Heart of Winter

by ker0ppik00

Summary:

After the fall of HYDRA, Bucky Barnes is a man untethered —haunted, hunted, and held together by the thinnest thread of will. When he’s brought to the Avengers compound to heal, he expects clinical detachment and judgment. What he finds instead is Lily, a sweet, stubborn doctor with warm eyes, floral dresses, and a quiet determination to see the person behind the weapon.

Lily Bloom thought she left SHIELD behind for good. But when she’s asked to help rehabilitate the infamous Winter Soldier, she agrees on her terms. No lab coats. No walls. No treating him like a project.

As trauma surfaces and trust slowly blooms, the lines between healer and patient begin to blur. But their past isn’t done with them and when the ghosts come calling, they might be the only thing keeping each other from falling apart again.

Chapter 1: Terms of Shelter

Notes:

hi! this is my first time posting on ao3 so i have no idea what i’m doing and english is not my first language but i’m really excited (and nervous) to finally share this fic. i hope you enjoy it, and thank you so much for reading <3

Bucky Barnes didn't expect his life to take a turn like this.

He thought after being freed from HYDRA, or at least been loosened enough that he could think his own thoughts, he’d just… rot. Hole up in some forgotten apartment with blackout curtains and cheap whiskey, watching the walls close in while he tried and failed to piece together the person he was once. If the guilt didn’t eat him alive, then the vodka would finish the job. That had been Plan A.

And if that failed —which, miserably, it did— he’d just vanish. Slowly and quietly like he deserved.

But of course, life couldn’t give him that, and Steve Rogers couldn’t give up on him either. So one evening, he showed up unannounced, all familiar blue eyes and stubborn hope, and flipped Bucky’s half-life upside down with just a few sentences and a duffel bag packed for him.

That’s how he finds himself now: in the middle of the Avengers compound, quietly seated on a fancy couch he finds extremely uncomfortable, listening to Steve talk to Fury like he isn’t even here.

“Bucky’s been through enough” Steve says “He’s not a threat anymore. He needs time, a place to heal.”

Fury crosses his arms, totally unbothered by Steve’s words.

“And do you think the Avengers Compound is the place for that? He’s a former HYDRA assassin, Rogers. I don’t care how much you trust him, security comes first.”

Steve’s friends are there too, also watching the bartender between the two men.

The other man, who Bucky believes is called Sam —he has never actually introduced himself— stands with his arms crossed just behind Steve with his eyes shifting between Fury and Steve, like he is quietly assessing every word exchanged.

Black Widow, or Natasha how she has insisted on Bucky calling her, is keeping a moderate distance, cross armed, but looking like she is ready to step in if the conversation turns south. Her expression is unreadable, though her eyes move toward Bucky now and then with a flicker of understanding.

“You think I don’t know that? Every day, I’m reminded of what HYDRA turned him into, what HYDRA did to him.” Steves answers, and Bucky feels a clench of guilt at his chest. “But I also know who he was before that, and I know wo he wants to be now. I’m not going to turn my back”

“You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment. This isn’t about friendship; it’s about protecting the team.”

Fury’s answer raises the restrained anger on Steve, and he can’t help but step closer, although Fury doesn’t look worried about it.

“You think this is just about friendship? It’s about responsibility. What HYDRA did to him, I let it happen and so you did. SHIELD let it happen.”

“So now it’s our fault?” Fury questions, his eyebrow raising slightly.

“It was, Fury. HYDRA was working under SHIELD’s nose for decades, without anyone suspecting anything. No one. Not even you. If anyone deserves an amend from it, it’s Bucky”

The room falls silent immediately after Steve’s words, and it’s notable he has hit a nerve, especially for Fury. His demeanor breaks, and he frowns notably, the first drastically change on his calm and cold appearance. Bucky is genuinely surprised that man can change the expression on his face.

The two men keep each other gaze defiantly, and that’s when Natasha steps in, knowing Steve has taken a dangerous path with Fury now.

“Enough. Nick, Steve’s right.” She locks eyes with Fury, her expression unflinching. “Bucky didn’t ask to become HYDRA’s weapon, he was forced. You and I both know what that’s like.”

There’s no anger in her tone, just a remainder from her own history, because she knows what it means to fight for forgiveness when all everyone sees is the blood on your hands. The red on your blood.

“They don’t just take your body; it rewires your mind. It takes years to undo that kind of damage, if it ever happens at all. But I’ve seen Barnes. He’s trying, he’s been trying without any disturbance. If Steve believes he can make it, so do I.”

Fury hesitates, clearly weighing her words.

“And if he snaps? If the Winter Soldier resurfaces, how many lives are you willing to risk on your responsibility?”

“I’ll risk mine,” Steve answers, without stopping to think about it. “You know I don’t make promises I can’t keep, Fury.”

Fury glances at him, at Natasha, and then at Bucky, still silently sitting on the couch. Bucky feels uncomfortable under his examination gaze, but he doesn’t allow himself to shift under it even if he wants to.

“Fine.” Fury finally says in a guarded tone, turning again to Steve “He stays, only, and only, if you find someone who can help him heal; mentally, physically, whatever it takes. I don’t care who it is, or what they do, if it works. I won’t have him turning back into HYDRA’s weapon on my watch”

Sam behind Steve intervenes for the first time.  “That’s fair”

“We’ll get him the help he needs,” Steve nods. “And we will keep a close eye on him. You have my word.”

“You better,” Fury dictates. “Because if you don’t, this conversation will end very differently next time.”

Fury gives one last glance at Bucky, nods his head and turns to head toward the door.

“And I want to be informed about everything that happens, any progress, any inconvenience small or big. Anything.”

As Fury’s footsteps echo away, Bucky remains seated on the couch, his head lowered.

Each word of the argument hit deeper into the guilt that already is consuming him. He doesn’t feel worthy of Steve’s unwavering defense. Every promise Steve had made, every assurance to Fury, felt like another weight he’d added to his best friend’s shoulders. He clenches his fists, swallowing the urge to retreat entirely, unable to not think how he is dragging Steve down, how his trust feels like a thread stretched too thin, and Fury’s skepticism only makes worse the doubts he carries about himself. The idea of finding someone to fix what HYDRA had broken beyond repair on him is laughable.

He's so lost on thought, he flinches when Steve sits next to him on the couch placing a gentle arm on his shoulders.

“You’re staying, Buck.” Steve announces like he literally wasn’t there when it happened.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Steve,” Bucky answers, trying to sound nonchalant about it, but all his words are filled with immense guilt. “Sticking your neck out for me. Making promises you might not be able to keep. Fury’s right, I’m not safe. You’re risking too much.”

The tension from earlier still lingers, unspoken but heavy in the air, and Bucky’s words only make it worse. Steve opens his mouth to protest, but Sam is faster, sounding a bit annoyed about what Bucky just said.

“Come on, man. You think Steve would just stand by and do nothing? That’s not who he is. That’s not who we are.”

“You don’t get it,” Bucky shakes his head, annoyed with Sam’s tone. “I’m not worth it. No one can fix this, not a therapist, not some ‘professional.’ I’m broken beyond repair”

“Buck, that’s not—” Steve tries to argue back but Bucky doesn’t give him room for it.

“I’m telling you; you don’t understand. The things I’ve done— “

“You think you’re the only one carrying a past that haunts you, Barnes?”

Natasha’s voice is quiet, almost a whisper, but they all can hear her. Bucky looks at her, surprised by the sharpness in her voice. Natasha leans forward, her gaze piercing.

“Look around, every one of us has something we wish we could erase,” She continues. “I know what it feels like to think you’re too far gone. That the damage is permanent. But it’s not. I’ve been there. And if I can crawl out of that and make up for the red on my blood, so can you.”

Bucky exhales, passing his hands through his face. He wants to believe her, he wants to believe everything they’re saying, see in himself at least half of what they’re seeing but it’s just so hard for him. He feels so lost, so beyond help, but the way Steve pats his shoulder, with so much conviction, makes his gut twists with reluctant acceptance. Damn it, hope is a dangerous thing.

“Honestly, man, it’s not like you have much of a choice here, your other options are jail or going back into the run and hide thing.” Sams says, and Bucky scoffs. This man only speaks to make annoying right points. Bucky doesn’t like him.

“Fine. I’ll stay,” He answers reluctantly, hating having to admit Sam is right. “But don’t get your hopes up. There’s no way you’re going to find someone who can actually fix this.”

Steve and Natasha exchange a subtle look. Natasha raises an eyebrow slightly, and Steve tilts his head almost imperceptibly. It’s brief, but enough for both Sam and Bucky to catch. God help them, they’re already thinking ahead.

“What the hell it’s that about?” Bucky asks wary, and Steve can’t hide his smile anymore, since the corners of his lips twist up.

“Nothing you need to worry about just yet, guys, just considering our options…”

“Oh, God, you do know someone.” Sam accuses, and by the way Steve’s smirk only grows bigger, he’s not wrong.

Bucky pitches his nose, reluctant but resigned, there’s an unease in his chest, a quiet anxiety about what Steve and Natasha might be planning, but beneath it, something unfamiliar stirs: gratitude. The knowledge that they refuse to give up on him, even though it’s been a long time since he has given up on himself, makes him feel, although he won’t say it out loud, that for the first time in a while he’s not entirely alone. So for now he’ll let them try.

As the others begin to disperse, Natasha lingers near the doorway, her arms folded as she studies Steve. His expression is thoughtful, distant, like his mind is already two steps ahead of the conversation that just ended.

“You’re thinking about her,” Natasha says quietly, not needing to clarify.

Steve exhales through his nose, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t.”

Natasha tilts her head, considering him. “It’s been years. Since SHIELD fell, she vanished. Not a trace.”

“I know,” Steve admits. His voice is low, tinged with something like regret. “But back then… when I first woke up, she was there. She got me through more than I’ll ever admit. No one else could’ve done it.”

“She was a good doctor,” Natasha recalls, her tone softening for the briefest moment. “One of the best ones. After HYDRA was exposed, she walked away before anyone else could decide for her. And I let her go.”

Steve nods. “I can’t blame her for leaving. But if anyone can help him now…” His eyes flick instinctively toward the hallway where Bucky disappeared. “…it’s her.”

There’s a long pause before Natasha lets out a quiet sigh. Her mouth quirks, not quite a smile, not quite disapproval.

