... tired, Sir. But not broken. Focused. Like someone who's just stopped caring what people think of the wreckage she leaves behind."

"I thought maybe she'd—" he stopped himself. "I yelled at her, guess it didn't work."

Heather dropped the clipboard onto his desk and crossed her arms. "So what? You're surprised she doesn't take orders from the government? She was never going to play by your rules. She's military, you know that." 

"She used to have rules."

Heather shrugged. "She still does. She happens to be working for Val."

Bucky was quiet after that. Staring at the closed door like it might open any second and bring her storming in, eyes blazing, mouth already mid-argument.

He missed the noise.

Heather studied him for another beat, then added dryly, "Anyway, next time you want someone to come by for a chat, maybe lead with something softer than surveillance photos and moral superiority."

Bucky gave a humorless chuckle. "She's going to be pissed when she opens the envelope." 

"She did good work today, you know," Heather said, voice gentler now. "That creep's facing federal charges. Six hundred gigs of the worst shit imaginable, and no one's asking how the FBI got it. You think maybe she's not beyond saving? Maybe she's already doing the saving?"

He didn't respond.

Instead, Bucky turned back to the redlines on his desk.

But he wasn't reading them.

Not really.

Anastasia's POV

It was one of those rare days when Val didn't need me.

This meant I was back in my safe zone: a three-size-too-big hoodie that smells like my father, fuzzy socks I'd stolen from Amelia during a holiday, and a couch blanket—comfort incarnate.

The TV was playing in the background, some news station Henry had left on before he disappeared to scavenge the kitchen like a raccoon. I wasn't paying much attention until I heard the words:

"—breaking story still developing on Capitol Hill after a prominent senator was taken into custody following an anonymous tip..."

I stiffened.

The screen cut to a shaky clip from outside the Capitol. Sirens. FBI jackets. A herd of cameras flashing. Reporters barking over one another. Somewhere in the chaos, in the bottom left corner, was me. Just a blur in heels and sunglasses, striding toward the exit. 

Not even the focus of the shot. Just a blink-and-you-miss-it moment at the edge of the frame.

Except Henry did not blink.

"Holy shit, it's you!" he asked, mouth full of peanut butter. "Wait—rewind, rewind—you're on the news!"

I reached for the remote, but he dove for it like a live grenade and slapped my hand away.

"Henry—"

"Nope. Nuh-uh. Let me have this."

He was grinning like a lunatic. "Look at you! All mysterious and badass. Oh my God, you're trending. What if you become a meme?"

"What's a meme?" I muttered. Henry shot me a look and then cackled and tossed a pillow at me. "You've got the walk down, too. Like 'I just brought down a sex trafficker and didn't even spill my latte.'"

I rolled my eyes and sank deeper into the couch. "They weren't supposed to film that."

"They weren't trying to film you. That's what makes it iconic. You accidentally made a senator piss himself and got caught in the background like some morally ambiguous Bond girl. Dad would be so proud."

That made my chest tighten.

I folded my arms. "He'd probably be mad I didn't rough the guy up more."

Henry grinned. "No. He'd be pissed he missed it."

I didn't answer right away. Just stared at the paused frame of the chaos. Of me. A version of myself I barely recognized anymore.

"You okay?" Henry asked.

I nodded. "Yeah. I think I am."

He gave a soft hum of approval and plopped back down beside me, handing me the remote like a peace offering. "So... what now?"

Now?

I wasn't sure.

But I knew one thing.

Val would have seen the news.

And so did Bucky.

"I don't dipshit, I just live here. Don't you have a job?" 

Henry mutters something, peanut butter still full in his mouth, as he dips the spoon back in. If Mom weren't grocery shopping right now, she'd beat his ass for double-dipping. 

------

It wasn't until after Henry fell asleep—curled up like a smug cat on the far end of the couch—that I remembered the envelope.

It had been sitting on my kitchen counter all night, taunting me like it had teeth. Heather had handed it over like it was dipped in poison. I'd shoved it in my coat pocket and promptly ignored it.

Now, alone in the quiet hum of the house, I fetched it with a sigh and ripped the top open.

No letter. No dramatic monologue. Just photographs.

Five of them. All glossy. All high-resolution.

I spread them across the counter.

Poland.

I was dressed in tactical black, with my hair pulled back and eyes hard and cold. John Walker sis standing beside me, blood on his knuckles, body tensed like a loaded gun. We were caught mid-motion—storming a hallway, dragging a target, standing over a collapsed body. In one, Walker had his hand braced on my shoulder, both of us watching the perimeter with the kind of practiced calm that only came after too many fights.

In another, I was smiling.

That's what made my stomach drop.

It wasn't some fake smile for a press op. It was real. Sharp. Wild. The kind of grin I hadn't worn in months—maybe years. Like I felt alive.

Whoever took the photos had been close. And quiet.

And very, very intentional.

I stared at them for a long moment. No note. No explanation.

Just proof.

Proof that someone was watching. That someone wanted me to see this. Whether it was Valentina, Bucky, or someone else entirely—I didn't know.

But it wasn't a threat. Not exactly.

It was a mirror.

And I didn't know if I liked what I saw.

The next day 

It took me exactly six minutes and two very illegal left turns to get from my house to Bucky's office.

I didn't knock, and I didn't pause. I slammed the door open so hard it rattled the frosted glass, and Heather—the terrifying little gremlin of a woman—didn't flinch. She just sipped her iced coffee and pointed over her shoulder toward his door.

"He's been expecting you."

"Oh, I know."

I shoved through like a storm with legs.

Bucky was seated behind his polished desk, buttoned up in a navy dress shirt with his sleeves rolled to the elbow. He didn't even pretend to be surprised. He was already standing by when I got halfway across the room, like he'd been waiting. Like he knew.

"You absolute shitbag," I hissed, slamming the envelope down onto his desk, scattering a few paperclips and a legal pad full of congressional chicken scratch.

He arched an eyebrow. "Nice to see you too."

"You sent me pictures," I snapped. "Surveillance photos, Barnes."

"From a sanctioned op," he said coolly, "something very illegal."

"Oh, don't you dare give me that bureaucratic bullshit. You knew exactly what you were doing." I shoved one of the photos toward him—the one where John Walker had his hand on my shoulder. "This? You picked this one on purpose."

Bucky didn't deny it. Just stared down at the image with a muscle ticking in his jaw.

"You think sending me a bunch of spy shots will make me stop?" I asked, arms crossed tightly. "You thought I'd come storming in here and then what, you'd give me some righteous lecture about morality and we'd hug it out?"

"No," he said, voice calm but edged like a knife. "I knew you'd come storming in here because I know you, Anastasia. If I didn't get your attention, someone else would. Someone worse."

"Oh, so you're my white knight now? My moral compass? Please."

"John Walker is NOT someone you should be working with."

"That's not your business," I snap. 

"You never did," he snapped back, stepping closer. "But you sure as hell didn't need Valentina either."

He looked tired. I realized that now. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his voice didn't carry the same bite it had the last time we fought. It sounded... worn.

"You were smiling," he said, softer this time.

"What?"

"In the photos. You were smiling, Ana. Do you even know the last time I saw that?" His gaze dropped. 

My throat tightened. "Stay out of my way, Barnes. You may not like how I live my life, which, by the way, is your fault, but that doesn't mean you get to be controlling, too."

He didn't answer. Just looked at me with those stormy eyes, like he was searching for something in me he hadn't seen in a long time.

I turned to leave.

"I'm not done with Val," I said over my shoulder. "You don't get to guilt me out of this."

"I know," he murmured. "But I had to try."

Notes:

Tensions are high eeeekkkkkk

Side Note: Congressman Bucky has my whole heart and more.

Chapter 38: The Chemical

Date: 2026 (Pre–Thunderbolts)

Location: Washington, D.C.

Anastasia's POV

I was halfway through microwaving some sad leftover lo mein when my phone buzzed. Not the normal phone. The Val phone—the untraceable one tucked in the back of my junk drawer, wrapped in foil, for dramatic flair and occasional paranoia.

Caller ID? Nothing. Of course.

I answered anyway.

"Becker," Valentina purred. "How's my favorite unkillable asset?"

I shut the microwave door. "Mildly bored. Slightly hungover. What do you want?"

There was a beat of silence before she got to the point. She always did, once she was done playing games.

"I need you to pick something up for me."

"Define 'something,' because the last time you said that I ended up waterboarding a Romanian war criminal."

"This one's easier," she said. "Mostly. Just a little warehouse job. Northern Virginia. In and out."

I rolled my eyes. "What's in the warehouse?"

"A chemical."

"You gonna tell me what kind of chemical?"

"No."

I waited.

Nothing.

"Val—"

"It's not radioactive," she added, as if that would help. "Not technically."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "You're the worst boss I've ever had."

"Oh please, I pay well. Coordinates are incoming. Suit up. Bring a mask."

"Why the mask?"

"You always look good in a mask, sweetheart."

The line went dead.

Of course.

Later That Night

I stood by the trunk of my car in a mostly abandoned lot outside Fairfax, zipping up my tactical jacket and double-checking the mag in my pistol. Coordinates led to a squat, ugly building on the edge of a manufacturing zone, the kind of place that looked condemned from the outside and like a Bond villain's garage on the inside.

Val still hadn't told me what I was stealing. Just "chemical compound 9X-Frost." Catchy. Definitely not ominous.

Henry had so many questions when I left the house.

"You're going out again? Can you at least text me if you end up dead? That way I can tell mom with confidence and not, like, ruin dinner."

"I'll leave a note," I told him, patting my knife holster.

"And what exactly are you doing tonight?"

"I'm stealing something. It's fine. Don't wait up."

Now, as I crouched low in the shadows of the warehouse and peered through a busted window, I realized this place was far too quiet. No guards. No lights. No alarms tripped.

Which was either very good... or very bad.

I slid through a side door and made my way toward the storage units, eyes flicking over numbered crates and racks stacked high with canisters and sealed drums. The thing I was here for? Apparently stored in "Cryo Unit B."

Classic.

When I finally found it—an unmarked, high-security freezer the size of a minivan—I had to hack the panel with the gadget Val gave me. It looked like a garage door opener married a Tamagotchi.

The hatch hissed open. A fog of icy mist spilled out, and in the center of it all?

A sleek black canister, marked only with a barcode and a three-digit code: X93.

I didn't touch it barehanded. Gloves on. Careful. Just in case it was the chemical equivalent of a cursed monkey paw.

As soon as I lifted it free, I heard footsteps. Heavy ones.

"Shit," I whispered.

Because of course someone else was here.

And I had no idea if they were working for Val... or trying to beat her to the prize.

-----

The air inside the cryo chamber was bitter cold, enough to bite at the edges of my gloves. I had just pulled the canister free when I heard the click of a gun behind me.

"Please—don't take that."

I turned slowly.

One of the scientists stood in the shadows near the corridor, hands up. Late forties, maybe early fifties. Lab coat stained with adrenaline sweat and panic. His eyes weren't on the gun, or me—they were locked on the canister like it was a bomb.

"That—whatever she told you—just listen," he stammered. "You don't know what that is. You can't know. That thing—" He swallowed. "It should've never existed. Whatever you are, whatever enhancements you've had—this isn't worth it."

"Val wants it," I said flatly.

"I don't care who wants it," he snapped, stepping closer. "Whatever's inside that canister, if it gets replicated—weaponized—it will make what happened in Sokovia look like a playground scuffle. It wasn't meant for human use. Not for any use."

My grip on the container tightened. "What is it?"

He opened his mouth—like he was going to tell me.

He never got the chance.

A shot rang out, deafening in the cold steel chamber.

The scientist's body hit the ground with a wet thud, blood blooming across his chest.

I didn't need to look to know who fired.

"Jesus Christ, Walker," I hissed, wheeling around.

John Walker stood at the back of the room like a grim reaper with too much swagger. No mask. Combat gear with the star patch on one shoulder, gun still warm in his hands. He walked toward me like he didn't just kill a guy.

"Was he bothering you?" he asked, eyes flicking toward the corpse like it was a minor inconvenience.

"I had it handled," I growled.

He gave me a lopsided grin. "Sure looked like it. He was gonna spill something classified. Couldn't have that."

"Classified how?"

He shrugged. "I don't ask. I'm just the broom. Clean up the mess, move the hell on. All I care about is getting paid."

I stared down at the canister in my hands, the frost melting slowly along the edges of the metal. Whatever was in it, it wasn't just another bioweapon.