“Fine then.” She leans against the doorframe, her gaze distant. “But don’t fool yourself—she won’t agree easily. You remember how stubborn she can be.”

Steve’s lips twitch faintly. “She will if it means helping people. She always did.”

Natasha studies him with a sharpness that softens only slightly. “Or maybe she won’t. Maybe she’s done with all of this for good. You have to accept that possibility too.”

“Maybe,” Steve concedes, though there’s no real doubt in his tone. “But I have to try. For Bucky.”

For a moment, silence stretches between them, heavy with memory and unspoken thoughts. Then Natasha exhales, resigned. “Fine. We’ll go. But don’t expect her to welcome us with open arms.”

Steve glances at her, something knowing flickering in his expression. “You know where she is, don’t you?”

Natasha’s jaw tightens. She looks away, then back at him with a trace of warning in her eyes. “Just to make sure she’s safe.”

Chapter 2: Echoes of the Past

Notes:

you're about to meet Lily!! yay! i’m so excited for you to see her (and everything she’s about to get herself into). enjoy meeting her and the start of her journey 💌

Lily Bloom woke up expecting just another ordinary day.

She thought she’d spend the morning tending to her patients, lost in the familiar rhythm of her peaceful and familiar hospital, doing her loved work: checking vitals, scribbling notes, offering quiet reassurances. The same routine she’d followed for two years now, in the small, safe world she’d carefully built for herself. Exactly like she liked her life: with stability, normalcy. No surprises.

But, of course, life had other plans.

Because the moment she walked to her medical consultation after lunch break and instead of the usual stream of patients, she found Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff waiting for her, she knew before a single word was spoken that today was going to change everything.

Lily’s steps falter for just a second as she takes them in: Steve standing with that ever-steady presence he carries, with Natasha sitting on the chair beside him. They don’t say anything right away, but they don’t have to. The way they look at her is enough to pull her back to a time she has tried to bury deep inside her mind.

A time when she once was a part of their world, patching them up after every mission, keeping them standing. Back then, she had been working for SHIELD, being nothing less than Captain America’s personal doctor. And Black Widow’s too, because she didn’t trust anyone else enough to attend her. And for a while, it had felt like a purpose, a place where she belonged.

But that was before SHIELD crumbled from the inside. Before she realized the organization she had trusted and loved was rotten, plagued with HYDRA’s poison. Before she had been trapped in that nightmare, held hostage at the mercery of HYDRA’s operatives while all she could do was pray for an escape that didn’t seem to come.

Lily forces herself to stay composed, ignoring the shivers their presence and memories bring to her, by moving behind her desk, even when she knows it’s just an attempt to put distance behind them.

Steve hesitates, just for a moment, before finally speaking. “It’s nice to see you again, Lily. It’s been a long time.”

Lily drops into the chair behind the desk and tilts her head slightly, her tone polite but guarded.

“Yeah, it has.”

“How have you been?”

Lily hesitates at Steve’s question. Part of her wants to give an honest answer and say how hard it has been to forget and rebuild her way back to a life where she feels safe again. But that isn’t what they’re here for, and she isn’t about to open herself up just because Steve Rogers showed up at her work two years later with his kind face and a voice dipped in sincerity.

“I’m fine,” she answers simply. “Busy. But fine.”

 “I’m glad,” Steve says, and she can tell he means it.

The silence strikes again, and Lily is too busy to keep this stupid play going for more than it needs to. She has people to attend, real patients that need her help.

“Whatever this is,” she starts, her voice fill with suspicion, “I’m guessing it’s not just to meet an old friend.”

Steve chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, before Natasha finally speaks, cutting straight to the point.

“We need your help, Lily.”

Lily stiffens, fingers tightening against her arms.

“There it is” she mutters. Then she sighs, pushing away from them, her attention going to the computer on her desk. “Whatever it is, the answer is no.”

“Lily—” Steve starts, but she shakes her head.

“No,” she repeats, firmer this time. “I left that life behind for a reason. I lost everything when HYDRA tore SHIELD apart. My job, my security, people I trusted—”

“We know what it cost you. We wouldn’t be here if we had any other choice.” Natasha cuts her.

“There is always another choice,” Lily snaps. “You two just don’t like the alternatives.”

She knows she’s being too harsh, and she knows no normal person would ever talk like that to Captain America and Black Widow themselves, but it’s been a long time since she has seen them as untouchable legends. For her they’re just Steve and Natasha. And she knows them too well, knows how stubborn they are, how they’ll push and push until they get what they want. And they know her too. So no, she doesn’t care about her tone. They came here knowing exactly who they were dealing with.

Steve looks pained and takes a deep breath before talking, “It’s about Bucky.”

Lily freezes, stopping hiding behind the computer.

“Your friend Bucky Barnes, back on the 40s?” she says, and when Steve nods she tries to choose her next words carefully. “But he—”

“He’s alive,” Natasha chimes in “HYDRA took him after the fall. They had him captive ever since, under their please. For seventy years.”

“But we found him, and we’re trying to help him recover now,” Steve continues, his voice gentle but urgent. “He’s... he’s been through hell, and he needs someone who understands what HYDRA did to him… someone who knows how to help him heal.”

“And you thought of me?”

“You’re the best at what you do,” Natasha says. “You know super soldiers better than anyone. HYDRA experimented on him: the serum, the modifications they did to him… No one else has your expertise on it.”

Lily hesitates. It’s a bittersweet feeling to know that Steve’s best friend is alive, but he has spent 70 years under HYDRA. But who has not? Even she was working for them without her knowledge. She shakes her head.

 “That’s— that’s not my problem anymore.”

Steve’s expression turns desperate, his blue eyes pleading. “Lily, please. He deserves a second chance, you’re the only one who can give it to him.”

Lily swallows hard, gripping the edge of her desk as she tries to steady herself.

“I already gave everything I had to SHIELD. I’m not doing it again. I built something stable after losing everything. I need this life.” Her voice wavers slightly, but she presses on. “I won’t throw it away for a fight that’s not mine anymore. I can’t.”

“Please, please…” Steve steps closer. “If you do this, I will owe you forever. Anything you ask, I—”

“No.” Lily’s voice is final this time. “I’m sorry, Steve, but I can’t. And I’m going to ask you to leave now.”

Steve looks like he wants to argue, but thankfully Natasha touches his arm, and after what feels like a long moment, he finally nods.

“Okay,” he says, his voice filled with quiet disappointment. “We’ll go.”

Lily keeps her back to them as they leave, waiting until the door clicks shut before letting out a shaky breath. Her chest feels too tight, her pulse too fast and her hands are trembling.

She has done the right thing. She has

It’s not till later that evening as she gathers her things to head home, she finds something that wasn’t there before: a neatly folded file tucked inside her bag, and she doesn’t have to guess who left it. Natasha has always been subtle, always one step ahead, never leaving without a fight if she didn’t have something else planned.

With a sigh, Lily pulls it out, her eyes scanning the bold black letters stamped across the cover: James Buchanan Barnes. She hesitates. She should toss it aside, ignore it like she said she would. But something inside her tells her that if Steve is willing to plead, if Natasha is willing to play her games, if they’re going through all this trouble the last she can do is take a little look, because despite herself, despite every instinct telling her to walk away, curiosity tugs her.

James Buchanan Barnes was supposed to be dead; everyone thought he was dead: the world, SHIELD, even Steve. He fell from a moving train in Austria. So, what happened to him? What kind of damage did HYDRA leave behind?

With a reluctant sigh, she puts the file back into her bag, telling herself it’s just going to be one look. Nothing more.

Chapter 3: Weight of a Choice

The halls of SHIELD feel familiar as Lily walks through them, coffee in hand, nodding at familiar faces as she passes. The hum of conversation fills the air, the distant tapping of fingers on keyboards blending with the occasional ringing of a phone. It’s routine. It’s normal. It’s safe.

But the overhead lights flicker, just for a second, barely noticeable. Then come the distant echoes of raised voices, something tense creeping into the air, and the first shot rings out. The sound cracks through the corridor like a whip, sharp and deafening, followed by the unmistakable chorus of screams. Panic erupts. Agents sprint past her, some reaching for weapons, others running with pure terror on their faces. The red emergency lights turn to life, bathing everything in a pulsing, violent glow.

Lily can feel her heart hammering against her ribs as chaos unfolds before her eyes. She sees people she knows —people she trusts— turn on each other in an instant. SHIELD security officers gunning down their own colleagues.

And then she hears it. "Hail HYDRA."

The words send a chill through her spine, freezing her in place even as people run past her, as bodies fall, as the walls close in. It doesn’t make sense. It can’t make sense. SHIELD is her home —her family. And yet, in the span of seconds, it’s crumbling into something unrecognizable.

Men in tactical gear move through the corridors shooting down anyone in their path. Some fight back and some others don’t even get the chance.

She needs to run, to move, but her legs don’t obey. Then a hand grabs her arm, strong and unyielding. A breathless, terrified sound catches in her throat as she twists, but she can’t get enough air. Can’t make a sound. Can’t—

Lily jerks awake with a strangled gasp, heart pounding against her ribs, breath coming in short, uneven bursts. It takes her a second to orient herself, to remember where she is: on her couch, tangled in a thrown blanket. She exhales shakily, running a hand through her hair, fingers trembling as she blinks against the remnants of the nightmare.

Her gaze moves down to the mess around her. Bucky Barnes’ file lays open across the coffee table, its pages marked with scribbled notes, medical comparisons, highlighted sections of HYDRA’s twisted experiments. Her tablet still hums softly beside it, filled with cross-referenced data on super-soldiers, on brainwashing, on everything she swore she’d never dig into again.

But she did. She has spent the last two nights digging through every scrap of information she can find. She has fallen asleep working on a case she swore she wouldn’t take for two nights straight after Steve and Natasha walked back into her life.

Still, she tries to move on like nothing happened.

She goes through the day: showering, getting dressed, heading to work. But everything feels distant, like she’s watching herself from the outside. No matter how much she pushes it aside, the feeling lingers, and she can’t shake the weight in her chest, nor can stop the restless energy in her hands, or the way her mind keeps drifting back to him; to the file still sitting on her coffee table, to the man who, somehow, is now her problem.