"You weren't sent for the canister," I said, squinting at him.

"Nope," Walker confirmed. "Val told me you'd get it. Told me to make sure nobody stopped you. Especially not someone with a conscience."

He clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Congrats, Becker. You're the only person she trusts enough to carry something this dangerous."

I shoved his hand off me.

"Next time," I muttered, "maybe don't shoot someone mid-sentence."

He winked. "Where's the fun in that?"

I left the warehouse without another word.

Walker didn't follow.

-----

I knew something was off the second Val sent coordinates instead of a location name. It wasn't a sleek office or a shadowy parking garage this time—it was a townhouse on the edge of Capitol Hill, wrapped in scaffolding and hidden behind a "RENOVATION IN PROGRESS" sign that no one sane would ever question.

The moon shone down on me like a spotlight. Today's stars aren't as bright as they were when I frolicked as a kid. 

I knocked twice, waited, then entered.

The inside was pristine. Too pristine. Minimalist furniture, cameras tucked into the corners like blinking eyes, and the smell of fresh paint masking something older—chemical, metallic.

Valentina was already sitting in a leather armchair by the window, legs crossed, a crystal glass in one hand. "Nice of you to be punctual, Anastasia. It's rare. Almost charming."

I dropped the case on the table between us.

"You didn't tell me I'd have backup," I said.

She smiled like I'd complimented her outfit. "I didn't think you'd need to know."

"Walker shot a man. Mid-sentence."

"Well," she said, swirling her drink, "I did say I trusted you to get the job done. But in case you failed... Walker has a very quick draw."

I stared at her, jaw tight. "You wanna tell me what this is?"

"No." She said it simply, unbothered. "But I will tell you where it's going."

She leaned forward, her eyes sharp.

"Malaysia."

I blinked. "That's not a name."

"It will be, you'll find out soon enough," she said, standing. "That's all you get. You've earned plausible deniability."

Before I could press further, a woman stepped in from the hallway.

Mid-twenties, long dark hair pulled back, olive skin, boots too expensive for the military, and a blazer too pressed for the civilian. She held a tablet like a weapon.

"Anastasia," Val said smoothly, "this is Mel. She works for me."

Mel nodded once, eyes cool but observant. "I handle logistics. Transportation. Exfil. She doesn't know how to use spreadsheets."

Val grinned. "They bore me."

Mel turned to me. "The canister's already been moved. You'll be rerouted through two burner drops if you're leaving D.C."

"Am I?" I asked.

Val raised a brow. "Not yet. You're staying close."

Mel handed me a burner phone. "It has a new number. It encrypts on both ends. Try not to toss this one."

I rolled my eyes and slid it into my jacket. "Anything else?"

Val sipped her drink, then said, "Enjoy your little moral crisis. But don't forget—someone always has to hold the matches when the world's on fire."

I didn't answer. Just turned and walked out.

But I knew she was right.

-------

The Capitol building glistened with morning dew as Bucky Barnes stepped out of the black SUV that drove him in every morning like clockwork. His suit jacket was slung over one arm, tie already loosened around his neck despite the early hour. He didn't sleep much. Not since the envelope.

Heather was already waiting for him, tablet in hand, latte in the other, walking exactly one and a half steps too fast like she always did when there was chaos on the horizon. Which, with Valentina Allegra de Fontaine involved, was always.

"Morning, Congressman," she chirped, entirely too upbeat for someone who'd probably already answered forty emails before sunrise. "Did you see the new intel from the Oversight Committee?"

Bucky gave her a sideways glance as he took the elevator up. "No. What now?"

Heather swiped her screen with dramatic flair, flipping it around to show him a headline plastered on every major outlet:

"Valentina Allegra de Fontaine Facing Congressional Inquiry — CIA Director Under Fire for Alleged Black Ops Abuses"

"Some whistleblower leaked intel suggesting she's been running off-books operations—surprise, surprise—and now she's on the chopping block. Word is, she might be forced to testify before the Ethics Subcommittee. And guess what?"

Bucky raised a brow, already dreading her answer.

"She'll be in the building. This building. This week."

The elevator dinged open, and Bucky stepped out, jaw already clenched. "Great."

Heather wasn't done. "Also, not to alarm you—actually yes, definitely to alarm you—but the footage from that Senator bust yesterday? Background enhancement caught someone walking through the lobby at the exact moment of the raid. Guess who?"

Bucky didn't have to. "Anastasia."

Heather nodded solemnly. "Your favorite unregistered walking weapon. She looked great, though. Stylish trench. Very rogue operative chic."

Bucky sighed as he unlocked his office and stepped in. "I told you to stop calling her that."

Heather ignored him. "Oh, and by the way, I took the liberty of flagging a few staffers who've been pulled into Val's web before. If this explodes, you're going to be pulled in too. Especially if anyone finds out how close you were to—"

"I said drop it," Bucky snapped, sharper than he intended.

Heather blinked, startled. Then, quieter: "You sent the envelope to piss her off, didn't you?"

Bucky didn't answer.

He hung his jacket up and walked to the window instead, hands braced on the sill, eyes distant. Heather, ever the tactician, didn't press further. But she watched him closely as he stared out over the city.

Because the truth was: if Valentina went down, she wouldn't go quietly. And if Anastasia was still tangled in her strings, she'd be dragged down with her.

And Bucky didn't know yet if he was trying to stop that from happening... or make sure it did.

 

Notes:

For those who have seen Thunderbolts, are we noticing the trend yet?

Chapter 39: The CIA

Date: 2026 (Pre–Thunderbolts)

Location: Washington, D.C.

Anastasia's POV

"That's so stupid! Why would she do that?" Henry threw his hands up, exhausting loudly enough that I looked over at him from my position on the couch. 

"Do you ever shut up?" I huffed out, going back to what Henry calls 'doomscrolling' on TikTok. Most of the videos were stupid, and some people danced, but I figured out that if I don't engage in those videos, I get ones I like more. 

Henry was sitting next to me on the couch, loudly watching Love Island, when my phone buzzed. The notification popped up from the top. 

THE DEVIL IN HEELS:

Come to Langley.
Official business.
No backup.
Wear black: Mostly optional.

This was not the burner.

My real phone. Valentina is texting me on my real phone. 

I stared at it like it might self-destruct.

I blinked. No encryption. No code words. No burner number. This wasn't a ghost-message dropped through a secure channel or a dead drop scribbled on a napkin.

This was my regular phone.

Which meant one thing: she wanted people to know I was coming.

From all that I have learned from Val, she doesn't make mistakes—not when it comes to communication. If she texted me like this, she wanted a record—a paper trail—evidence—maybe for someone watching her, maybe for someone watching me.

Either way, it wasn't good.

I stared at the text for a long second before locking the screen. With a sigh, I dropped my phone on my chest. Henry tried to weasel his way into reading the text, but my phone locked. 

"Who texted?"

"Valentina..." I answered, he arches a brow, "On the real phone?!"

"Yes, dipshit, does this look like my burner?" I deadpan. He rolls his eyes. 

With another long sigh, I stand up. 

"Where are you going?" Henry called from the couch, eating popcorn and watching YouTube clips of politicians getting humiliated on live TV.

"Out. Stop asking stupid questions."

"To where?"

"Langley."

There was a beat of silence, followed by the rustle of the popcorn bag. "Can I come?" 

"No"

"Please?? I'm so bored!" 

"Don't you have a real job?" I question Henry. He pouts like a child, not a grown adult male. I purse my lips and take a deep breath. "Fine, but you are driving."

I don't think I've ever seen him spring up so fast. He grabs the car keys in one swift motion and opens the front door a beat later. This man was moving faster than I was. 

----

Twenty minutes later, after I made Henry wait outside in the car while I changed into something more 'businessy' and less 'unemployed living at home', I threw on heels to be nice. I wore black pants and a green shirt. 

We live 30 minutes from Langly, with traffic, it takes another 15. I'm annoyed when Henry has to hit the George Washington Memorial Parkway brakes.

"Get your nasty toes off my dash." He bitches. I ditched my heels five minutes into the car ride. "We're at a standstill, it's fine."

He grunts and smacks my foot. I glare at him and drop them back to the floor.  "Dickhead" I mutter. 

"Uh, excuse me, who decided to be a great big brother and drive his little sister to work? Mmhm?" I could kill him. 

 

I glare at him, "First of all, you are not the big brother, second of all, I never asked you to drive me."

He grins and begins to accelerate again when traffic clears. "Big Bro on a technicality." 

More time passed, and I was forced to listen to his music. "I still think this is a trap," he said, taking a corner with too much enthusiasm. "You know, the kind of thing that ends with you getting black-bagged and shoved into a room with no windows."

"Thanks for the emotional support," I muttered, checking my reflection in the visor mirror. Clean makeup. Hair up. Gun hidden. Smile convincing. "You think I should smile more or less?"

Henry gave me a long side-eye. "You smile like a Bond villain. Don't do that."

"You know, I'm typically the one to be doing the black-bagging and no window throwing..."

Henry nods, "Yeah, but Valentina can be unpredictable, and with the possible impeachment trials, she might be grasping at empty straws."

"What are they trying to impeach her for? I know she's not exactly innocent, but what did they find?"

Henry shrugs as he pulls up to the gate. He rolls his window down for the gate agent. "I don't know, the news isn't saying much."

"Identification," the agent barked.

I leaned across Henry and flashed the custom badge Val had made me. He took one look and stiffened like he'd just been told God herself was on the guest list.

The next twenty minutes were a circus of delays. Three different guards checked my ID. Two different dogs sniffed the car. One guy even tried confiscating Henry's travel-size Sour Patch Kids bag.

Henry handled it all with a casual sarcasm that made security even slower. "Are we gonna get a tour after this, or just the cavity search?"

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as the last gate finally opened. I grabbed a piece of spearmint gum just before Henry parked. 

I climbed out, "Wait in the car." I said as I slammed the door before he could say more, badge in hand as I approached the glass-and-steel monstrosity that was CIA headquarters.

I chew my gum, glancing around. This place is definitely government.

Once I got inside, the marble floors gleamed, and the air smelled like coffee and red tape. Two men in black suits met me just past the lobby and flanked me without a word—classic Valentina move—just enough intimidation to let you know who's in control.

I smiled, but it didn't reach my eyes. I look at both men popping my gum. "Cute." They didn't rise to the bait. 

As we moved through a maze of hallways and biometric scans, I kept my face neutral, my posture perfect.

Because if she wanted this visit recorded, I was going to look damn good while doing it. Not that I don't look good. I look hot even if I wear a sack. 

My heels click into the polished floor, and several staffers glance over. I should've had my hair down, adding extra drama. 

The door to Valentina's office was a thick slab of frosted glass, glowing with backlight like something out of a dystopian boardroom. I had barely approached when it hissed open.

Mel.

Espresso brown hair tied into a tight low bun, clipboard in hand, heels perfectly clicked into regulation silence. She gave me a polite but not warm smile—efficient, as if welcoming someone to a job interview they didn't know they were about to fail.

"Ms. Becker. This way, please."

Her voice was sweet, but clipped, like every syllable had undergone HR training.

"This better be good," I muttered to myself.

Mel moved with quiet confidence, her steps light as she led me deeper into the agency's heart. "Would you prefer Ms. or Captain?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder. 

"Anastasia is fine." 

Valentina's office was bigger than I expected. It was perched like a vulture's nest on the upper floor, with a view that screamed classified power. When we arrived, she was already seated, heels kicked up on the desk like she was running a poker table, not a covert intelligence empire.

"Stasia," she said smoothly, twirling a pen. "Have a seat."

"No thanks," I muttered. "Let's just get to it." I make a motion with my finger in a circle, already tired of having to come all this way. 

Mel gave Val a look—probably something like See, I told you she was difficult—before she silently left and shut the door behind her.

Val dropped her feet and stood. She pulled at her blazer once. 

"Alright, straight to business," she said, brushing invisible lint off her lapel. "So you've seen the headlines."

"I don't watch the news," I said flatly.

She smirked. "You're in the news, sweetie. Or, at least your silhouette is."

I said nothing.

Val circled her desk and leaned against it, all sharp cheekbones and dangerous charm.

"The vultures are circling," she continued, tone cool. "Senate hearings are being drafted. Oversight committees are sharpening their claws. They're finally asking what I do, and whether or not I'm fit to keep doing it."

"You're not," I said, picking at my fingernails. "But that's never stopped you."

She smiled. "Flattering. But this time, it's serious. They're using words like impeachment. They want blood. Preferably mine."

I tilted my head. "And I'm supposed to care why?"

"Because you're my blood now, sweetheart. At least on paper."

That got my attention.

She reached into the drawer beside her, pulled out a slim manila folder, and slid it across the desk. "Congratulations. You're being made an official CIA operative. You'll have a title, credentials, and federal immunity—within reason, of course."

I didn't move to take the folder. "You called me all the way out here for paperwork?"

"I called you here because if the people upstairs are going to tear me apart, I need to ensure my assets are undeniably useful. And you, darling, are my nuclear option."

"So this is just about saving your own ass."

She shrugged. "Always is."

I finally reached for the folder and flipped it open. Government seals, formal signatures, classified access levels—all the red tape she used to keep me in the dark was now conveniently tied around my neck like a leash.

"Great," I muttered. "Now I'm a tool with a serial number."

Val crossed her arms. "You'd rather be disposable?"

"No," I said, closing the file. "I'd rather you not make me drive 45 fucking minutes just to tell me I am officially employed."

She didn't dignify that with a response; instead, she sat back down behind her desk. "I expect you to remain quiet about the other operatives." 

I nod once, heading for the door, "Okay, Val, whatever you say. I have a child waiting in the car."

"Do I want to know what that means?" I don't have to see her to know she's arching a brow. I walk out of the office before answering. Mel stays at her desk, eyes tracking as I go. 

By the time I made it out of the damn building, it was dusk. Henry looked up from his phone, "That was fast."

"That was because you were busy with your nose shoved in your phone watching that trash show." I slam the door shut and close my eyes, resting my head on the seat. 

"Don't talk bad about Love Island!" 

I stay quiet as Henry begins to drive. The lull of silence is a comfort I haven't felt in a while. When he activates his turn signal, merging back onto the highway, darkness surrounds me as I slip into it. 

Chapter 40: The Utah Desert

Date: 2026 (Pre–Thunderbolts)

Location: Langley, VA

Anastasia's POV

After Valentina made me an "official agent" under the "Security and Operations" category, she continued to give me black ops-level missions that Congress would definitely frown upon, which is how I ended up back at her office. 

Val didn't wait for me to close the folder before tossing another manila envelope onto the desk. This one was fatter, slightly worn, sealed with a red wax stamp I'd seen maybe twice before.

She tapped it once. "This one's time-sensitive."

I eyed the envelope like it might bite. "You're giving me another assignment? Already?"

"You wanted to speed things along, remember?"

I sighed through my teeth and opened the envelope.

Inside: blueprints, building schematics, a satellite map, a list of employee clearances. The target was a private biotech lab based out of a decommissioned NORAD bunker in Wyoming. The kind of place that definitely didn't make aspirin.

Val's fingers drummed lightly on the desk. "It's a facility that's off the books. Not legally American soil. Not legally anyone's, really. Our intel says they're synthesizing something volatile. We need it gone before someone dumber than us realizes what they're sitting on."

I glanced at her. "What is it?"

"No idea," she said without missing a beat. "Could be medical. Could be military. What matters is that it's mobile, and their buyer is on the way."

I narrowed my eyes. "And you're just sending me in solo?"

Val raised a brow. "Would you prefer backup?"

I didn't answer. Of course I didn't. Backup always meant leverage. Collateral. Witnesses.

"You'll go in, secure the prototype, and torch the lab behind you," Val said calmly. "No one gets out unless they're already on your approved list—which is no one."

I looked down at the documents again. "What about Walker?"

Her smile didn't move. "He's elsewhere—a different continent. Don't worry, sweetheart. This one's yours."

The room buzzed quiet for a second. My hands tightened around the folder.

"You said this was 'official business,'" I said. "What does Langley think of you assigning black ops to your brand-new poster girl?"

Val smiled that serpent smile again. "They think I'm cleaning house. You're my favorite broom."

I didn't smile back.

She waved her hand, dismissing me like a bored queen. "Wheels up in six hours. Mel will text you the burner details. Don't get shot."

I turned and walked out without saying anything, the envelope tucked under my arm like a death warrant.

Because if Val was sweating, and she still needed me this badly?

That meant things were worse than I thought.

-----

Location: Some fucking place in Wyoming

I had barely finished the mission Val assigned when my burner buzzed a hole in my pocket. 

VAL: Do not destroy the sample.
VAL: Keep it safe until further notice.
VAL: You’ll take it to these coordinates in exactly 48 hours.
VAL: Tell no one.

The coordinates she provided were for the middle of nowhere in the desert of Utah. 

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into an abandoned strip mall and opened the secure case again to look at the vial tucked inside the shockproof foam. It wasn’t glowing, wasn’t hissing, wasn’t doing anything theatrical. Just… there.

I have 48 hours to reach that building; the drive would only take me 6. 

But if the scientist begging for his life meant anything, this wasn’t just volatile. It was wrong.

Val wanted it destroyed an hour ago, and now she wants it delivered. I didn’t like the shift, and I liked it even less when I zoomed in on the coordinates and realized what was there.

A square perimeter. Unmarked on public maps. But from the satellite view?

It looked like a facility. New. High tech. Still under construction. Black site.
This meant that it wasn’t just government—it was deep government. Off-book. Beyond classified.

And Val had just looped me into it.

Wyoming was already behind me by the time Val’s final instructions hit my phone. I didn’t wait for backup, I didn’t ask for clearance, I just pointed the borrowed SUV south and kept driving.

Six hours isn’t long when you’re used to transport jumps and tactical redeployments, but there’s something about watching the land flatten into a dead, cracked white sheet that makes you feel like you’re headed to hell—except colder.

The facility—whatever it was—was still a ghost. Satellite images showed the faint outline of a compound surrounded by a vast nothing. There were no markers, no signs, just the O.X.E. grid buried somewhere in the middle of salt and sand.

So I did what any trained assassin-slash-deep-cover-clean-up-asset would do.

I booked a motel.

One hour out, just close enough to scope the terrain and run recon at sunrise. Just far enough to vanish if things went south.

It was called The Rocket Inn—one of those highway pull-offs that hadn’t been renovated since the Reagan administration. There was a vending machine full of melted candy, a toothless man smoking behind the front desk, and a sign that warned NO PETS, NO DRUGS, NO FEDS.

I paid in cash. It was the kind of place that didn't ask questions, only wanted your money. I wore sunglasses even though the sun was already down—standard paranoia. I used a fake name and ID, one of the many Valentina had provided. 

My room smelled like bleach and probably the haunted screams of dead prostitutes, but I’d stayed in worse.

I peeled off the tactical gear, swapped it for a tank and joggers, and checked the vial. It was still intact and quiet. 

I slid it into the minibar fridge and locked the latch. It was not secure, but it was secure enough to make me feel like I had some control over the night.

Then I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the map again.

Tomorrow, I drive.

Tomorrow, I will find out what this place is and why Valentina wants to smuggle whatever this is into it without anyone knowing.

Because if this thing ever sees the light of day—and it shouldn’t—then I need to be ready for what comes after.

And if that means going into the mouth of something Hydra-adjacent and CIA-funded?

So be it.

-------

As the night progressed, sleep never came. I stayed on the edge of the bed, watching a tella-novella. The main female lead had just found out her husband was cheating with the maid. 

Bucky's words keep bouncing in my head from past disputes. The more I work for Val, the more I start to think he may be right... and I would rather die than let Bucky think he is right. 

The morning sun crept through the shitty, dirty blinds. Soon, my burner buzzed with a new text, no doubt from Val.

VAL: Go to the facility, scientists waiting

Duty calls. 

-------

I drove the last hour with the windows cracked and the radio off. The silence helped. No distractions, no Henry, no news updates screaming about Valentina’s trial. Just the sound of wind skipping across salt and rubber on cracked pavement.

The GPS signal died ten miles out.

I followed the coordinates manually, veering off-road until the tires crunched against a long-forgotten service path carved into the basin. There were no fences or gates—just a rust-colored rock formation that looked more like a cave than a government facility.

But it was here.

Right on the dot.

I drove up the side following the road as it rounded the giant rock-like cliff.

I parked the SUV off to the side, the dust still circling, with the sun beating down on me. 

The giant door slid open of the gray-colored building. 

Inside, the walls were rough, still mostly stone, but reinforced with steel infrastructure. A single industrial elevator waited at the center of the chamber, manned by two men in clean lab coats holding clipboards and ID badges that didn’t match any known agency. They didn’t say hello. Didn’t even look surprised to see me.

“You’re late,” one said flatly, gesturing to the elevator.

“I’m not paid for punctuality,” I replied, tossing him a look as I stepped inside.

The doors sealed shut behind me. The panel lit up: ELEVATOR DESCENDING – 1 MILE

One. Full. Mile.

I swallowed the rising unease in my throat as the metal cage lurched into motion, descending at a pace that felt too smooth for something this massive. There was no jolt, no groan, just silence and depth. It took over four minutes to reach the bottom.

When the doors opened again, I stepped into another world.

Gone were the stone and shadows of the desert. This wasn’t a bunker. It was a city.

The lighting was clinical white, the ceilings high, the corridors long and sterile like something out of a retrofuturistic nightmare: glass-walled labs, sealed blast doors, motion-triggered lights. Scientists in sleek uniforms moved like ants between workstations. No one laughed. No one talked loudly. This place didn’t breathe; it processed.

The O.X.E. Facility wasn’t a base.

It was a laboratory designed for things the world should never see.

One of the techs walked with me, following the green path. 

A strip of LED floor lights lit up under my feet and guided me down a long corridor. I passed a lab labeled GENETIC REFORMATION and another marked ADAPTIVE WARFARE—both names vague enough to hide real horrors.

I finally stopped at a containment room with reinforced glass. Three scientists were already waiting, one holding a biometric scanner and the other standing near a cold storage chamber.

“This is the chemical compound?” one asked, already pulling on thick gloves.

I reached into my jacket and handed it over. “Still cold. Still intact. I kept it upright the whole way. You’re welcome.”

He didn’t respond. Just scanned it, confirmed its contents with a curt nod, and locked it inside a pressurized container.

Another technician turned to me, squinting behind her goggles. “Do you know what this is?”

“Nope,” I said, popping the p. “And I don’t care. I get paid to deliver, not ask.”

But that wasn’t entirely true.

Because I did care.

I'm especially angry now, seeing how they handled it like it might explode if the temperature shifted a degree. The labels on the cold chamber were redlined with hazard warnings I didn’t recognize: biohazard, genetic class, unstable reconstitution.

I wasn’t a genius, but I wasn’t stupid either. Whatever I just delivered… wasn’t meant for public consumption.

And somehow, deep down, I knew…this wasn’t the last time I’d see it.

We passed a room just by the side exit, taking me to another elevator. Scientists were walking around with bodies lined up in rows, not even in body bags yet. They glanced up as we shuffled by. 

The longer I stay here, the more uneasy I feel. This is way bigger than I thought, and I don't know how much I want to be a part of it.

"None of the test subjects have been successful, " the tech said, with no remorse in his voice as he pressed the elevator button.  "The project in Malaysia isn't working out for us either. Hopefully, the chemical you provided gives us the necessary push."

"Test subjects for what?" I ask, my eyes looking at everything but the tech. "What project?" 

"Project Sentry" 

 

Notes:

Well the time has come for O.X.E to come to light. Did anyone guess that twist at the end? Can't wait to write the next chapter where we will get to touch into Thunderbolts* timeline finally!

Chapter 41: The President

Date: 2026 (Pre–Thunderbolts)

Location: Washington, DC.

Anastasia's POV

When the giant steel door closed behind me, I couldn't stop thinking about what the tech had said. It was Project Sentry, and from the look of the O.X.E. stuff below, I didn't expect human experimentation to be part of it. Val had arranged a plane for me at the closest Air Base, so I returned to DC in record time—not that anyone was tracking my location. 

When I landed in D.C., Valentina had already texted three times.

The fourth one had a little emoji at the end—a smiley face—so I knew she was panicking.

I didn't answer any of them. Not right away.

Because the thing about Val was this: when her walls started closing in, mine expanded. Her fire made room for my freedom. I didn't need to guess what kind of pressure she was under. The impeachment whispers weren't whispers anymore. Congressional oversight was sniffing around like a bloodhound. And when people get cornered, they either get honest or get dangerous.

Val was not the honest type.