By lunchtime, she’s exhausted from trying to pretend nothing is wrong, from trying to focus on her patients, on her work.

She meets her younger brother Charlie at their usual café, hoping the normality will help, but even as he talks, she finds herself zoning out, staring at his face but not really paying attention. She knows he is mid-sentence about something, but she’s not sure about what, when he stops, tilting his head at her with a knowing look.

"Okay," he says, setting his fork down with an exaggerated sound. "You haven’t heard a single word I’ve said in the last five minutes."

Lily blinks, pulled from her daze. "What?"

"See? Exactly.” Charlie gives her a pointed look. “You’re not listening to me, and I really need your help right now, so you either spill what’s going on or help me decide if I should buy a car or a motorbike.”

“You called me for vehicle advice? We have two other older brothers, and you called me, your only sister?”

“I called you because only you live on New York,” Charlie rebuts. “And don’t try to change the subject. What’s on your mind?”

Lily hesitates, fingers tightening around the edge of her napkin.

“It’s nothing, Chaz. Just work.”

Charlie arches a skeptical brow. "Uh-huh. Sure. Because you always get this distracted over work." He leans forward, resting his arms on the table. "Come on, Lils. You’ve barely touched your food, and you haven’t noticed I have been stealing your baked potatoes for half an hour because you’re staring off like you’re having an existential crisis. Just tell me."

“It’s not important.” She exhales, shaking her head, and that only makes her bother groan dramatically.

“You know you can’t lie to me, right? You always have this tiny crease right here," he taps the space between his brows "when you’re holding something in. It’s actually painful to watch."

Lily hits his hand away, finally looking up with a dry glare. "You’re annoying."

"And you’re avoiding." Charlie shrugs. "I’m not leaving until you talk, so unless you want to sit here in silence while I order dessert out of pure spite and make you pay for it, you might as well just spill."

Lily sighs, leaning back in her chair, arms crossed. She hates how well Charlie knows her. Ever since they were kids, and despite being a big family of four kids, it’s Charlie, the youngest, who always has had this infuriating ability to read her like an open book, to poke at her defenses until they crack.

She hesitates for another long second, taking a bite of the chicken on her plate, before finally muttering.

 "Steve and Natasha came to see me yesterday."

Charlie’s brows lift. "Wait. Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff? As in Avengers Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff?”

Lily nods.

Charlie lets out a low whistle. "Damn. I mean, I always knew you had cool ex-coworkers, but that’s next level." He pauses, then frowns. "Okay, but I’m guessing that if seeing them messed you up this bad, they weren’t just stopping by for a friendly chat, were they?"

“No.” Lily sighs, rubbing her temple. “They want my help.”

“Your help? Damn, Lils, how cool it’s that!” Charlie chuckles, genuine amazed about the discover. “And about what do two avengers want your help for?”

“They want me to help them with something… with someone”

“And I’m guessing it’s not just any someone.”

“An old friend of Steve… they want I help him recover," she says, voice quieter now. “Help him heal. Because of my background on SHIELD, all my reaches on super soldiers. They think I’m the only one who can do it.”

Charlie watches her carefully. "And you said no."

"Of course, I said no," she snaps, a little too defensive. "You know what happened to me there, Charlie. You know why I got out of that life."

Charlie is quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he leans forward, resting his chin on his hand.

“Then why are you giving major internal crisis vibes right now?  Why do you look like you’re thinking about it? If you really didn’t care, you wouldn’t be this distracted. You wouldn’t look like you’re about to launch into a pros and cons list.”

Lily takes another piece of chicken to her mouth, chewing and refusing to answer.

Charlie laughs, taking a sip of his drink before setting it down. "Look, all I’m saying is… maybe you should ask yourself why this is eating at you so much. You can say no all you want, but if you can’t stop thinking about it…" He shrugs.

Lily lets out a long breath, staring at the table as she pushes the last few bites of her lunch around her plate. She wants to argue, to shut this conversation down before Charlie gets in her head any more than he already has.

"Lils… I get why you’re scared. I really do. But you didn’t join SHIELD because it was easy.” Charlie watches her for a moment, then sighs. “Don’t you remember how much you argued with mom and dad to join the academy? Don’t you remember how you used to tell them that you wanted to help people because you believed in something bigger than yourself?”

"I do help people. Every single day. I still help people, but now I don’t risk my life doing it. I don’t—" she shakes her head, voice tightening.

"I know…” Charlie nods, like he understands, but he doesn’t back down. “But what happens if you say no?”

Lily bites her lips, a hint of doubt in her voice.

“They’ll find someone else.”

"Will they? You don’t sound sure." Charlie says, leaning back on the chair. "Because if Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff came to you, it means something big. It means you’re the only one who can do this."

Lily opens her mouth to argue, but the words don’t come.

"What if you don’t do this, and something worse happens? What if you could’ve helped, and you didn’t?"

Lily looks down at her hands, her grip on the fork tightening. She doesn’t have an answer for that.

Charlie exhales, watching her carefully. "I know you don’t want to go back to that world. I get it. But maybe this isn’t about going back. Maybe it’s about making something right." He pauses, the corners of his lips tugging into an amused smile. "And you know what? Having Captain America owning you a favor sounds pretty good.”

She swallows, looking up at him. "You really think I can help?"

"I know you can."

Lily lets out a slow breath, heart hammering in her chest.

“Since when you’ve became so wise, little one?” she says, genuinely surprised about the words of her little brother.

 “Maybe it’s moving to New York for college, or maybe it’s that I have till tomorrow to choose what I’m gonna buy and I really want you to make the decision for me.” Charlie shrugs. “And don’t call me ‘little one’.”

The day feels long and exhausting in ways she wasn’t prepared for, when Lily finally steps into her apartment, locking the door behind her. She just wants to put it all behind her, clear her head, have a glass of wine and move on. But her eyes land on the file still sitting on her coffee table, like it is mocking her.

She strides over, determination settling in her chest. She’s done thinking about this. She’s going to throw it away, forget about it, and keep her life exactly the way it is. But as she grabs the folder, something slips out. Lily frowns, bending down to pick it up and the moment her fingers graze the worn edges, she freezes.

It’s an old military photograph, sepia-toned and creased in places, of a young soldier in uniform, with his hat tilted slightly, and a quiet smirk playing at his lips. His eyes hold a kind of charm that makes it easy to see why he must have been so loved. There’s something so genuine in his expression, something that makes her chest tighten.

She knows who this is —Sargent James Buchanan Barnes.

Lily sinks onto the couch, still holding the picture, pressing the worn edges of the photograph between her fingers. Her thumb brushes over the corner, pausing where the image has started to fade. The man in the picture looks nothing like the one she read about in the file.

This is Bucky Barnes, she thinks, before it all. Before the war, before the pain, before his life was stolen from him. Not the ghost of a man she read about in his file. Not the soldier with a tragic history, not the HYDRA assassin, not the broken man that’s probably unsure of his own place in the world.

Lily swallows, shifting in her seat. She should put it back. She should close the file, leave it untouched and pretend she never saw it, because that would be the smart thing to do. Instead, she finds herself tracing the lines of his face, lingering on the warmth in his eyes.

There’s something about the way he holds himself, something in his smile, in the light still alive in his eyes. Probably because he doesn’t know what’s coming. He has no idea how much he’s going to lose.

Charlie’s voice lingers in her mind and the more she tries to push them from her mind, the louder they echo.

“What happens if you say no?”

Lily presses the photo between her palms, almost like it holds some kind of answer.

Everything plays on a loop on her mind: Charlie’s certainty and the way he looked at her like he knew she’d do the right thing, Steve Rogers walking into her consultation with those desperate eyes, asking her to throw it all away for a man she’d never even met.

But Steve… Steve wasn’t the kind of man who begged. Yet, when he talked about Bucky, he pleaded, like this wasn’t just about saving a friend, like it was about making up for something neither of them could change.

Lily drops her head back against the couch, rubbing her hands over her face.

Steve believed Bucky was worth saving. Charlie believed she was the one who could do it.

She should have told them to leave and meant it. She should have thrown this damn file in the trash the moment she got home. But she didn’t. Instead, she’s sitting here, holding a piece of someone’s past, thinking about all the reasons she shouldn’t help and realizing they don’t feel as solid as they did before.

She glances down at the file, at the reports filled with cold, clinical words that don’t tell the full story. She knows what those pages won’t say, because she knows what it’s like to be lost. To be drowning in a life that no longer felt like her own. But Bucky Barnes didn’t get a second chance like she did. Instead, he got stolen time, broken memories, and a life that doesn’t fit the way it used to.

With a sigh, she sets the picture down carefully —too carefully— on top of the file. Then, instead of pushing it away, she reaches for her phone, staring at the phone number scribbled at the end of the file for a long time before finally pressing call.

Chapter 4: The First Glimpse

The drive to the Avengers Compound feels too long and too short all at once for Lily. She keeps telling herself she isn’t nervous, that the tightness in her chest comes from the caffeine of her morning coffee, that the taping of her fingers against the steering wheel is out of habit; but she’s lying to herself. She knows where the sight tremor in her breath comes from.

She finally parks the car, but for a little bit she doesn’t move, breathing in and out a couple of times before getting out. She closes the car, takes her purse, and starts walking to the front door of the immense building in front of her.

God, the Avengers’ Tower is bigger than she remembers, and she tells herself once again that that’s the reason why she hesitates. She takes a second to fix her appearance, getting in place a strand of lose hair that falls from the braid crown she had made to keep herself busy this morning, and her fingers linger a little more than necessary in the soft fabric of her dress while trying to give herself an acceptable appearance. One that doesn’t show the weight in her chest or the feeling that once she steps inside, she’s no longer thinking about doing it —she is actually doing it.

The automatic door slides open, and she walks in before she can change her mind.

The reception is almost like the last time she saw it, just a bit more modern and sleeker. A woman sits behind the desk, typing away at a screen, barely looking at her when Lily approaches.

“Can I help you?”

Lily shifts her purse higher on her shoulder before answering. “Hi. I have a meeting with Natasha Romanoff and Steve—"

“Lily?”

The voice stops her mid-sentence, and when she turns, she sees Steve standing at the end of the hallway, looking at her like he can’t believe she’s there.

There’s something about the way he says her name —soft, almost unsure— that pulls her backward, like a thread tugging on an old, quiet memory.