So when she offered me options—time off, choice of assignments, extra discretionary clearance—I knew what it meant. It wasn't gratitude.

It was survival.

She needed me to be happy.

She needed me to be cooperative. Compliant. In her pocket, not someone else's. And most of all: she needed me to stay quiet.

So I took her offer.

I told her that if I wanted time off. She would give it.

I told her I'd be the one to pick my next op. She said, "Of course, dear."

And then she did the one thing I didn't expect: she asked for a favor.

Which is how I am now standing in front of her desk. 

"You want me to what?" I asked, standing in her shadowy Langley office, sipping the lukewarm tea Mel had shoved into my hand.

Val adjusted the cuffs of her slate gray suit. "Play security."

I blinked. "You have actual CIA agents for that."

"I don't trust them."

"Do you trust me?"

"I trust your motives," she said without hesitation. "Which is more than I can say for the others."

She looked at me like someone trying to dress a wolf in sheep's clothing. Or maybe the other way around.

"Why now?"

"Because they're watching me, Anastasia," she said, her voice lower now. Senate committees.  efense subcommittees. Leaks from my own department. Nd let's not forget your old boyfriend still stomping around Capitol Hill like he can smell a cover-up."

"Boyfriend?  Wha—?"

She waved a dismissive hand.  Whatever he is."

I narrowed my eyes.  You think Bucky's gonna try something?"

"I think someone will. You're my insurance."

"That's a lot of trust in someone with no oversight."

She smirked.  Exactly."

"Fine... where do you need me?"

------------
Location: Washington, DC — The White House

I felt like a kid in a costume.

Val shoved me into a black blazer and black slacks. A thin radio coiled into my ear. I didn't need sunglasses, but I wore them anyway. Va handed me a lapel pin at the car and said, "You're official today," like it meant something. My long hair was pulled into a ponytail, framing my face. 

She didn't explain further. She ever did.

We rode in silence most of the way, just the whirr of tires on asphalt and the subtle beep of her encrypted phone. The driver didn't even blink when we pulled up to the White House's northwest entrance—she just dropped us off like it was a Starbucks run.

I guess when you're walking next to someone who still has Director of the CIA stitched onto every clearance list, nobody asks too many questions.

Inside, everything smelled like power and fresh wax.

My boots clicked against marble floors. My hand hovered near the weapon holstered beneath my jacket. It wasn't paranoia.

It was protocol. Okay...maybe paranoia. 

Val breezed through the hallway like she owned it. She didn't look nervous—not that she ever did—but the tight set of her shoulders gave her away. I followed behind us, a quiet force clutching a stack of folders to her chest like someone would rip them straight from her hands. 

I glanced at the portraits on the wall—portraits of Presidents, generals, and a few faces I barely recognized from history books I'd never finished. I couldn't shake the feeling that I didn't belong here.

Like I'd snuck into a costume party meant for gods and liars.

We were led to a private room just off the West Wing—the kind with no windows and soundproof walls. In the ide, a round table, four chairs, and two Secret Service agents stood like statues near the far corners.

The President wasn't in yet.

Val finally turned to me, smoothing her hair with a practiced hand. "Say quiet unless spoken to. And keep your gun where it is, darling."

I gave her a look. "Why would I pull it out?" 

"Because I know you," she said, tapping a folder against her palm. "A d I know you don't play well with people who hide behind power."

The door opened before I could respond.

And just like that, I was face-to-face with the President of the United States. President Steele. 

He didn't look surprised to see me. That was the worst part.

I didn’t expect him to walk in like that. I thought maybe a stupid red carpet would roll out, someone there to kiss his ass. Instead, he did no introduction. He had no other security detail. He looked like a man in a suit with a face carved out of concrete and the kind of aura that made everyone in the room sit up straighter.

Valentina didn’t flinch, of course. I stood a few paces behind her with that ever-present leather-bound notebook and tablet, barely blinking. I stood by the wall, hands resting on my belt—dressed like I belonged in the Secret Service, not in a meeting with the most powerful man in the country.

I've been in some weird situations, but this takes the cake... for now.  D ends on what Val has planned. 

"Director Allegra de Fontaine," the President said. Hi voice didn’t rise. It didn’t have to.

"Mr. President," Val replied, smooth as ever.

Then he scanned the room and said, “Everyone without O.X.E. clearance, leave. No .”

The agents exchanged a look. They were good, but not good enough to hide the tension in their jaws as they filed out. The door shut behind them with a sharp click that felt too final for my taste.

Now it was just the four of us.

Valentina. Me. Me 

And the President of the United States.

He sat on the leather couch across from Val, then leaned forward, hands folded like a judge about to pass sentence. “Why do you think I wouldn't discover what you've been doing under the mountain?”

Val didn’t even blink. “It’s well within the charter of the experimental defense budget—”

“I didn’t ask for the fine print.”

His voice was low and cold, and I realized he wasn’t asking—he was accusing. My eyes darted between them and to Mel. I wasn't like Val. I would tell her that she might be easy to crack. You get the right person asking the right questions, and she might spill like a fire hydrant. She tried to remain neutral, but the small amount of sweat forming at her temple, despite being a goddamm freezer here, told me everything I needed to know. I would also hear her, the President, and Val's fucking heartbeat hitting their chests like a drum. 

“You’ve been playing God, Valentina,” he said. “Whatever you’re creating in that base. This country has already seen what happens when we let people like you operate in the dark."

Val kept her poker face, but I could feel the shift—the tension beneath her skin. “We’re building protection, not weapons,” she said. “Gopolitical defense is evolving—”

He cut her off. “And Project Sentry? You going to brief me on that, or are you still pretending it’s above my pay grade?”

No answer.

I stood there, arms crossed, wishing I had a wall to lean against. I wasn’t supposed to know about Project Sentry either, but it started to feel like everyone in the room wasn't supposed to know. The lab tech who told me didn't know I didn't have clearance, especially since I was dropping off the damn chemical for this Project Sentry. 

Then the President turned to me.

“You were in Poland. Yo  brought the chemical to O.X.E. You’ve been helping her build this thing.”

For a brief moment, I stayed silent, Val's eyes trying to cut me in half. “I do what I’m told,” I said carefully, snapping out my thoughts. 

He stared at me like I was some test subject. I don't miss Val's little smirk. 

“You’re not just a gun-for-hire,” he said. “Are you a veteran. You were taken by HYDRA. You know what this kind of power does in the wrong hands.”

I glanced away. He didn’t say it to guilt-trip me—he said it like a reminder. Li is a dare to start asking questions.

“I didn’t know what was in the case,” I said, my voice low. “A d the scientist who did? He well... wasn't able to tell me."

The President didn't say anything, just turned back to Valentina. 

Val cleared her throat, cutting through the weight in the air. “We are doing what’s necessary to stay ahead of the next global threat—”

“I don't care what you're doing, but now it's coming to light. I need the press off my back. If you don't fix this, I will find someone to replace you so fast your head will spin.”

He was angry, but there was something more than that in his eyes.

Fear. He just dropped a massive bomb. Not only will he fire Val as Director if this impacement continues, but he doesn't care about the people dying from the experimentation; only the optics matter. 

He looked back at me. “I understand you were supposed to get your military pension and be re-assigned, Captain, correct?”

That stunned me. “Excuse me?”

“When you returned from Alaska, did the General reach out?" 

"No, Sir... guess they forgot about me. Alska wasn't precisely a picnic party for me. FFeelslike forever ago." 

That earned me another pointed look from Val, like a mother scolding her child for yelling in public. 

“Well,” the President muttered. “I'll look into it.”

And just like that, it was over. He turned and left, no handshake, no goodbye—just a storm in a tailored suit.

For a long second, no one said a word.

Val grabbed her bag. I didn’t move.

“We’ll talk later,” Val said, already walking toward the door. “There’s work to do.”

Yeah. That’s what I was afraid of.

If this was just the beginning of Project Sentry, then I had no idea what kind of storm we were walking into.

 

Chapter 42: The Visit

Date:  2026 (Pre–Thunderbolts)

 

Location:  Washington, D.C. – Outside the West Wing

Anastasia’s POV

 

After being inside for so long, the sunlight hit like a slap. I tugged at the collar of the too-stiff blazer, resisting the urge to unbutton it just for air. Val walked ahead of me with her usual, unshakable grace, phone already back in hand. Mel followed behind her like a silent shadow, tapping something into that cryptic tablet. 

I was ten steps from the SUV when I felt it. That feeling of eyes burning a hole into you. 

My feet stopped. My stomach didn’t just twist, it leaped into my throat. 

I instinctively turned my head, like an animal scenting something wrong in the wind. I knew my gut was right because there he was. 

Bucky Barnes.

Suited, sleeves barely pushed up, jaw locked like he was grinding his molars to dust. Hair loosely slicked back. That metal arm poking out under his bunched sleeves. He looked as wrecked as always. 

We hadn't spoken since... well, since I called him a hypocrite and told his assistant to kiss my ass, which had been weeks ago. Felt like longer.

Val didn’t stop walking. She didn’t miss a beat. She didn't even notice him. Neither did Mel; she just kept going. 

I looked at him just long enough to let my eyes lock with his.

It wasn’t a glare, exactly. Not this time. But it was charged. I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to look back. I could feel him watching me. And whether that was a threat or something worse—I wasn’t sure anymore.

His face gave away what he was thinking. I want to believe it was a coincidence, but knowing Buckky, he could pop up anywhere. I broke eye contact first as I slid into the car. He looked at me like he didn't recognize what I had become. I think I feel the same. 

 

All I could focus on was how the leather seats were too soft, overly polished, and expensive. Tax dollars at work. It makes you feel like a liability just for breathing. The driver had the divitor up, but the radio was low enough to fill the silence, something jazzy.

I sat beside Mel, who was scribbling something quick and shorthand into her small, battered notebook. Val sat across from us, legs crossed, sunglasses perched on her lap. The air in the limo smelled like citrus cleaner; probably one of those trees was dangling from the rearview mirror. 

A sleek tablet sat on Val's lap, glowing with black and white mission briefs. She clicked through them one by one, pausing only to say a few words at a time. Everything was maddeningly vague. Not that I expected her to spell anything out for me.

“Operation Greystorm is proceeding as expected. We may have to deploy Unit 3C again.”
“No new updates from Echo-Red, but Langley is pushing for visual confirmation.”
“And Mel, ensure the Andover situation is sanitized before next Tuesday. I don’t want that mess following me into the hearings.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re speaking in code in front of me now?”

Val didn’t look up. “I’m speaking in discretion.”

“Discretion? That's what we're calling it now, Val?”

She purses her lips but settles them back into place; she probably didn't want any unnecessary wrinkles. 

Mel didn’t even blink. She was used to this, I guess. The double-speak. The trust-no-one energy that hung between every word Val said lately. She kept me in the loop just enough to ensure I didn’t walk—but not enough to make me a liability if I did.

I leaned back, crossing my arms. “You know, if you’re going to keep handing me loaded guns and dangerous intel, it’d be nice to know why. Or who the hell I’m working for.”

Val finally looked up, playing with her sunglasses slowly and deliberately. Her expression didn’t crack.

“You work for me, Anastasia. That should be enough.”

I held her gaze. “It’s not.”

The air thickened for a second, heavy enough to chew on. "I don't trust you, Val. I never have, but I guess you were just very good with pursuation."

I must've gotten to her because her eyes narrowed. It was subtle, but the way her heartbeat picked up told me everything I needed to know. She is starting to lose the control she has over me. 

She tapped the tablet again, swiping the screen closed like the conversation was over. “Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness. You’ve been given power, protection, and freedom—three things people like us don’t usually get simultaneously. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Mel glanced at me sideways but didn’t say a word as I shifted my attention to the window, watching the D.C. buildings blur past.

The silence said more than any threat could. For now, I was still valuable. Still favored. Still protected. But I’d seen what happened to the people Val stopped trusting. Hell, I did the erasing. And she was already talking like she had one eye on the exit.

Like a predator in a hunter's trap, people like Val show their true colors when backed into a hunter's trap. Currently, Val is the predator, nearly missing the hunter's spikes in the snowy wilderness of Capitol Hill. Unlucky for her, I know the hunters.

------

When I got home that night, it was late enough for the sky to feel like static. The whole city was quiet in that eerie, too-clean way only D.C. could pull off—like someone vacuumed the chaos out of it just for show.