The first time he said her name.

It had been years ago, back when SHIELD was still SHIELD, before everything cracked open. In one old med bay —fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, sterile walls doing nothing to soften the tension in the air. Steve had been sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, his torso streaked with blood and sweat, and bleeding from a nasty gash across his side. There was a towel pressed against the wound, dark red already blooming through the fabric. He looked more annoyed than in pain, jaw clenched, posture rigid. Lily, barely twenty-six and still new enough to feel like an impostor in her own coat, had stepped in, clipboard in hand. Her heart jumping into her throat —because no amount of training prepares you to see a living legend bleeding in front of you.

“Captain Rogers?”

His blue eyes had flicked toward her, then back down to the floor. “Just Steve’s fine.”

He hadn’t wanted to be there, looking clearly irritated, like he’d only come down because someone made him.

“I’m Lily Bloom,” she had said, smoothing a hand over her coat as she crossed the room. “I’m going to take care of that wound for you, if you don’t mind.”

“I can handle it. I’ve had worse,” he replied quickly, still pressing the towel tighter to his side.

She stopped beside him anyway, gently tugging the towel free. “I believe you. But why don’t we save the stitches for the person who didn’t just do a two-hour workout on a cracked rib?”

He nodded then, half reluctantly half agreeing, and straightened just enough to give her access to the wound.

As she worked, she felt his eyes on her; not suspicious, but attentive. Like he was trying to figure out what kind of person she was. She could feel the question in his silence.

His skin had been hot under her gloves, blood still slowly trailing down his side. He watched her the entire time—distrustful, wary, but never rude. Just… tired. Out of sync. Like someone trying to be polite while drowning.

“Rough day?” she’d asked softly.

He didn’t answer for a long while.

“Supposed to be clearing my head,” he muttered at the end, glancing away. “Didn’t realize I was being watched.”

“You weren’t,” she said. “But cracked ribs usually protest when you do pull-ups.”

That got the faintest ghost of a smile from him —brief, but real.

When she began cleaning the wound, he didn’t move. Barely breathed. But the silence between them shifted. Not comfortable, but not tense anymore either. Just quiet.

“You’re good at this, Lily Bloom” he said, not looking at her.

“Thanks,” she replied, surprised again. “You’re not so bad yourself. Most people flinch.”

He let out a soft huff of air that might’ve been a laugh.

When she finished, she wiped the last of the blood away and peeled off her gloves. He turned to face her then, more fully this time, like he was seeing her for the first time.

And now she’s with him here again, at a different time, but he’s still watching her with the same eyes. Like he’s seeing something he didn’t quite dare to hope for.

He’s wearing sweatpants, a shirt that looks a bit tight on him and his hair stuck and dumped against his forehead, like he just came from the gym, which probably he did.

She swallows the knot in her throat to offer him a small smile. “Hey”

For a second Steve just stands there, both staring at each other, like he’s waiting for her to disappear, but Lily knows what he’s doing. He’s giving her space to change her mind, to turn around and walk out even at the last minute.

“Hi…” he says, his voice barely a whisper and something in him loosens, making the tension in his shoulders eases barely, and that’s when Lily realizes that he probably didn’t fully believe she was coming, that she was saying yes and meaning it. “You’re here.”

“Yeah, turns out I’m a terrible at ignoring people in need… And you were very persistent.” She says, hinting at the file Natasha put on her bag.

Steve lets a small chuckle escape his lips, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been told I can be.”

“I still doubt I’ll be for much help, actually.”

“But you came here anyway, and I can’t tell you how much it means.” Steve says, nodding like he understands how much it took her for to be here. “To me. And to him.”

She bites her lips, feeling a bit guilty at Steve reassuring words, hating to be making his hopes up for something she isn’t sure how will unfold.

“I’m not making any promises, Steve, you need to understand that.”

“You don’t have to,” Steves assures her “just trying is more than enough.”

And she can’t help the real smile that creeps into her lips.

“Alright, Cap, tell me where and for what I’m needed” she says squaring her shoulders.

 “I’ll walk you there.” He says stepping aside without hesitation, signaling her to follow him. ”Natasha must be waiting for you, 'cause she sure as hell didn’t tell me you were coming.”

And as he starts walking through the hallway toward the big elevator at the end, Lily follows him with the hesitation disappearing at every step she takes.

 

Bucky sees her long before she sees him, even before she realizes he’s there. He was just moving through his day like he had been doing since he arrived, just going through the motions, quietly and methodically. Wake up, go to the gym, eat, repeat. At least that’s how it was being the last days, until now, when he catches a glimpse of something unfamiliar as he crosses through the living area.

She stands in the center of the room talking to Steve, a frown in her brow like she’s listening intently to whatever Steve’s telling her.

She’s wearing white. A sweater dress with long sleeves, a turtleneck and some cutout details on the shoulders. It clings to her body in a way that makes her seem fragile and almost delicate, but the black combats boots on her feet, and the simple black purse that hangs from her shoulders contrast with the doll look she has.

Bucky doesn’t recognize her, and although there’s nothing threatening about her, nothing sharp or dangerous, he still feels his entire body tense on instinct. Maybe it’s the way Steve listens to her with the kind of intent focus he only uses when something important is being discussed, his face having that look it does when he’s talking to someone he trusts. It got the same way when he argued with Fury about giving Bucky a chance.

Bucky’s stomach twists in realization. So will this be it? He asks himself. Is this who they have found for that?

His throat tightens as he thinks more about the possibility, standing in the corner of the room watching them —watching her. Bucky has had enough scientists and doctors, enough cold metal tables and white coats, of clipped voices discussing him like he wasn’t there. Enough of everyone thinking they can fix him.

Steve says something and the girl sighs, shaking her head with a small reluctant smile before nodding. And then, as if she senses something, she turns her head.

Her eyes find him and Bucky freezes like a deer. But now that he has a full and better look at her, he can’t help but stare. Just like the way she’s dressing, she also has delicate yet striking features dusted with faint freckles, soft pale skin, and full pink lips. Her orange, glowing auburn hair is neatly braided into something that looks like a crown, with only a few stray curls escaping and framing her face. Her large hazel eyes glow with curiosity while keeping his gaze without looking away, without flinching or shifting uncomfortably. There’s no fear in her, no judgement either, just curiosity, even some kind of recognition. 

Steve says something and she turns her attention back to him, nodding at whatever he’s saying, but Bucky still feels the weight of her gaze lingering on him even when she’s no longer looking. He swallows, his fingers twitch at his sides. He clenches them into fists before showing them deeper into his pockets, and finally leaves.

Still, Bucky spends the rest of the day trying to ignore what happened, telling himself he doesn’t care about the redhead and why she must be there, doesn’t care about whatever Steve’s doing either. And he was doing good, having nailed ignoring his feelings, or at least till he walked straight to the wolf mouth at the kitchen.

Sam moves easily between the counter and the stove, stirring whatever he’s cooking and humming offbeat under his breath before throwing a glace over his shoulder at Steve as he sets the table.

“So…” Sam says, trying too much to sound casual “Are you gonna tell me about the redhead you spent all morning with, or do I start making assumptions?”

Bucky hates the way his attention perks up at the mention, but he forces himself to keep his focus on the task at hand, looking through the refrigerator as if choosing a drink is a very busy and difficult task.

Steve lets out a quiet sigh and shakes his head. “Not what you think”.

“Oh, come on, man. You gotta give me more than that.” Sam turns off the stove and gestures with the spatula. “You two looked really comfortable around each other, and she followed you around like a puppy. I mean Steve, if you’re finally getting laid, I am happy for you—”

“She’s not my date!” Steve stops him, his cheek a bit pink for Sam’s bold words.

Bucky grabs a bottle of water, closes the fridge door and turns to leave, because he doesn’t care about her or this conversation. Or that’s what he’s telling himself when Steve speaks again:

“She’s here for Bucky.”

That makes him pause and, although he doesn’t turn around, he can feel their eyes on him.

Sam raises his eyebrows, clearly caught off guard. “Wait, what?”

“Her name’s Lily Bloom,” Steve explains, as he leans his hands on the table. “She was with SHIELD before, did a lot of research on super soldiers, the serum, all that crap. She was assigned as my personal doctor for a while.” He seems to hesitate before continuing “We became friends. She’s good, Sam, really good.”

Sam puts the spatula down, taking a moment to sink the information. “Let me get this straight... You called up an ex-SHIELD scientist, a super soldier specialist, to come here and play doctor for Bucky?”

That makes the weight of the conversation shift, and Bucky knows it’s time he turns around and says something on his behalf, because is starting to get annoying the number of conversations they have about him like he can’t hear them. But a new voice answer before he can.

“I met her.” Natasha says, stepping into the kitchen with her hair still wet from the shower. “She’s nice.”

Sam snorts. “You like someone? Damn, she must be nice”

Natasha smirks slightly, but she shrugs. “She doesn’t ask dumb questions. She’s smart, and she’s got good read on people.”

“So Bucky here gets his own specialist, huh?” Sams says, glancing at Bucky with a teasing grin. “Damn, man, that’s VIP treatment.”

But Bucky doesn’t find anything funny about it.

“I don’t need a doctor” he rebuts, his voice flat, putting the bottle of water down into the counter.

Steve sighs. “Bucky—”

“I said no.”

He moves to leave, but Sam steps in front of him, holding the spatula like a weapon.

“Whoa, whoa, hold on there, Terminator. What’s the rush?”

Bucky glares at him. “Move.”

“You keep storming out every time we try to talk about something real.” Sam points out “Feels a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Natasha smirks from her seat on the table. “It is his signature move, Sam.”

“I just don’t need a damn doctor.” Bucky scowls.

“She’s not just a doctor, Buck. She’s been researching this for years. She knows how to help.”

The word burns in him. Steve’s too naïve if he thinks anyone can help him, because what’s broken inside him isn’t something a doctor can fix. No, doctors come in with clinical words and test results, pretending they want to help, they want to make him feel better, but all they do is lie.

 “I know how it is, Steve.” Bucky says, and his voice drops, rougher. “I’ve been a science project before. I’m not gonna be one again.”

The room falls silent, and for a moment Bucky feels like he has won the argument for once, so he tries to leave again. Unfortunately, Sam remains stuck in front of him, mimicking his movements with the damn spatula between them like it is a knife.