I dropped my keys in the bowl by the door, kicked off my boots, and collapsed onto the couch without even bothering to change. The mission debrief with Val had given me a headache and an itch I couldn’t quite scratch. That vague feeling that something was shifting—not wrong, exactly. Just… off. 

Like, my usefulness is starting to wear out. 

Henry sat quietly for once next to me as he watched reruns of M.A.S.H. I could only think of the ongoing Valentina investigation looping over b-roll. I muted the TV in my head and rubbed my hands down my face. 

Then my phone buzzed.

I assumed it was Val or maybe Mel with more bureaucratic bullshit, but nope. It was worse.

Walker: You up?

I stared at the screen like it had just personally insulted me. My lip actually curled in disgust that he just texted me a 'you up' text like we're still in high school. Henry glanced over "A 'you up' text? Since when were you and Walker talking like that?" 

I cringe at the way he said it. "Ah, since never." We don’t text. Ever. Not unless it’s coordinates, backup requests, or dumb memes about how our bones hurt after a mission. That wasn’t unusual on its own—John Walker didn’t exactly believe in personal space or texting boundaries—but we usually only talked when bullets were flying or something needed to be retrieved, stolen, or quietly buried.

Walker:  I’m nearby. Thought I’d stop by.

No emoji. Just that weird blend of casual and vaguely threatening that only John Walker could manage.

I should’ve told him no. I should’ve ignored it. But I didn’t.

Me:  Door’s unlocked.

Henry takes another loud crunch of his dry fruit loops, balances on his stomach, and laughs at a stupid part on the TV.

"He's coming over here?" he asks. I shrug, getting off the couch and stretching. "I have no idea," I mutter, walking to the kitchen to steal an orange. 

While I was eating my third orange, the peel digging under my nails, I heard my phone buzz again. "He's outside," Henry said after glancing at the text. Of course he reads my texts; I get no damn privacy. 

I hopped off the counter and shuffled to the door. Instead, I peeked through the blinds. Sure enough, parked crookedly across my driveway like he didn’t give a single shit about traffic ordinances was Walker’s black government SUV. I could see him in the driver’s seat, casually leaning back with that smug look on his face, like he knew I’d open the door.

Henry glanced over his shoulder, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Is that a U.S. Divorcee out there?”

I sighed. “Yep.” 

“You gonna let him in?” Henry asked, crunching loudly on another handful of cereal. 

I didn’t answer. I walked to the door and opened it without much fanfare. “What the hell do you want?”

He stepped out like he owned the whole block. "I was bored."

“You drove across D.C. at midnight because you were bored?” 

“Figured I’d offer a drink. Or a fistfight. Whichever mood you’re in.” He smiles, that smug look with that stupid ass ginger brown hair in the moonlight. He steps on the porch, hands in his pockets. 

"Hi, Walker," Henry called from the living room without missing a beat.

Walker grinned. “Sup, Henry.”

“Don’t corrupt my sister.”

“No promises.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and stepped aside. “Come in before one of my nosy-ass neighbors calls in a noise complaint. Don't wake up mom.”

He brushed past me with all the subtlety of a frat boy at a keg party, peeling off his jacket and tossing it on the coat rack like he lived here.

God help me, I didn’t stop him.

Henry muted the TV. “So, what’s this? You two planning world domination or just watching late-night porn together?”

Walker raised an eyebrow. “Depends. Is there a third option?”

I shoot Henry a look, "Don't start."

Henry ignored me like always, smiling like a dumbass.

I went back to the fridge. “You want a beer?”

“Sure.”

I handed him one, cracking open my own as I leaned against the counter.

The room had a quiet, laid-back energy, like we were all just... existing in the same worn-out dimension. I'm trying not to think about Valentina’s mind games. Walker looks like a man with too much leftover rage and insufficient hobbies.

Perfect for Val's bullshit. 

After a few minutes of nothing in particular, he caught my eye from across the kitchen.

“Got time tomorrow?” he asked.

“For what?” I spit out, I realize I sound like a bitch, but I have too many things going on to care. 

“Whatever. Mission. Training. Blowing off steam.”

I tilted my head. “You asking or suggesting?”

He smirked. “Would it matter?”

I didn’t answer right away.

Eventually, I just said, “I’ll think about it.”

He nods and joins Henry on the couch, turning the audio back on. 

I don't know which is worse: how I like seeing my brother get along with a man who once smashed a guy's face or whether I like having him here. 

Notes:

So, how do we feel about John Walker joining the story? Are we still exploring the idea of a romance? Who knows, more chapters to come!

Chapter 43: The Man Who Won't Leave

Date: 2026 (Pre–Thunderbolts)

Location: Washington, D.C.

Anastasia's POV

When I woke up, it smelled of bacon and something sweet—maybe cinnamon or vanilla—and I knew two things instantly:

1. Henry hadn't cooked anything because the man can barely toast bread without setting off the smoke alarm.

2. John Walker was still in my goddamn house.

It was a rare moment when I actually slept. Henry was still entertaining Walker when I slipped into my room last night (technically early this morning).

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and stumbled down the hallway. My sock caught on the corner of the rug, but I caught myself before faceplanting. I turned the corner into the living room—

And yep. There he was. Except there was a tiny problem—my mother was in the kitchen with them.

"I'm just saying," my mom said, light laughter in her voice, "if you were twenty years older and less attractive, you might be the first man ever to impress me before eight a.m."

"Is that a compliment?" Walker's voice was bright and amusing, smooth, like he was already used to charming people into doing what he wanted.

"Don't let it go to your head," she said, sipping something. "You make a good omelet. Don't mean you're husband material."

"I'm divorced," he offered. "That makes me deeply unqualified for anything serious anyway."

Mom laughed again, and that's when I turned the corner into the kitchen.

"You let him sleep here?" I hissed at Henry.

"I didn't let him. I just... didn't stop him. He was already snoring by the time I finished brushing my teeth." Henry flipped a half-burnt pancake with the elegance of a raccoon. "Besides, watching Captain Midlife Crisis drool on our upholstery was kinda funny."

"Great," I muttered.

Walker stood barefoot by the stove, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, whisk in one hand. Flour was on his shirt for reasons unknown; they were making something that didn't need flour. A towel was draped over one shoulder, as if this were his kitchen.

He glanced back at me with that same wolfish grin. "Morning, sunshine."

I stared at him, then I blinked.

"What the hell is going on in here?"

Mom smiled like she'd just been served bottomless mimosas. "He cooks."

"No shit," I muttered, narrowing my eyes at Walker. "What are you doing?"

"Repaying your hospitality," he said, cool as anything. "And your mom said you needed real food in this house. I'm doing my patriotic duty."

"You're not patriotic," I muttered, rubbing my eyes.

"I wore the stars and stripes for years."

"Yeah, and then beat a man to death with the shield."

"Why does everyone bring that up?" he mutters.

"Anastasia, be nice!" Mom scolded me from her place in the kitchen. I threw my arms up in disbelief. I could not believe I was the bad guy in this situation.

"You are so close to being drop-kicked out that window," I say, glaring at him as I get a mug of coffee. Henry, hovering by John, has flipped something so poorly that it fell apart in the pan.

"I thought we were past threats," he said, grinning obnoxiously. "We shared a moment."

"Yeah, that moment ended when I remembered I like privacy and a couch that doesn't smell like your aftershave."

He smirked, turning his attention to the pan again since Henry was doing poorly. "You should be flattered. I don't usually crash after ops unless I trust someone."

"I'm not making you waffles, if that's what you're getting at."

"We're making omelets anyway."

My entire body ached from the week—politics, gunfire, Valentina's veiled threats disguised as favors—and now I had him playing house like this was some rom-com and not the deeply complicated mess we both knew it was. This was the last thing I wanted to deal with.

Mom sipped her tea and gave me a knowing look. "He's charming. And tall. I like him."

I squinted. "You don't like anyone I bring home."

"You don't bring anyone home," she pointed out. "And technically, you didn't bring him. He just sort of... stayed. Except James, I liked him too. All the other men you used to bring around were losers."

I groan and slump into the chair next to her.

Walker poured me another cup of coffee, as if he hadn't just overheard all that. "Relax. I'm not trying to get adopted. Or laid."

I choked slightly on my coffee. Mom raised a brow. "Well, that is reassuring."

Walker grinned and focused back on the pan. Henry flopped the failed omelet on the plate and slid it my direction. "You woke up last, loser."

I gave him a mock glare while Mom just rolled her eyes. "Can you two get along? I swear, you were just as bad as Amelia. Before... well, the whole kidnapping thing."

"That's nice, Mom. I feel the love."

And that was the weird part—how normal it all was. This wasn't a highly trained super soldier who could flat snap my neck in two seconds. We hadn't spent the past year exchanging bullets, blood, and biting sarcasm like he wasn't half-feral from his divorce and too much unprocessed grief.

He stood there, flipping another omelet and humming like he belonged in this kitchen. He hadn't waltzed into my house at midnight with no warning and somehow become the only person who could hold my mother's attention for more than five minutes.

I shoveled a bite of food into my mouth and side-eyed him.

"What's your deal, really?" I asked, between bites.

Walker leaned back against the counter and looked at me like he'd been waiting for that question all morning.

"I was bored," he said. "Figured I'd drop by."

"People don't drop by my house."

"You're not people."

I narrowed my eyes. "That better be a compliment."

He just grinned. "You want me to lie?"

My mom cut in again, sharp as ever. "Are you two sleeping together?"

I choked again.

Walker blinked. "Wow. You just... went for that one, huh?"

"She's nosy," I coughed. "Ignore her."

"Just curious," Mom said innocently, sipping her tea. "You're not usually this pleasant in the morning."

"We're not," Walker confirmed. "Sleeping together."

I tell myself inwardly, not yet, then banish the thought like a criminal. I bite my lip as if it will make the thought go away. I can't want to sleep with Walker... right?

"But we've worked missions," he added, sliding another strip of bacon onto my plate. "And she's tolerable."

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me," I muttered.

He smirked. "Don't get used to it."

"Walker just wants to make Bucky jealous," Henry said, chewing a big bite of egg.

Walker scoffed, "I haven't seen Barnes in years... I don't exactly think of him." But I don't miss how his eyes flicked to me a moment too long.

"Bucky and I aren't exactly on speaking terms right now anyway," I say, shrugging.

Mom frowns, and before I can explain, I slip away, hiding in my room.

I can't exactly tell my mother without giving her a heart attack, "Hey Ma, I kill a lot of people for a living and let the government do whatever it wants while I turn a blind eye, and that's why Bucky hates my guts right now".

So yeah... that's my current situation.

But I also can't seem to get this divorced, sad, pathetic man out of my house. 

----

The sad, pathetic man still won't leave. It's been four damn hours, and he's still here. Since my brother didn't change the channel, he's lounging and watching M.A.S.H. again. 

I sit in the opposite chair while mom disappears, something about going for a walk. Henry tagged along to keep her safe. 

“So,” Walker said casually, leaning back on the couch, “When were you gonna tell me about the fight club?”

I didn’t look up from my phone. “What fight club?”

He scoffed. “Don’t insult my intelligence. Word on the street is you kicked some big guy's ass. Now I know better.”

“I wasn't aware you had any intelligence left,” I smirk. I sneak a glance, and the dipshit was grinning. That dangerous, wolfish grin he wore when he was halfway between charming and homicidal.

“You want in?” I ask, sighing as I finally look up from my phone. 

He shrugged like it didn’t matter. “I don’t need the cash, but I got…” He paused, jaw flexing. “Rage.”

“Yeah, no shit,” I say, rolling my eyes. 

Walker rubbed a hand down his face, then dragged it back through his hair. “Look, it’s not about beating up amateurs in a basement. I just—I need to feel something. The gym isn’t cutting it. And it’s either this or I pick a fight with a senator.”

“I've done both,” I muttered, then frowned. “Both kinds suck.”

He smirked again. “So, we going or not?”

-------

Later That Night 

Location: Abandoned Warehouse, Somewhere in the Greater D.C. Area

I parked two blocks away, out of habit, and double-checked that I had my burner phone and a clean hoodie. Val hadn't been blowing up either phone, which could mean two different things: she no longer needs me, or is pulling back on everyone until the impacement trial fizzles out.

 The place was already loud with grunts, cheers, and pounding basslines that shook the concrete.

Walker walked beside me, his hoodie pulled up and his hands in his pockets. He looked like a man on a mission. Or a man on parole. 

“This better not be some kiddie brawl thing,” he muttered.

“It’s not,” I said. “But don’t kill anyone, we know how much you like doing that."

“No promises.”

Inside, it smelled like sweat, blood, smoke, and bad decisions. The crowd was thick, mostly guys with pent-up testosterone and too much to prove. Henry was already there, perched on a stack of old crates, waiting for Batman to swing in. He spotted me and grinned. Then he saw Walker.

“You brought him?” He asked, way too excited to see The US Agent or whatever dumbass title he goes by now. 

“He invited himself,” I said flatly.

Walker just grinned and cracked his knuckles.

Someone from the signup booth caught sight of us and waved us over. “Becker! You’re back!”

I nodded once. “Put my guy in.”

The man looked Walker over. “Weight class?”

Walker rolled his neck. “All of ‘em.”

I rolled my eyes and kept walking. 

---------

Walker didn’t fight. He devoured.

He went back-to-back rounds with three different opponents, barely breaking a sweat. Each fight ended with him walking away before the ref could finish counting.

The crowd loved him. Henry was beside himself.

“Bro,” Henry said breathlessly, watching Walker knock out a guy with a single spinning elbow. “You’re dating Captain America 2.0.”

“We’re not dating,” I snapped as we left the ring. I had my own fights that I managed just fine, mostly with men, but they were hurt that they got beaten by a girl. 

When we got back outside, Walker was wiping blood off his knuckles with a towel someone had tossed him. 

“That was fun,” he said, voice too calm for someone who rearranged five different jawlines. "Felt bad, so I let them keep the money."

“You good now?” I asked.

He looked at me for a long moment. “No.”

But he didn’t elaborate.

Instead, he reached for his hoodie, tugged it back on, and fell into step beside me.

We walked back in silence.

Because that’s the thing about rage: sometimes, it needs a cage. And sometimes, it needs a crowd to cheer while you burn it off.

He didn’t need the money. He just needed somewhere to bleed.

Which might be worse...

Chapter 44: The Grocery Store

Date: Early 2027 (pre-thunderbolts)

Location: Washington, D.C. – Whole Foods (obviously)

Anastasia's POV

"You know you don't actually live here," I told Walker flatly, loading yet another overpriced cucumber into the cart.

He just shrugged and stole a grape from the bag like a raccoon. "You love me."

"I tolerate you."

"Same thing."

Henry pushed the cart ahead of us, phone in one hand, AirPod in one ear, looking as bored as a 40-something-year-old man could look when grocery shopping with his sister and her... whatever the hell John Walker was. Sometimes, roommate. Sometimes, a war criminal. Always annoying.

"You think if we forget the kale again, Mom'll kill us?" Henry asked, spinning on one heel by the kombucha fridge.

"No, but she'll guilt us so hard you'll wish she did."

Walker blinked. "Is kale like, a thing in your house?"

"She's doing one of her gut cleanses again," Henry said, monotone. "So yes. It's a thing."

I was about to say something innovative about colon health when I felt it.

That tingle.

Not my Spidey-sense—because unfortunately, that wasn't my gift. No, this was worse.

It was annoyance-sense.

Sure enough, she was like a hawk descending on a helpless mouse.

Heather.

Still five-foot-something, still dangerously peppy in that robotic way that made me deeply suspicious of her childhood.

She walked toward us in heels like she wasn't in a grocery store. Her hair is perfect, her blouse is wrinkle-free, and her red lipstick is so precise that I'm convinced she draws it on with a ruler.

"Captain Becker," she said, overly formal.

I blinked. "Oh, my god. Did you follow me?"

Heather smiled. No teeth. All threat. Her eyes flicked once to Walker, her lip curling in similar disgust as I have at looking at him. It almost makes me laugh. 

"I happened to be in the area; you weren't hard to find."

Henry made a hasty excuse and wandered off to look at granola.

Walker stayed. Because of course he did. He was living for this.

"Congressman Barnes has requested a meeting," she said tightly.

"Tell him to request it on Venmo," I said, grabbing a block of cheese.

She ignored me. "It's important."

"Is it life or death?"

"No."

"Then it can wait."

Heather exhaled through her nose. "You know, you used to be somewhat pleasant. Now you're just hostile."

"Used to be? Guess I'm not trying hard enough. Didn't you say that the last time you tried to drag me to his office?"

"Because you never show up voluntarily."

"Because he never says anything worth listening to!"

Walker finally stepped in, arms folded like the human wall he is. "Ladies, as much as I'm enjoying this estrogen-heavy Cold War, can someone tell me why Barnes suddenly wants to play nice?"

I glare at Walker, but he's still got that smug look on his face. He's watching us like every man does when two women are fighting. 

Heather didn't blink. "Because the situation has changed."

I turned, fully facing her now. "What situation?"

"He didn't tell me. I was just told to find you and deliver the message."

"And yet here you are," I muttered. "Efficient little stalker drone."

Heather's jaw ticked. "I'll tell him you're thinking about it."

"Tell him to kiss my right ass cheek instead."

She spun on a heel and vanished into the freezer section like a Bond villain.

Henry returned with three types of granola and a look of confusion. "Was that your nemesis?"

"One of them," I said. "The other one is trauma."

I watched Heather disappear, as if she hadn’t just verbally slapped me with Bucky’s name in the middle of Whole Foods. Her perfume still lingered, something citrusy and smug.

“Okay, I don’t like her,” Walker said, like it was a discovery.

“No one does.”

“I kinda respect that,” he added, tossing a pack of blueberries into the cart.

Henry sighed. “We still need spätzle flour. I don’t think they sell here, so now we’ll have to drive to that weird European market across town.”

“Remind me again why we’re doing this?” I asked, exasperated.

“Because Mom put it on the list,” Henry said, scrolling through it. “She wants to make Zürcher Geschnetzeltes. And if we don’t help, she’ll bring up how she gave birth to us without drugs again.”

"Wait... what, uncle?" 

Walker blinked. “What is a Zurka—Geshen…”

“Veal,” I translated. “Cream sauce. Mushrooms. Swiss thing.”

“Sounds great,” he said; weirdly, he meant it.

I narrowed my eyes. “Why are you still here?”

He grinned, plucking a random herb from the shelf and smelling it. “Free food. Heated house. Your brother likes me.”

Henry muttered, “We share a sense of violence and sarcasm. That’s all it takes.”

“I’m gonna start charging you rent,” I told him, pushing the cart toward dairy.

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

“You won’t,” he repeated, dropping a block of gruyère into the basket.

I stopped. Turned to him. “Why are you suddenly being so domestic?”

He looked at me with that smug little smirk he wore like a second skin. “What? A man can’t enjoy imported cheese?”

“Not when he used to wear the stars and stripes and scream about liberty.”

Henry chuckled. “She’s got you there.”

Walker just shrugged, clearly unfazed. “Maybe I like this. Quiet. Grocery shopping. Being in your space.”

“That last part’s the problem. You're around too much.”

I rolled my eyes. “We’re not.”

“Bucky wants to talk.”

“And I want my leg back. Life is disappointing.”

He gave me a look. “So you’re gonna ignore it?”

“I’ve ignored worse.”

"If Heather were here, it means Barnes knows about us."

"Walker, there is no us." 

He shrugs, "There could be." He stopped walking and turned the cart gently so it blocked me. “Ana. Come on. You’re not gonna even hear him out?”

I stared at him. “Why are you pushing this?”

“Because whether or not I like Barnes, which sadly I do, he’s also not a piece of shit. And I don’t think he wanted to screw you over back then. He just… doesn’t know how to deal with you.”

“Thanks?”

He grinned. “You’re a lot.”

“I know.”

“But that’s why I like you.”

The air shifted.

Henry appeared with a triumphant smile. “Found the spätzle flour! It was in the vegan baking section for some reason.”

He looked between us. “Why do you two look like you just fought with your eyes?”

“We did,” I muttered, pushing the cart past them. “Let’s check out before someone from my tragic past shows up.”

That plan fell apart. Instead of checking out, we now have two full carts of groceries after momtexted Henry that she was inviting everyone for dinner. I was afraid to ask who everyone was. 

So now Henry has a list so long we're going to be living in the grocery store by the end of it. What I don't want to admit is how Walker is making this tolerable. He's helping, which I thought would be be more annoying than it is.

But then Walker had to ruin it by opening his mouth. 

“You know,” he said, voice low and lazy, “if we did hook up, it’d really piss him off.”

I didn’t look at him. “Who? Henry? He’s too tired to care.”

“Barnes.”

I stopped mid-step.

Walker smirked.

“Jesus, you’re so obvious,” he said, grin deepening. “I bring up Bucky, and it’s like watching a machine reboot.”

“I’m not a machine,” I muttered, spinning the cart back around. “And if I were, I’d short-circuit before I made that choice.”

“Oh, come on. He’s been on your mind since Heather showed up.”

“He hasn’t.”

He tilted his head. “You just lied. And badly.”

“I don’t owe you a monologue about my past.”

“Good,” he said. “Because I’d get bored halfway through. But I’m just saying—if the goal is to get under Bucky’s skin, I volunteer as tribute.”

I side-eyed him. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re considering it.”

Henry popped up again, saving me from having to answer. He dropped a bag of almonds and a bar of Swiss dark chocolate into the cart. “Okay, Mom wants this specific kind because it reminds her of home. Don’t let anyone eat it before the weekend.”

Walker reached past me and grabbed the last bottle of sparkling elderflower soda from the fridge case. “You forgot the drink,” he said, handing it to Henry. “Figured your mom would want it.”

Henry blinked, impressed. “How do you know all her favorites?”

Walker just gave a smug shrug. “She talks. I listen.”

I felt my spine bristle at how easy he made it all look—like he’d been born into this grocery store, into our routine. Like he belonged here.

He didn’t. But he was making himself very hard to get rid of. And maybe—just maybe—I didn’t hate it. But I have to keep reminding myself... do I like Walker like that, or am I just lonely in the sexual department? Is he just throwing himself at me, offering to give pleasure in exchange to piss someone we both have a history with? It seems too good to be true. 

But the stupid part of me, the one where my vagina does the talking for me... tells me maybe it's time. 

Chapter 45: The Shift

Date: 2027 (Pre-Thunderbolts)

Location: Washington, D.C. – Anastasia's Home

Anastasia's POV

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

Henry had finally returned to his place, muttering something about needing his own bed and “adult space,” whatever that meant, and early meetings. Mom had retired early, still protective of her routine even after years of pretending like nothing ever unraveled us.

Now it was just me and Walker.

He was on the couch, legs kicked up like he owned the place, flipping through some reality show where everyone was too tan and too angry. I leaned against the kitchen counter, nursing a cup of cold tea I’d forgotten I made.

“You don’t have to stay,” I said, crossing my arms as I leaned against the counter.

“Didn’t hear you complaining when I made dinner.”

“You burned the rösti.”

He smirked. “Your mom still asked for seconds.”

I hated that he wasn’t wrong.

I rolled my eyes and grabbed a glass of water, trying not to notice how his eyes followed me. How heavy the silence felt with just the two of us.

“You always this uptight?” he asked.

“I’m not uptight.”

“You’re uptight.” He tilted his head, grin widening. “Bet that’s why Barnes gets under your skin so easily. He looks at you, and you lock up.”

My grip tightened on the glass. “Don’t.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. I’m just saying maybe you need… an outlet.”

I raised a brow. “An outlet.”

"You always brood like that," he said without looking up, "or is this a special performance for me?"

I didn’t answer right away. I sipped my water instead, hoping it would buy me time. 

“You always sprawl like that, or is this your mating pose?” I say as I gulp down the rest. 

That got a snort out of him. “If it was, you'd already be in my lap.”

I scoffed and turned back toward the sink, but I could still feel his eyes on me.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said. “Even for you.”

“Didn’t realize I had to entertain you.”

“You don’t,” he said, and this time his voice dropped, quiet and low and serious. “I just like it when you talk. Reminds me you’re not a ghost.”

I blinked. “You're so annoying.”

He shrugged. “So are you, but I complain less.”

I finally walked over and dropped into the armchair across from him. The glow from the TV bathed us in flickering light, painting shadows across his jaw, cheekbones, and the tight pull of his mouth.

He looked good like this. Relaxed. Normal. But we were anything but.

“You’re gonna be a problem,” I muttered.

His eyes flicked to mine. “I already am.”

“No,” I said, my voice low. I mean… " I paused, taking a breath. "You're not supposed to feel easy to be around.”