“Man, you really think Steve would let someone poke and prod at you like some kind of test rat?” He says “The guy barely lets me cook without supervising.”

“That’s because you set off the smoke alarm twice, Sam.” Steve says.

“Not my fault Stark got these weird kitchens, but I got it now for your information.” Sam answers, trying to defend himself, then looks at Bucky. “But seriously, nobody’s trying to turn you into an experiment, Bucky. She’s here to help, not turn you into Frankenstein’s monster”.

Bucky clenches his jaw, he doesn't care about Sam has to say, because he knows HYDRA promised him that too —all while strapping him down. They promised the serum would make him stronger, that every experiment would make him feel better.

“I don’t need help.”

Natasha hums at his words, not convinced at all. “That’s what Steve said to her too.”

 Sam glances at Steve. “But she worked on you regardless?”

“Yes” He nods. “She helped me to understand better some of the serum’s effects, we worked on long-term stability too... even some trauma work. She’s smart, one of the brightest to pass through here.”

Bucky looks at Natasha. “And you trust her?”

“She’s one of the few people I don’t automatically assume is lying to me.” She answers, shrugging her shoulders. “That’s saying something, Bucky.”

“Dam right it is,” Sam says, finally putting the spatula down. “Natasha doesn’t hate her. Hell, man, she even likes her. That’s a five-star review.”

“It’s not that simple…” Bucky exhales.

“We know,” Steve says quietly, like he doesn’t want to startled Bucky. “But you don’t have to do this alone.”

Bucky groans when he brings that again, because that’s exactly what they don’t get. He likes to be alone. He liked his lonely life in Bucharest before they found him. For him alone is safe. Alone means no expectations, no risk of disappointment, and mostly no well-meaning people trying to dig through his head like it’s a puzzle they can solve.

“Just one try, Buck.” Steve speaks, voice barely a whisper. “Not for her. Not for science. For me.”

The words hit harder than they should, and they all know it. Steve just used a low blow on him, which means he’s truly desperate for him to do this.

To try for Steve, who hasn’t given up on him. For Steve, who refused to fight him and gave him back his freedom in the same fight. The Steve that looks at him every day, knowing what he has done and calls him his friend —his best friend— and still stands by his side.

Bucky exhales sharply, eyes flicking between them before going back to Steve, and maybe, just maybe, he does owe him one try. If it ends bad at least they will leave him alone for good.

He sighs, looking away from them. “Fine” he mutters, the word almost hard to hear.

Steve nods, relief written all over his face. “Thanks, Buck.”

Natasha nods at him and Sam grins, clapping his hands.

“There it is! It wasn’t that hard.” He says, turning back to the stove. “Now why don’t we celebrate before it gets too cold, huh?”

Notes:

I'm really bad at describing people but I tried to describe Lily the best I can. As long as you get she is a redhead with brown eyes that's enough:)

Chapter 5: A Different Kind of Homecoming

Lily wakes up before her alarm rings and spends a lot more time than usual on the shower, preparing herself for the day ahead.

She has done her first meetings before with new patients, difficult cases and people who were resistant to getting help and she has managed to do good, because she knows to ease people into trusting her, and honestly that’s what got her the job as Steve’s doctor in the first place.

That’s what she’s telling herself while letting the hot water run over her shoulders, letting it wash away the stiffness tightening her muscles. She tries to focus on the feel of the water running over her body, taking steady breaths, preventing her mind to circle back, to overthink the meeting like she has spent all night doing, because the amount of ‘what ifs’ were haunting her.

Her hands squeeze the conditioner bottle a little too hard when she finally decides that she doesn’t need Bucky Barnes to like her, that she’s doing this for Steve, and she has already told him she can’t promise them anything. She’s not there to fix him, she’s there to help him, to make the healing journey comfortable and as easy as possible, and she can’t tell how much that would be. But most importantly, even if it doesn’t work, she doesn’t owe them anything.

She rinses the last rest of the conditioner off her hair, and by the time she steps out of the shower her hands are steady again, just like her breath. She’s still nervous, but she knows she can’t let it control her, so it’s going to be better if she forces it into something more productive.

She puts on the clothes she chose last night, a light blue blouse patterned with small white flowers, jeans, some jewelry as accessories and once again using the braid crown to keep herself busy. Making all her nervous into something comfortable but professional, something that helps her feel like her; a reminder that she isn’t trying to prove anything. And by the time she pulls her boots on, a quiet determination has filled her, so she eats breakfast and checks her phone only to find new messages from Charlie.

charlie 🌱: Good luck today, you got this! 🙌❤️

charlie 🌱: …can I borrow 20$?

charlie 🌱: Problems of having a new car :)

She arrives at the compound and follows exactly what Steve told her to do. She steps in, shows the secretary behind the desk her new target that accredits her to be working with the Avengers, and gets into the elevator, scanning that same target so it can take her into the Avengers floor. She takes a deep breath, taking a moment to appreciate what is going to be the first day of her new routine.

She’s not even three steps in after the elevator doors opened that she spots Natasha waiting for her.

“Bright and early.” Natasha says with an easy smirk tugging at her lips. “You know, for a moment I really thought you won’t cave in.”

Lily huffs a quiet laugh. “I didn’t cave in. I agreed.”

“Reluctantly, I would say. So, same thing.”

Lily rolls her eyes, but there’s no harm on it —just warmth. Because despite everything, it is a relief to have Natasha with her. Out of everyone, she is the one person Lily knows she would never have to pretend for.

“Come on,” Natasha says nodding toward the hallway. “I’ll show you around before Barnes shows up and scares you off”.

Lily nods, following right next to her. “He’s going to scare me off?”

“You never had to do medical on a guy who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world than sitting across from you, have you?”

“I’m a doctor, Nat. Not a publicist” Lily says as a matter of fact. “He doesn’t have to like me.”

Natasha snorts. “That’s good, keep telling yourself that. Because he won’t.”

As they walk through the place Lily can’t help but take everything in, paying much more attention than she did when she went to talk with Steve. Everything is sleek and modern, but a little too sterile for her linking, as if someone had tried to make it feel like a home, like lived-in, but didn’t actually get it right. They walk past the kitchen, not even giving Lily enough time to look at whatever is making the air smell so warm and savory, when a voice calls out.

“Wait there a moment, Romanoff. You’re not going to introduce our new addition to me?”

Natasha stops, and Lily turns just in time to see a man leaning against the counter, stirring something in a pan. He was grinning, broad and effortless, the kind that makes a person feel welcome without trying, and it takes Lily a second to recognize him.

“Back off, Wilson.” Natasha says in a playful warning.

Lily had never officially met Sam Wilson, but she remembers him from the HYDRA takeover, fighting alongside Nataha and Steve, flying through the air.

He gives her a once-over, assessing but not unkind. “You’re the one Steve’s been dragging around?”

 “I wouldn’t say dragging.” Lily chuckles. “But yes, that’s me, I guess.”

 “Nice to meet you.” Sam says politely. “So, what’s your deal? SHIELD background?”

“Academy of Science,” she confirms. “Worked in human biology and medical research. Mostly super-soldier studies.”

Sam lets out a low whistle. “Damn, so you’ve been dealing with these guys for a while.”

 Lily shrugs. “You could say that.”

Sam gives her an approving nod, before gesturing to himself. “Well, since you’re probably gonna be stuck with us for a while… I’m Sam Wilson. Avenger, pilot, expert in getting under Barne’s skin.”

Lily smiles, biting her bottom lip in attempt to surpass a laugh, not thinking it will be appropriate to laugh at Sam’s words about Bucky.

“I’m Lily Bloom,” she smiles “Doctor, researcher—”

“Expert in getting Steve to actually listen to medical advice.” Natasha snorts, amused.

Sam grins. “That is a skill.” Then he turns back to the stove. “So Doc, have you eaten breakfast? Because I make a mean scrambled egg, and I’m willing to share.”

Lily decides then that she likes him. He seems nice, capable of noticing when the situation feels too tense for a person, and he looks willing to make it better. Still, he can’t help but shake her head with a polite smile, still feeling her breakfast on her throat.

“I’m okay, had breakfast at home”

Sam clicks his tongue. “Shame. My cooking is life changing.”

Natasha chuckles. “It’s edible.”

“Hey, that’s rude, especially since I remember you having seconds yesterday.” Sam shots back, pointing at her before turning back to Lily. “That’s why I’m offering you food, you look like you might actually appreciate it.”

This time, Lily can’t hide the laugh. “I’ll try it next time, promise.”

“Thank you. I like you already.”  Sam answers. He put his attention back into the frying pan. “So, tell me, Doc, are you aware that your first patient is about as cuddly as a landmine?”

Lily tilts her head. “I’ve been told.”

“Repeatedly I suppose.” Sam says, nodding towards Natasha. “Not to scare you, Doc, but you are in for it.”

There is no edge to his voice, no warning, and Lily smiles, knowing deep down that it is not really a joke, and something inside her tightens at the reminder. It is not fear, more like anticipation. She could handle difficult patients; she had done it before, but Bucky Barnes seems different. Bucky has been through more than most people can even bear to think.

“Great pep talk, Sam. Very encouraging.” Natasha says, noting Lily’s sudden stiffness.

“Hey, I’m just being honest. We don’t want Barnes to scare her off, do we?” Sam says defensive.

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Alright, enough. Let’s get you set up before Bucky shows up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam says, waving them off. “Good luck, Doctor Lily. And let me know when you’re ready for that life changing meal.”

“I’ll tell you, Sam.” Lily chuckles, giving him a small nod before following Natasha down the hall.

As they walk away, Natasha smirks. “Sorry for him, he talks a lot.”

“He looks nice.”

“Yeah. He grows on you.” Natasha hums.

As they walk side by side Lily can’t help but feel the smallest bit comforted by Natasha’s presence. Is strange, considering she had been the one to drag her back into a life she put behind for a reason, but every step they take together lifts the weight on her chest, because despite having been two years it feels like the bond between them lingers. 

Their friendship hadn’t been immediately back then. At first Natasha had been more a presence than a friend, hovering close enough like a reminder for Lily that she was being watched and her in return had kept her distance, wary of the well-known Black Widow. But somehow between late-night conversations in the med bay, injuries stitched up in silence after Steve dragged her that ended with laughter, the wariness faded.