He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, meeting my gaze head-on.

“And you’re the girl who takes out senators with a smile. So what? We’re bad people. Doesn’t mean we can’t… find comfort where we can.”

Silence stretched between us.

Then he said, “Let me ask you something, Ana.”

“What?” I say, glancing away.

“If I kissed you right now, would you let me?”

That was the last thing I ever thought he'd say. My eyes snapped back to him. Jesus Walker, you don't beat around the bush, do you?" 

He just smirked a little, "I have experience with bushes." 

I groan. I opened my mouth. Closed it again. Then opened it again, "You are disgusting!

His eyes gleamed. He’d found the crack, and he knew it.

“Relax, Becker,” he said, voice dropping just enough to make it dangerous. “I’m not asking for a ring. Just saying… might be fun. And it’d piss off Barnes.”

That earned a laugh out of me, sharp and unwilling. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Maybe,” he said, standing now, closing the distance slowly like he had all the time in the world. “But you’re still not telling me no.”

And I hated—hated—how right he was.

My feet were moving before my brain caught up. I bolted for the kitchen like I could outrun him, like distance and fluorescent lights would clear my head. My socks slid on the linoleum as I grabbed the counter, grounding myself.

I should’ve known he’d follow. I braced myself against the sink, staring at the dirty dishes. 

The floor creaked. Walker’s shadow stretched long before his body filled the doorway. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, watching me like I was another mission he’d already decided to win.

“You’re running,” he said finally, voice low.

“I’m grabbing water,” I snapped, even though I hadn’t moved for the faucet.

He stepped closer. “You're bad at lying, and you don't need water.”

"I get thirsty dickhead." I finally turned to face him. 

My hands curled into fists on the counter. I wanted to swing at him, break that smug grin across his face. At the same time, my pulse was thundering in my throat, and I didn’t move.

He came right up to me, close enough that I could smell the soap on his skin, the faint trace of whiskey from earlier. His hand braced against the counter next to mine, boxing me in.

“You don’t want me to stop,” he murmured, eyes dropping to my mouth.

Every nerve in my body screamed Yes, I do. Every other part whispered, " Don’t you dare.

“Careful, Walker,” I breathed, though my voice wasn’t steady. “You’re playing with fire.”

He tilted his head, close enough that his lips almost brushed mine when he spoke. “Good thing I like fire.”

I wanted to punch him. I wanted to kiss him. My body couldn’t decide which impulse would win, so I stayed frozen, caught between the swing and the surrender.

The air stretched thin, hot, dangerous—one wrong move away from tipping over.

Walker didn’t move. Not an inch. His breath brushed my cheek, his presence pressed against every inch of my nerves, but he stayed there, hovering in that space where one leaning forward would end the debate.

And I hated him for it.

Because the longer he stood there, the more my thoughts tangled into knots.

This could be useful, my brain whispered. He’s a soldier, a weapon Val respects enough to keep in play. Having him close—closer—would mean leverage. Backup. Someone who understands what it’s like to carry blood on your hands without apology. It also had its benefits to piss off Bucky if he found out. 

But my body wasn’t thinking about strategy.

No, my body was screaming about how long it had been. About the heat in his gaze, the way his mouth lingered too close to mine, and how loneliness had carved hollow places inside me that no amount of missions or sarcasm could fill.

It would be so easy. Too easy.

My fingers twitched against the counter, torn between pushing him back and pulling him closer. Was I doing this because it made sense, because aligning with Walker could keep me steady in this new storm Val had dropped me into? Or was I just trying to quiet the ache in my chest with the distraction of skin and heat and someone else’s heartbeat against mine?

“You’re thinking too hard,” he murmured, not even looking away.

My jaw clenched. “Maybe you’re not thinking at all.”

He smirked like he’d won something. “That’s the problem with people like us. We think too much or not at all. Never in the middle.”

The silence stretched razor-thin between us. My pulse was thrumming, louder than his words, louder than my doubts.

If I kissed him, I’d regret it.
If I didn’t, I’d regret it too.

Notes:

Sooooooo what are we thinking??? 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀

Will they, won't they, who knows?!

Chapter 46: The Cat Fight

Date: 2027 (pre-thunderbolts)

Location: Washington, D.C.

Anastasia's POV

I pulled back first. Sharp, clean, decisive. The kind of movement that left no room for argument, no "what if" hanging in the air.

Walker didn't look offended—he didn't even look surprised. He just let out a low chuckle, gave me a look that landed somewhere between "your move" and "I'll wait," and turned toward the living room. That might've been easier—he snapping, saying what men typically do when you reject them—but instead, he walked into the living room. 

"Night, Becker," he said casually, already tugging off his jacket as he made his way to the couch.

I didn't answer. Just stood there, jaw tight, pulse still hammering in my throat like I'd sprinted a mile. My hands wouldn't stop shaking until long after I crawled into bed.

----

The next morning, the smell of frying bacon dragged me out of a half-sleep.

I second thought Henry had decided to play "responsible sibling." But no—when I padded into the kitchen, there he was. Walker. Standing at the stove in a t-shirt and sweatpants, spatula in hand, whistling something off-key while flipping pancakes like he owned the place.

And of course, my mom was perched on the stool, hair brushed and robe neatly tied, sipping tea and watching him with an expression I hadn't seen in months. Amused. Relaxed. Like she'd finally remembered how to exist outside of grief.

She laughed softly at something he said—laughed—and I froze in the doorway, arms crossed tight across my chest. I don't think she's looked this free since Dad died. 

Walker looked over his shoulder when he noticed me, a ga grin spreading across his face like he hadn't almost kissed me in the kitchen hours before.

"Morning, sunshine," he said easily. "Hope you like your bacon crispy."

My mom smiled, actually smiled, and said, "He's a much better cook than your father ever was."

I wanted to scream. Or maybe laugh. Or maybe both.

Instead, I just muttered, "Great," and sat, glaring at the back of Walker's head while he charmed the one person in this house who absolutely didn't need another man to dote on.

And the worst part? He looks like he belongs here. I'm not sure which one is worse. 

The pancakes were stacked, the bacon was crisp, and Walker looked disgustingly pleased with himself when Mom leaned over to refill her tea and said, "You should come by more often, John."

I was ready to crawl under the table.

That's when the front door swung open, loud enough to rattle the blinds. Henry barreled in, still in his button-up and slacks like he was cosplaying "functional adult." Tie askew, laptop bag slung across his shoulder, his hair in disarray.

"Jesus Christ, it's domestic bliss in here." He dropped his bag by the door and bee-lined to the fridge, muttering, "I leave for one early meeting and you people replace me?"

Walker raised his spatula in greeting. "Got you covered, kid."

Henry raised a brow as he drank straight from the orange juice carton. "Kid? We're the same age!" He paused, looked at me, blinking, then at the pile of food, then back at me. "You let him cook?"

"I didn't let anything happen," I snapped.

Walker smirked. "Pretty sure your mom did."

"Traitor," Henry muttered at her, but Mom ignored him, phone buzzing in her hand. She stood and padded toward the hallway, murmuring into it. I caught Amelia's voice faintly—tight, concerned—before the sound blurred as the door shut behind her.

For one blissful moment, I thought maybe the chaos would die down.

Then my burner phone lit up.

The one that hadn't buzzed in weeks. The one that only had one number that mattered.

I froze, staring at it on the counter like it had teeth. The notification glowed bright as blood: VALENTINA: Visit me.

Henry noticed first. His chewing slowed. He leaned over my shoulder, saw the screen, and blew a low whistle.

"Wow. Mommy dearest finally calling you back to the playground?"

"Shut up," I groan, flipping the phone over like that would erase the message. My stomach churned. Walker, of course, caught the whole thing, eyes narrowing with amused recognition.

He didn't say anything—not yet. He just sipped his coffee, as if waiting for me to explain.

I didn't.

Because what the hell was there to say?

------

Third POV:

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes sat behind his desk, jaw tight, pen tapping against a half-finished bill summary. The words blurred together. Numbers. Amendments. Nothing stuck. Not when his head was elsewhere.

Heather breezed into his office without knocking—again—arms full of folders, heels clicking too loud for the carpet.

"Congressman," she chirped, the sugary tone that made his teeth grind. "You'll want to hear this."

Bucky leaned back, expression flat. "If it's about the agriculture subcommittee again—"

"It's not." She placed the folders down with a theatrical thunk, then folded her hands like she was about to deliver state secrets. "It's about Anastasia Becker."

That got his attention. The pen stopped.

Heather's smile sharpened. "I happened to see her the other day. With John Walker. At a grocery store, of all places." Her voice dripped disdain, like shopping for food was scandalous. "They were... close."

Bucky didn't blink. Didn't move. But something shifted in his chest, tight and ugly.

Heather, encouraged by his silence, pressed on. "You asked me to keep tabs on her, Congressman. Well, consider this your update. She and Walker looked rather cozy. Like they've been spending time together outside of Valentina's assignments." She tilted her head. "I thought you should know."

Bucky's jaw flexed once. Twice. He forced himself to look back at the stack of papers, but the words were gone, replaced by the image Heather planted. Walker. With Ana.

Together.

He already had reports filtering in through back channels—Valentina's people, missions gone too quiet, Walker's name always cropping up next to hers. But hearing it out loud, hearing Heather say it so casually, did something different.

Something sharp. Something dangerous. Something ugly deep in his chest, a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time. It wasn't jealousy... more like protective instinct. Bucky knew Walker, knew what he was capable of, and understood how crazy he could be. He didn't like it one bit.

Bucky set the pen down carefully, deliberately, like it might snap in his grip. "That'll be all, Heather."

Her smile faltered. "But sir—"

"Now."

The word cracked through the room like a gunshot. Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she gathered her folders and left. The door clicked shut, and Bucky sat there in the quiet, staring at nothing. His hand curled into a fist on the desk.

Walker. Of all people. That would be a problem. 

-----

The impeachment trial hadn't died—it had just been shoved into the shadows. A political corpse that refused to stay buried. Bucky knew that better than most; every whisper in the hallways, every offhand remark at a fundraiser, every subtle look across a committee table carried the same weight: Valentina is dangerous, but the President's hand keeps her shielded.

So, he sniffed around. Not publicly. Not the kind of digging that would land him on the wrong headline. Just enough. Quiet meetings, hushed conversations, lingering in places where the powerful thought no one was listening.

He discovered the same truth hidden behind different lies: Val had dirt on everyone—senators, staffers, lobbyists—enough blackmail to keep the proceedings paused but not stopped. That dirt? He knew Val would use it against them when it came to voting, and he knew she wouldn't hesitate to pull Anastasia into it. 

And in that space—Bucky worried. Because the longer Valentina played untouchable, the more time she had to sink her claws into people like Anastasia.

That thought alone was enough to keep him pacing long after his meetings ended. The longer Bucky went without talking to Ana, the longer he thought she'd be too far gone to stop. 

While Bucky prowled through the Capitol like a ghost, Heather had the office to herself. This meant that, in her mind, she finally had room to act.

If there was one thing Heather hated more than Anastasia Becker's name being on Bucky's lips, it was that it was always only her name.

She'd given everything to this office—early mornings, late nights, perfect scheduling, polished speeches—and still, Bucky's attention slipped past her, laser-focused on a woman who couldn't stay inside the law.

So Heather got... creative.

She picked up her phone, scrolled to Anastasia's number (one she wasn't supposed to have, but Heather had her ways), and pressed call.

It rang once. Twice. Straight to voicemail.

Heather smiled coldly. Fine. A voicemail would do.

"Captain Becker," she began, her tone saccharine enough to rot teeth, "this is Heather—Congressman Barnes's assistant. Just letting you know he asked me to reach out... again. You might want to reconsider ignoring him. Washington has a long memory, and so do I. Men like Walker? They burn out fast. And when they do, you'll wish you'd listened to people who care."

She hung up before she could second-guess it, her heart thudding with a bitter rush of satisfaction.

Heather didn't see it as a threat. Just... a nudge. A reminder.

But she hoped it stung.

-------

Anastasia's POV

Heather thought she was clever.

The problem with people like her? They thought they could throw veiled threats, snide little comments, and walk away without consequence. But if HYDRA taught me one thing, it's this: people who poke the wolf shouldn't act surprised when the wolf bites back.

I can only tolerate so much before I snap. I didn't even hesitate. Straight from a briefing with Val—still in my black blazer, hair neat, heels clicking like a warning bell—I marched right through the front doors of Congressman Barnes's office.