They had worked together, learned to read each other without more than shared glances.  Lily figured out Natasha’s way of affection, and Natasha learned Lily saw through built walls. Even after everything, it doesn’t feel like starting over but more like slipping back into something familiar, and it feels better with her here. Because from everything she had walked away from, this friendship isn’t something she regrets coming back to.

The deeper they walk, the quieter everything becomes. The medical bay is tucked away, separated from the living quarters and main areas. It makes sense for privacy and security, but it also feels a little too sterile and far from the warmth.

Natasha slows her pace slightly, glancing at Lily out of the corner of her eye. “You okay?”

Lily then nods. “Yeah.”

“It’s okay if you’re not, Lily.” Natasha says.

Lily forces a breath, it sounding barely like a laugh. “I know.”

She doesn’t seem convinced, but she doesn’t push it either. Natasha never does.

They turn a corner, finally stepping into the wide well-lit medical bay. Is fully stocked of everything a doctor could ask for: state-of-the-art equipment, untouched surface, well-advanced technology devices…

Natasha gestures toward the cabinets, giving her a quick rundown of where everything is.

“You’ve got everything you need here. Files, equipment, whatever. FRIDAY can pull any additional medical data you might need from SHIELD’s archives.”

Lily nods, absorbing it all, setting her bag down on the desk and running her fingers over it, and her eyes do a swift scanning of the room, getting in what is going to be her medical bay from now on. Then, by the far wall she sees a neatly arranged rack of folded medical white coats, and without thinking she’s crossing the room towards it, her fingers gently brushing the stiff fabric before selecting one in her size.

The crisp cotton slide over her arms with quiet familiarity and the last nerves in her chest are fully gone now. The coat feels like a natural reminder that she is a doctor, that a new environment, a new patient are things she has done before, and unconsciously she stands a little taller.

Natasha leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching her carefully.

“Wow, you didn’t lose a minute to start playing doctor again, huh?”

Lily huffs a laugh, smoothing the folds of the coat. “Well, I am a doctor.”

“And you’re a pretty good one,” Natasha says with a grin. “But listen, and I know we told you this already, but Bucky is not exactly gonna roll out the welcome mat.”

Lily nods. “I’m not expecting anything different for what I’ve heard.”

“I know,” Natasha smirks. “But maybe you want a last chance to back out before he actually gets here.”

Lily shakes her head, already busy taking from her bag Bucky’s file. “I’m not leaving.”

“Didn’t think so.” Natasha tilts her head with thoughtful expression. “He’s not an easy person to get through to, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. Just… don’t take it personally when he acts like he wants to bite your head off.”

Lily lets out a breathy laugh. “Noted.”

 “He’s not just grumpy, though. He’s… hesitant. You’ll see what I mean.”

She just nods, organizing her notes, even though she doesn’t need to because everything is already perfectly in place. And then, footsteps echo from down the hall, followed by a soft knock on the door.

“They here,” Natasha announces.

Lily runs her hands through her clothes, schooling her expression into something light and steady.

“Alright.” She speaks. “Come on in.”

The door swings open and Steve steps into view, giving Lily a reassuring smile as their eyes meet, and behind him, hesitating just for a second before stepping forward, Bucky Barnes.

Lily had seen pictures of him, but they were old ones. The man in front of her didn’t look like the sergeant she had spent days looking, studying.

He is taller than she expected, even broader, but she can notice that he carries himself in a way that makes him look both powerful and small at the same time, like he is trying to take up less space than he actually does. His hair is longer than in the photos, falling almost at his shoulders in waves, and his expression gives nothing away, just blank detachment, but his sharp blue eyes sweep over the room in quick, practiced motions like a threat scan before flicking toward her. Then, just as quickly, his gaze drops to the floor, his posture subtly closing in on itself more.

That is when Lily realizes that no matter how many patients she had dealt with before, she had never met someone like him. Bucky looks exhausted, not just in the physical sense, he looks tired down the bone. She recognizes the kind of exhaustion that no amount of sleep or rest can take way, the exhaustion tied to the core.

She swallows the instinct to react and try to soften the tension by reassuring him with words that wouldn’t mean a thing to him. Not yet at least.

Steve claps a hand on Bucky’s shoulder in what is probably meant to be reassuring but still makes him flinch.  “Bucky, this is Dr. Lily Bloom. She’s going to be working with you.”

Lily nods, resisting the urge to shift under their gaze. Instead, she straightens, keeping her hands at her side. She takes a small step forward, offering the guys a warm smile.

“Hello, Bucky,” she greets with a gentle voice. “Nice to meet you.”

Notes:

and just like that… lily and bucky have finally seen each other. what’s gonna happen now?? omg!! i’m so excited for you to watch their story slowly unfold.

Chapter 6: Between Doctor and Soldier

He has barely spoken a word since stepping into the medical bay. Even now as Steve nudges the conversation along, his silence settles over them.

"So, Bucky," Steve keeps going with a casual tone, "this is the part where you say hello."

Bucky exhales through his nose, like a quite sigh.

"Hello," he mutters, his gaze flicking to Lily for half a second before dropping back to the floor.

Lily's lips twitches, a bit of comfort going through her, because at least that's something.

Natasha grins from her spot, leaning toward Lily. "That might be the friendliest greeting you ever get from him. Treasure it."

Lily doesn't laugh though she wants to, because she can see the way Bucky's jaw tenses —the way something flickers behind his eyes— but he doesn't say anything, so she takes the opportunity to ease into the conversation.

"I know medical appointments aren't exactly anyone's idea of fun," she says, keeping her voice light, casual. "But I promise I'll make it as nice as possible."

Bucky doesn't answer that with words either, instead he lets a sharp exhale through his nose —a scoff. But Lily doesn't let it shake her.

"Before we do anything else, I'd like to go over your file with you," she continues, keeping her tone calm, steady. "Just to make sure everything is correct and up to date. That way, I can get a better idea of where to start and what we should focus on in our next meeting."

His fingers twitch at his sides, his voice coming rough and low. "Next meeting?"

Lily nods. "Today is just a starting point. No examinations, no tests, just making sure I have the right information. Just making sure it's accurate and seeing if there's anything I should be aware of before we move forward."

Bucky's gaze lands on the file and his shoulders tense a little at the sight. Steve seems to notice, because once again he puts his hand on his shoulders on attempt to reassure him.

"It's just a conversation, Buck." He says, and Bucky shots him a glare.

Natasha smirks. "You survived worse".

And Bucky shoots her an even worse glare. Lily surprises an amused smile at the interaction, sitting on the rolling chair at the desk and offering Bucky the chair next to her. He hesitates for a moment, like he isn't sure whether to relax or tense further, before finally giving a reluctant nod and moving to sit with her.

Steve gives them a small smile, before him and Natasha lean against the wall, keeping a rational space between them, like an attempt to give them some privacy.

Lily's fingers hover over the open file for a second before she finally folds her hands together, doing her best to keep her expression open and calm.

"Alright," she says lightly. "Let's start simple. Just making sure the basics are right."

Bucky shifts slightly in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest, but it doesn't make him look any less closed off. Still, after a moment, he gives a small, barely-there nod and Lily takes it as permission to start, so she glances down at the file.

"Full name: James Buchanan Barnes. You go by Bucky?"

A pause. Then, "Yes."

She makes a note. "Middle name spelled with an h?"

Another pause. He blinks, brow furrowing slightly, like his brain has caught on something. Then, he exhales through his nose. "Yes."

"Date of birth: March 10, 1917"

This time, a shorter pause. "Yes."

"And you were raised and lived on Brooklyn, New York, right?"

A pause. Then, gruffly, "Yeah."

Lily makes a note. "Parents: George and Winifred Barnes. Siblings: Rebecca Barnes."

Bucky's fingers flex slightly at the mention of his sister, but he gives a curt nod, which makes Lily hesitate briefly before moving on.

"Alright." She moves forward, trying to keep the conversation light where she can. "Next is height and weight. Are you about six foot, one hundred and..." She skims the number. "—forty?"

Bucky curls his fingers slightly against his bicep. "Maybe more now." He hesitates, gaze flickering downward, almost ashamed. "Don't know."

"That's fine. We can check it later." Lily assures him, noting at the file the remainder. "Have you noticed any recent weight loss or gain, though?"

There's a small twitch at his jaw, and then after a beat: "I don't—" He stops, with his brow knitted like he can't place the words he's looking for. "I don't... uh... pay attention to that. I guess."

And Lily just nods, unphased, because the last thing she wants right now is to make him close off. Not now that he's cooperating willing.

"No big worries," she smiles. "As I said we can check it other day."

Bucky nods but his fingers flex again like he is bracing himself for something worse, and there's a beat of silence.

"Medical history before everything—" Lily hesitates, briefly. "—before HYDRA. The file lists a few childhood illnesses and one broken arm at thirteen. Anything else?"

Bucky inhales slowly. Then, measuredly, "Scrapes. Bruises. The normal stuff."

Lily hums. "Military normal or childhood normal?"

The corner of his mouth twitch slightly, brief and gone in an instant. "Both."

"Fair enough. From when you enlisted in the Army in 1943. Assigned to the 107th Infantry, right?"

"Yes."

"Okay..." She makes another note. "And after?" She hesitates again, just a second. "After HYDRA?"

Bucky's expression closes off even more, exactly what she was trying to avoid. Lily facepalms herself mentally. His gaze drops fully to the floor, and his metal fingers curl against the armrest of the chair.

A long, heavy silence stretches between them, and they both can feel the gaze of Steve and Natasha not far from them. Lily presses her lips together, blaming herself for not having been able to choose other words. Her fingers fidget with the pen in her hands, and she takes a breath before giving what she hopes is a reassuring smile.

"Is okay, we don't have to go through that." She says in a gentle voice. "I have the file; I'll work with that."

Because the reports as little as there are, did list the injuries. All the repeated extensive procedures done to him, rather than for him.

Bucky doesn't fully relax at her words, but she thinks it is a good thing that he doesn't push back either.

"Alright." Lily flips the page. "Daily symptoms. Anything you deal with regularly? Any known allergies?"

Bucky blinks caught off guard by the abrupt shift. He frowns slightly, like he's thinking the answer "Uh... not that I know of."