Heather's desk was front and center, a neat little shrine to her obsession with being indispensable. It contained color-coded files, stacked pens, and her stupid framed cat calendar.

Without breaking stride, I swept my hand across the edge of her desk, sending half her neat little kingdom crashing to the floor. Pens rolled across the hardwood, paperclips scattered like shrapnel, her coffee mug tipped and sloshed across a stack of forms.

"Oops," I said, deadpan, not even slowing down.

Heather gasped like I'd just committed treason. "Excuse me—!"

I didn't bother looking at her. "Pick it up, Heather. That's what you're good at."

Her chair screeched as she stood, sputtering, but I was already past her desk and heading for Bucky's office door. The look on her face in my peripheral vision was priceless—somewhere between outrage and horror.

Heather shrieked after me, "You can't just walk in—!"

"Watch me," I tossed over my shoulder, continuing to move down the hall. 

Looking at that bitch's face was worth the walk in these damn heels. Val wanted me to appear as professional as I could to hide the fact that she wants me to try to murder half of Congress while also trying to get votes on her side. I keep telling Val to kiss my ass, but she asks which cheek.  

Heather's heels snapped across the floor as she scrambled after me.
"Ms. Becker, you cannot just—"

"Watch me."

She moved to block me just as I reached the door, arms spread like she was Secret Service. I didn't even break stride. I shoulder-checked her out of the way, yanked the handle, and shoved the door open.

And there he was.

Not deep in legislation. Not glaring out a window, brooding about justice. Not on a Very Important Call with Very Important People.

Nope.

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes was hunched over his desk with his tie loosened. His cheeks were stuffed full of what looked like a pastrami sandwich, and his eyes were wide like a raccoon caught at the trash can.

We both froze. Him mid-chew. Me mid-step.

The silence lasted three seconds before I blurted, "...Really? This is what you're doing with taxpayer dollars?"

He coughed, tried to swallow, nearly choked, and grabbed for his coffee cup. "I—uh—" His voice cracked, and he thumped his chest once. "It's lunch."

"It's 9 am."

Heather was still outside the door, huffing, "Sir, I told her she couldn't just barge—"

"Shut the door, Heather," Bucky said without looking at her, tone sharp.

I smirked, sauntering further into the office and dropping into one of the chairs across from his desk. "You sure you don't need a Heimlich before we get into whatever this is? Hate for me to miss you dying mid-sandwich."

His eyes narrowed, but the flush on his cheeks wasn't entirely from embarrassment. He set the sandwich down with exaggerated care, wiped his hands on a napkin, and leaned back like he would salvage his dignity by sheer force of will.

"Why are you here, Becker?" he asked, voice gruff, like the sandwich incident hadn't just happened.

"Because apparently," I said, leaning back and crossing my arms, "you can't stop sending your attack dog after me. So here I am. What's the emergency, Congressman? Or did you want someone to judge your lunch order?"

Bucky exhaled through his nose, pinching his bridge like he'd been preparing for this migraine since 1943.
"Heather," he said, not looking at her. "Come back in here."

Her heels clicked smugly across the floor as she entered, hands clasped like she was walking into church. She gave me a tight smile. "Congressman, I was just trying to do my job, which is to keep unnecessary distractions away from your office."

I snorted. "Distraction? Honey, you've been harassing me like a bad Tinder date."

Heather's eyes narrowed. "I wouldn't need to 'harass' you if you respected the Congressman's time instead of barging in unannounced."

"Oh, please," I shot back, crossing my arms. "If I came in here every five minutes, you'd be out of a job by now."

Bucky muttered something under his breath and, while we were occupied, stealthily pulled the other half of his sandwich back into his hand.

Heather's gaze flicked to him, then back to me. "At least I respect him enough to listen to him."

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, voice sharp. "Respect? Is that what you call ratting me out every chance you get? You're like a kid desperate for gold stars in kindergarten."

Heather flushed red. "Someone has to look out for his reputation."

"Oh? Is that what we're calling it? Please..." I say scoffing. "You are so desperate for Congressman Barnes's attention, I can practically smell it on you."

She glares back, straightening her shoulders, "If anyone is desperate, it's you!" 

I roll my eyes, looking away. 

While we're bitching at each other, Bucky watches, his eyes bouncing between us like he's not sure if he should intervene. 

Eventually, he caves and clears his throat, trying to sound authoritative even though he has crumbs on his lip. "Alright, that's enough—"

But we both ignored him.

Heather scoffed. "At least I do something besides run around with Valentina like a mercenary waiting for her next paycheck. What senator is next on the hit list, hmm?"

"Better than playing secretary-of-the-year while secretly hoping he'll notice you," I snapped back.

Bucky groaned, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "I can't eat in peace for one goddamn minute..."

The room went dead quiet for a beat—me glaring at Heather, Heather glaring at me, and Bucky caught dead center with half a sandwich still clutched in his hand.

"Both of you," he said finally, "shut up before I starve to death in my office."

I pushed back from the chair, adjusting my jacket like I was about to walk into court instead of storming out of a Congressman's office. Bucky still had his face buried in his damn sandwich like it was the only thing keeping him sane, which, honestly, it probably was.

Heather's smug little smile followed me as I headed for the door.

I paused in the doorway, leaning just enough so only she could hear me. "Bitch."

Her eyes flared, but she didn't hesitate, voice just low enough for Bucky not to catch it. "Skank."

I paused for a moment and slowly turned to look at her. "Careful, Heather. I've made people disappear for less." 

I don't miss her smug act crumble as I turn my back and stride out. 

Two can play at this petty act. 

Chapter 47: The People We Use

Date: 2027 (Pre-Thunderbolts- we're getting close)

 

Location: Washington, D.C.

Anastasia’s POV

 

Two months later, and the trial still wasn’t dead.

For once, Valentina Allegra de Fontaine wasn’t untouchable.

She hid it well, of course—lipstick sharp as a blade, smile polished enough to blind, power suits stitched tighter than her conscience—but I could see the cracks. She smoked more. She paced more. And she never, ever let Mel leave her side.

O.X.E. was about to be gutted. Everyone on the Hill knew it. Journalists were sniffing around Utah like vultures, and Project Sentry was whispered in Cabinet corners like a curse word.

Val still hadn't told me what Project Sentry was, even after I tried to needle it out of Mel. 

Which is why we were here.

The Oval Office smelled like polished wood and desperation. The President sat at the Resolute Desk, hands folded, staring down Val like she was a child caught stealing cookies. Cabinet members circled the room—some stone-faced, some visibly sweating, one loose-lipped bastard already muttering about “the human trials in the mountains.”

Val shot me a look. Her silent reminder: not a word.

“Director de Fontaine,” the President said, voice low, “you’ve put me in a position where optics are impossible. Impeachment hearings don’t vanish because you say so. And if O.X.E. isn’t cleared before the investigators move in…” He trailed off, but the implication was clear. Heads will roll.

Val leaned forward, all velvet and venom. “Mr. President, with respect, you don’t want the public sniffing too close to Sentry. If that word ever reaches a headline, none of us walk away clean.”

Silence. Thick. Heavy.

I stood near the wall, blazer too stiff on my shoulders, pretending to blend into the Secret Service décor. Except I wasn’t one of them. Not really. I was just Val’s favorite pawn, waiting to be moved across the board.

The President’s gaze flicked to me. “And you—Becker. You still wear the uniform?”

My throat tightened. “I was in the Air Force, sir. Dress blues barely fit anymore.”

His eyes softened, just a fraction. “You survived things no soldier should. HYDRA, cryo, war. I expect you know better than most what’s at stake here. And I know you studied Politics in school.”

I didn’t answer. Not because I didn’t know—because I knew too much.

Val smirked like she’d already won. “Anastasia knows where her loyalties lie.”

And in that moment, I wasn’t sure if she was reassuring the President—or warning me.

The moment the heavy doors clicked shut behind us, Val was already moving, heels clicking like gunshots on the polished floor. Mel followed a half-step behind her, tablet hugged to her chest, eyes darting like she had memorized every face in the hallway.

Val didn’t waste breath on the scenery. She turned on me the second we cleared the security bubble.

“You have work to do,” she said, voice low, sharp, already dismissing the conversation with the President like it hadn’t happened. “The O.X.E. facility won’t clean itself out, and I don’t have the patience for bureaucrats dragging their feet.”

I adjusted the too-tight blazer, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “Good to know democracy’s safe in your hands.”

Her head tilted, that smile curving just enough to make my stomach twist. “Don’t get clever, Anastasia. Clever pawns tend to fall off the board.”

Mel’s gaze flicked to me and quickly away, as if she didn’t want to get caught eavesdropping.

Val slowed her pace, leaning in close so only I could hear. “And you don't need unnecessary distractions while we’re on the subject. You’re valuable to me because you’re focused. I don’t like my pieces mingling with each other, trading war stories, building… attachments.”

I stopped walking, forcing her to glance back at me. “Pieces?”

She didn’t even blink. “Don’t mistake yourself for more than what you are. I protect you because you’re useful. Don’t make me regret the investment.”

Mel pretended to fuss with her tablet, but I could see how her jaw tightened. Even she wasn’t comfortable with Val’s little lecture.

I swallowed the retort burning in my throat, shoving my hands into my pockets instead. I’d learned enough by now: Val doesn’t like being challenged in public. Not in the halls of power.

But inside my chest, something coiled tight. Because if I was just a piece, she’d one day decide I wasn’t worth playing. And when that day came—I needed to be ready.

The house was quiet that night—too quiet. Mom was asleep early, a heavy sleep from exhaustion rather than rest. Henry had returned to his place after dinner, leaving me alone in the dark living room with nothing but the TV's glow and the fridge's hum in the background.

I was halfway through a rerun of Scandal when my phone buzzed on the coffee table. Not Val. Not Mel. 

My regular phone.

One new message.

Walker: You wanna crash at my place?

I stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering like it might explode if I tapped it. He didn’t bother with explanations or dressing it up—just a simple invitation. And I knew exactly what he meant by it.

Crash. His place. No Henry around, no Mom to overhear. No Val to pull strings.

Just him.

My body reacted before my brain did, heat creeping up the back of my neck. I hated how fast my thoughts went there, to the almost-kiss in the kitchen, to how his hand lingered on my wrist just a little too long when he grabbed something from me.

But the other part of me—the part that’s been hollowed out for months, the part that’s tired of feeling like a weapon instead of a person—whispered why not?

It would be easy. Too easy.

I picked up the phone, turning it over in my hands like it might give me the answer. My pulse pounded against my ribs, and for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t because of a mission.

I don’t even remember saying yes. One minute I was staring at his text like it was a bomb I didn’t know how to disarm, and the next minute I was at his door, hands jammed into my jacket pockets, trying not to look like the world’s most reluctant booty call.

Walker answered shirtless. Of course he did.

“You came,” he said, like he’d been expecting me all along. His voice was casual, but his eyes had that glint—the one I’d been trying to ignore since Madripoor.

"Well Walker, that's why I'm here, hopefully you can do that." I brush past him, walking inside his apartment, which should've been called a man cave. It looked clean for a recently divorced man, but I also smelled chemicals, so maybe he stress-cleaned before I came over. 

He closed the door and didn't comment on that, so I guess he didn't get the joke. 

“I must be out of my damn mind,” I muttered, stepping past him before he could say something smug. His apartment smelled like coffee and sweat and takeout. Lived-in. Too lived-in.

“Probably,” he said, walking up behind me. “But I’m not complaining.”

That was the thing about Walker—he didn’t play coy. He didn’t dance around the line. He looked at it, smirked, and stepped right over without hesitation.

I should’ve left right then. I should’ve told him this was a mistake.

Instead, I found myself pinned between his kitchen counter and his body five minutes later, his hands braced on either side of me, his breath hot against my ear.

“Still wanna punch me?” he asked, voice low.

“Always,” I whispered back.

But I didn’t move away.

And when he finally kissed me, it wasn’t soft or sweet. It was sharp, all teeth and heat, and too much need pressed into one reckless decision.

And God help me, I kissed him back.

Notes:

Whelp, I did it. We are getting closer to the events of Thunderbolts*

How are we feeling about this friends with benefits thing Ana and Walker have not doubt crossed into? New chapters early next week. If you like the story so far don't forget to leave a kudos and a comment! They mean the world to me and remind me that I'm not the only one enjoying this series.

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