"That's good." Lily smiles. "Any chronic pain, headaches, dizziness?"

"Pain." His fingers flex. Then, hesitantly, like he has to piece the words together he keeps talking. "Shoulder. Knee. Back. It—" His jaw tenses, like he has caught himself before saying arm. Instead, he gestures vaguely with his metal hand. "—hurts sometimes."

Lily nods again, her fingers moving swiftly across the page. "Alright. We'll keep an eye on that. What about headaches?"

"Sometimes."

"Frequent?"

Bucky hesitates before nodding.

"Okay. How's your sleep?"

Bucky lets out a short, humorless laugh. "It's not."

Lily's heart clenches, because it is obvious by the look on Bucky's face that he doesn't get any sleep. Everything from the sunken eyes to the bags under them give it away.

"Are you taking any medication?" she questions, aware of how soldiers do it when the nightmares are too much to sleep.

"Just... stuff to sleep."

She makes a note of it. "Do you remember what it's called?"

"I— it's just... it helps with—" He gestures vaguely, almost frustrated.

Lily gives him a moment, then steps in gently. "It's okay. I can check the records later."

Bucky looks away with his shoulders still stiff.

She keeps going, careful not to let the silence linger for too long again. "How's your appetite? Are you eating regularly?"

Bucky half-shrugs almost like confirmation but Steve coughs lightly at his action and he shoots him a glare.

Lily, despite everything, feels her lips twitch. "I'll take that as a 'sometimes.'"

Bucky doesn't confirm or deny it, and the corner of Natasha's mouth twitches in amusement while Steve keeps frowning disapprovingly. Lily uses the file to hide the amused smile she can't hide, before setting the pen aside.

"Okay, then, I think that's all for today." She speaks.

Bucky looks at her wearily, like he doesn't believe she's done, but Lily just nods offering him a small smile.

"Next time, we'll do a more thorough check-up. But for now, this helps me know where to start."

Bucky just glares at her, without responding, and that's when Steve approaches them, clapping his hands briefly.

"See, Bucky? Not so bad." He says proudly.

Bucky shoots him with a look of pure skepticism.

Natasha, still leaning against the wall, smirks. "I don't know, Barnes. I think you survived."

Bucky sighs, rubbing his temple. "Barely."

Lily chuckles softly, closing the file. "I'll see you next time, Bucky."

He hesitates for a second at her words and then, with a reluctant nod, he turns and walks out, like he has been waiting for the green light to run away all the time.

As the doors slid shut behind him, an almost imperceptible weight seems to lift from the room. Lily let's out a quiet breath, and rolls her shoulders, shaking off some of the tension and nerves still lingering from the meeting.

Steve and Natasha observe her, the silence lingering for a beat before Steve breaks it, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck.

"That went... as well as it could have," he says, offering Lily a small encouraging smile. "He showed up. He stayed. That's a win."

Lily nods, though she isn't sure she agrees. Bucky had been rigid the entire time, barely engaging, his discomfort palpable even without the subtle flinches at her glances. So even if he didn't put up a fight or run away, she doesn't think it counts if he looks like he wants to run away all the time.

Natasha approaches her, crossing her arms casually with a smirk that doesn't reach her eyes. "I'd say you survived the first round. He's a tough case, but you weren't scared off. That's a good sign."

Lily huffs a soft laugh, shaking her head. Natasha is right, she's not scared, although her heart is beating a little too fast after the encounter. She knows Bucky is not dangerous anymore, but he had been so closed off —so stiff— that it felt like Lily had caged a defenseless animal. Any wrong move would have sent him bolting.

"Give it time," Steve reassures. "Bucky's not great with new people. Or old people. Or people in general anymore, honestly." Natasha nods at that and Steve continues, his voice softer now. "But he stayed which is good enough. We just keep doing what we do."

Lily fidgets with the edges of the file, because she wants to believe Steve.

Natasha pushes off the counter and stretches. "We should let you get to it. You've got a lot to set up."

And with that they finally leave her to work. Alone Lily lets out a slow breath, running a hand through her face, and takes a couple of seconds to get herself together. Her gaze roams around the med bay, really taking it in now that she doesn't have to focus on anything else.

The place is sleek, advanced and with the latest technology, everything functional and pristine. She walks over to one of the medical tables, trailing her fingers across the smooth metal surface. The hum of the machinery being the only sound, low and distant and the harsh white light shining across the ceiling. Everything too bright, too blank and clinical. It was suffocating, it reminded fer far too much of there. Of that day.

For a moment she feels like she's trapped again with HYDRA, stripped of agency, her wrist raw under the restraints, cold light from a ceiling that never dimmed, voices barking orders in a language she barley understood and so much silence when they weren't hurting her or the others. A silence she wasn't allowed to break, in a lifeless, inhuman place that was once her safe space and end up being the place she broke piece by piece.

A shiver runs through her spine, and she needs to take a deep breath, gripping the table to ground herself, but the table is cold and metallic at the touch, like everything in there.

She lets go of the table, rubbing her hands together to gain some warm. Lily sighs, she has always hated coldness, and even more cool sleek surfaces that leak any kind of welcome, especially in a room meant for healing. That's why she asked for a cute wood desk back on her consult in the hospital. The place wasn't fancy, but rather small, slightly cluttered and a cozy chaos of coffee mugs, notebooks with folded corners and tiny plants pots on the windowsill; it had warmth, and her patients used to smile just walking in —like her.

That's what she wants there, she wants a space and a job that feels safe. She wants to make this on her own terms, for her sanity.

Lily crosses the room, walking over to the panel beside the doorway. She taps through the settings tentatively till the lighting is down to a dimmed warm glow, and the sharp edges of the walls look like they have retreated to something softer. Then, she walks back toward her new desk, and scrolls through the internal system's presets, finding the audio settings and clicking on it till soft music starts to play from the speakers tucked invisibly into the ceiling.

Lily walks around the room one more time, letting the warm tones settle around her. She allows herself to lean against one of the counters, closing her eyes, arm folded, breathing in the faintest shift in atmosphere. Yes, it is still a med bay meant for healing, science and some pain but she nods to herself, loving that is starting to feel less like a cage.

 

She's still mentally picturing how to make the med bay different even later that day, going through the shopping centre, arms full of essentials. She's cutting across the ground floor toward the grocery shop when a small flower stall tucked between a coffee shop and a bookstore makes her freeze.

The scent hits her, and then the sight: rows of daisies, bright roses, fresh soil and eucalyptus that reminded her of home —her family's flower shop looks just like this.

Her mom always has said that flowers softened the hardest rooms and made people remember they had hearts. She had spent half of her childhood under a canopy of green, brushing pollen from her jeans and learning how to keep things alive.

She blinks, with a breath catching in her throat. That's what the med bay needs, more than soft light and background noise, it needs to feel less like a place to endure and more like a place to exist in. So, she approaches the stall, and the florist looks up at her with a warm smile.

"Hello, darling." the woman smiles. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

Lily hesitates, then glances around at the array of flowers, the possibilities stretching before her.

"I'm not sure exactly what yet." she admits.

"It's okay, sweetheart," the woman reassures her. "You can take a look around."

Lily nods politely, feeling like for the first time in a long while a weight has been lifted from her chest. Like she's not longer pretending the past hasn't happened.

 

Notes:

ahhh!! we’ve finally reached Lily and Bucky’s very first interaction but he is so closed off and reluctant... will he ever accept this as his reality, or is he going to give lily a hard time forever? idk man, let yourself get some help.

Are y'all liking the story so far? If you are kudos and comments help a lot and make my day brighter. Thx<3

Chapter 7: Second Impressions

Notes:

sorry for any medical inaccuracies or if the check-ups don’t go exactly how they would in real life,,, everything’s based on internet research and my best effort.

The med bay was slowly becoming something different.

Not only because the overwhelming unnecessary white lights now glow with a soft golden hue. Now there’s a small potted plant on the windowsill, a tiny cactus and a delicate drooping string of pearls vine greenery but not greenery enough to get in the way of emergency protocols. She also placed a ceramic mug beside her clipboard and her favourite playlist on the speakers.

Lily has just finished adjusting a thrown pillow on the bench tucked against the wall, when she takes a few steps back, titling her head to appreciate her work and snapping a couple of photos to send to Charlie, who doesn’t miss the opportunity to poke fun at her, pointing out how her new facility now looks like it is being run by someone’s quirky, plant-loving aunt instead of a secret government facility.

She’s still laughing at his follow-up texts — “Please tell me you made a scented corner too” — when the hiss of the doors sliding open makes her glace up.

Natasha steps in, and once she takes in the scene slowly, her eyebrow raises  — like she isn’t entirely sure she just entered the right room.

“Wow” she says, pausing mid-step. “I thought you were a doctor, not an interior designer on a mission.”

“Oh, come on.” Lily snorts, tucking her phone away with a shake of her head. “I work better when I’m not surrounded by trauma-colored furniture and interrogation lighting.”

Natasha chuckles, leaning against the doorframe. “Is this your master plan for getting Bucky to open up? Drown him in oxygen and floral patterns?”

“Mental health is health,” She answers with a lopsided smile. “So yeah, I guess maybe it helps him too. But honestly this place was giving me the creeps. I felt like I was working in a giant fridge.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“I just… I don’t know,” Lily goes on, waving a hand around vaguely. “I want it to feel like is mine. I want to like spend time here, not just… show up.”

Natasha gives her a little smile, and Lily can see the flicker of understanding behind it. “Well, Lily, mission accomplished. Just make sure Stark doesn’t see this and has a meltdown over unauthorized redecorating in the lab he pays for.”

Lily rolls her eyes amused by her words, and Natsha turns toward the door.

“Anyway, I come to tell you about lunch. And if we don’t show up, Sam’s going to eat all the good stuff and leave us with that weird grain salad he pretends to like.”

Lily’s stomach lets out a soft growl at the mention of food, and she slips off her coat to follow Natasha down the hallways.

By the time they reach the kitchen, the warm scent of takeout already fills the space, and white paper bags are sprawled across the island, half-unpacked, with little grease spots at the corners. Sam stands behind the counter, sleeves push up to his elbows and a smug look on his face.

“Look who finally showed up,” he says, pulling a container out the bag and setting it on the counter. “Lady Plant.”

Lily narrows her eyes at him. “You promised not to call me that.”

“You brought it to herself by asking him to help you move things.” Natsha adds, snatching up a pair of chopsticks. “There are blankets in the med bay now, Sam. Actual, cozy, knitted blankets.”

Lily pulls a container of noodles toward herself, shaking her head. “It’s called creating a welcoming environment.”

“Listen, I respect it,” Sam says. “Med bay looks like someone lives there now. That’s more than it’s ever had before. You’re doing good.”

“Thanks.” Lily smiles, genuinely appreciating Sam liking of the renovated space. “I’ve been thinking of diffusing citrus oil in the afternoons. Uplifting and antibacterial.”

“I’m going to report you to Stark myself,” Natasha pokes, grinning.

The three of them sit around the tall kitchen island, peeling back containers and trading bites. Lily likes the new routine she’s getting into —working on her files, having lunch with the team, and doing routine checkups on them occasionally— because it feels familiar, in a strange, unexpected way.

The chatter from the rest of the floor fades into background noise as she looks around at the sunlight, the hum of casual conversation, the calm rhythm of a shared lunch. It’s simple, easy, and something she hadn’t realized she missed. The last few years had been so full of tension and survival mode that moments like this feel almost foreign.

And yet… she feels like she is slowly syncing with the place. With them.

Her eyes stop toward the far end of the room, scanning the nearby hallway, and noticing the familiar pair of broad shoulders missing.

“Hey,” she says twirling her noodles lazily. “Where are Steve and Bucky?”

Sam doesn’t look up from dripping a fry in ketchup. “Out on their daily brooding in sync walk. We saved them some bags of food, though.”

“Just their everyday schedule,” Natsha adds with a shrug, as if it the most normal thing in the world.

Lily snorts. “Well, I guess it beats hanging out under the fluorescent lights with me.”

Natasha looks at her, pausing mid dumpling bite. “Don’t let it get to you, Lily.”

“I’m just saying I haven’t seen him outside a lot. Does he ever leave his room?”

“He leaves,” Sam says with a nod. “Just… selectively. Mostly when Steve drags him out. Sometimes for runs. Occasionally for food. Never for fun.”

“He’s not the exactly the brunch type,” Natsha adds, sipping from her water bottle. “Thought, to be fair, neither I am.”

“At least you know how to sit still enough to eat something that isn’t protein powder.” Sam says, nudging Natasha with his elbow.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Natasha replies, deadpan.

Lily laughs quietly, the kind of chuckle that slips out when you realize you’re actually having a good time. She picks up her fork with noodles, giving it a big bite and chewing thoughtfully, then leans back a little in her chair.

Her eyes drift to the clock, and a flicker of nerves rises in her chest when she remembers Bucky’s next check-up is probably later that afternoon. She’d prepped everything —double-checked supplies, adjusted the lighting, even snuck in a new diffuser with a lavender blend that reminded her of early spring mornings at home.

“I’m just hoping,” Lily says after a beat, “that Bucky doesn’t immediately walk in, stares, and walks right back out.”

“Oh, he’ll stare,” Natasha says, finishing off her container. “That man has mastered the art of dramatic silence. But hey, at least you’ve given him new décor to silently judge.”

“Progress,” Sam says, raising his drink like a toast.

Lily huffs a small laugh, then clinks her bottle against his.

She returns to the med bay an hour later, feeling a quiet sense of belonging beneath her skin. She slides her white coat on —clicking her back into her role and getting straight to work. She straightens the collar, checks the screen of her tablet for the day’s notes and glances once more around the room.

The place is brighter now, less sterile and stiff. The new lighting, the plants, and the soft playlist currently playing some mellow instrumental track making the whole place feel lived in.

A few minutes later, there’s a knock, soft and measured, the door swipe open and Steve pokes his head in, followed by Bucky.

“Hey,” Steve greets. “He’s here for his check-up.”

Lily smiles gently. “Right on time.”

Bucky steps inside with that same stoic expression she’s beginning to associate with his default setting. Steve steps after him, casting a quick glance around the room and then he stops in his tracks, eyebrows raised.

“Wow,” Steve says, turning in place. “This looks… completely different.”

Lily looks up from her tablet, her posture straightening just a little. “In a good way, I hope.”

“Definitely,” Steve says with a small grin. “You made it feel… less like a lab and more like a place I will want to be in.”

Lily smiles, something warm blooming in her chest. “That’s the goal.”

Then Bucky walks further. His gaze sweeping the room, slow and careful — from the plants on the window ledge, to the soft lights overhead, to the low bench now softened with cushions. His eyes briefly touch the shelves now stocked with tidy, colourful boxes and glass jars. But he says nothing. Just moves past the threshold and stands near the examination chair like he hasn’t noticed anything at all.

Lily’s smile falters for just a second. Just a flicker. She turns her eyes back to Steve, clinging to the praise he has offered.

Steve catches the shift —because of course he does— and gives her a quiet, encouraging look.

“I could bring something later to add to this new home.” He says, offering her a warm half-smile. “Got a few things I need to take care of, and I can bring one of the records you like when I’m done.”

Lily’s pulse gives a small jump. “You’re leaving now?”

“You mind?”

She opens her mouth with the instinct to ask Steve to stay just a little longer but before she can, Bucky mutters:

“We can stay alone. I don’t need a babysitter.”

Not cruel, just flat. Defensive.

Lily’s mouth closes immediately. Her tongue presses to the back of her teeth, holding back whatever she almost said. Because if she asks Steve to stay now, he’ll think she doesn’t trust him, and that will just make things worse.

So she forces a small, composed smile and looks back at Steve. “Sure. We’ll be fine.”

Steve studies her for a beat, understanding flickering behind his eyes. Then he nods, the quiet encouragement still in his voice. “You will.” He pats Bucky’s shoulder. “Don’t make her work too hard, pal.”

And then he’s gone. The door closes behind him, and she stays alone with the Winter Soldier.

She gives Bucky a polite, professional smile. “Alright. Today we’re just filling in a few blanks on your file. Height, weight, resting vitals… you know, all the exciting stuff.”

Bucky gives a shallow nod.

She gestures toward the scale. “Shoes off, please.”

He steps forward, heavy boots thudding softly on the floor. He doesn’t rush but he doesn’t hesitate either. His movements are deliberate, like he is being watched even when he isn’t. He steps up, foots and body heavy against the platform.

She taps his height into the tablet and glances up, squinting with mock scrutiny. “Well, looks like the file wasn’t lying, you’re still around six foot, one hundred and forty. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you didn’t grow an extra inch since then.”

She chuckles briefly, trying to light up the room, but nothing comes from him. Not even a tiny, almost imperceptible shrug, or a flicker of amusement.

“Alright,” she murmurs, tapping a few notes on the tablet. “Let’s check weight next.”

He steps onto the second platform without being told, movements quiet, obedient, distant. She waits for the number to stabilize, pretending to study it.

“Mhm, that’s good,” she says softly, keeping her tone light. “Weight’s fine. Guess they’ve been generous with the food here, huh?”

Bucky gives her nothing back. Not even a sound or a look. Just the steady, heavy silence between them.

Lily clears her throat, trying to smooth the air again. “Okay. You can step down. Vital signs are next.”

She gestures to the chair near the exam table —the one with actual cushions this time— and he sits stiffly, arms crossed until she needs one. Even then, he unrolls his sleeve with precision, offering the flesh-and-blood arm rather than the metal one. His resting heart rate blinks steadily on the monitor —strong, consistent, unnervingly calm.

“Okay, that’s just showing off,” Lily murmurs amused, scribbling the numbers into her notes. “Most people’s resting rate spikes just from me pulling out the monitor.”

Still nothing. She tries again, keeping her voice light. “I mean, not that I’m bitter, but if you ever want to share your stress-management techniques, I’m all ears.”

Bucky sits there in silence, his expression unreadable. His jaw tight, back straight, posture alert like he expects someone to jump out of a corner. Once she’s done, he rolls his sleeve back down wordlessly.

She tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear and offers a small, encouraging smile, while smoothing her hands down her white coat. Then she pushes forward gently, the way you might approach a wild animal that hadn’t yet decided whether you are a threat.

"Okay," she says, soft and even. "Let's just do a quick cognitive and motor skills check. No touching, I promise. You just follow my lead."

Bucky gives a slight tilt of his chin —permission, not enthusiasm— and she pulls out a small penlight, clicking it once to test it, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

"Follow the light with your eyes only, okay?"

She moves the light slowly from side to side, up and down, diagonal to diagonal.
His eyes track it — sharp, precise — but Lily noticed how much effort seems to go into it. Tiny delays when she changes direction. An almost imperceptible twitch in his brow, like his brain has to work harder than it should to keep up.

She hides her concern behind a neutral smile, making a few quick taps on her tablet.

"Great," she says warmly. "Now, can you stand up and walk straight from here to the door and back? Just a basic balance check."

Bucky stands — no hesitation there — but as he walks, Lily catches a faint stiffness in the way his right foot moves. Not a limp, exactly, but something mechanical, over-corrected, like he is overthinking every step to make sure it looked natural, so she taps on her tablet again.

(Note: Slight asymmetry in gait. Possible neurological component.)

He returns to the table and stands waiting, tense but compliant.

"Almost done," Lily promises, tucking the penlight away. "Just a few quick questions."

Bucky gives a grunt. It could have been 'okay.' Hard to tell.

She keeps her voice light. "Can you tell me your full name?"

A pause —not refusal, but a lag.

"James Buchanan Barnes," he says at last, the syllables a little heavier than they should have been.

"And where are you right now?"

"Avengers facility. New York."

"And current year?"

Another flicker of hesitation, less than before but enough for Lily’s trained senses to catch.

"Twenty sixteen" he answers correctly. But it comes with a slight compression of his lips, like he knows it has taken him a fraction too long.

"Perfect," she says gently.

She flips the tablet closed, pretending she hasn’t seen the little signs: small processing delays, slight word retrieval pauses, mechanical movements that hinted at old injuries the serum hadn't fully erased —residual trauma from electroshock therapy. Neural damage HYDRA had carved into him. It wouldn’t be obvious to most, but Lily was trained to catch ghosts others missed.

Lily taps a final note on her tablet, then looks up at him with a smile again —real and kind.

"Alright, that’s it for today," she says, keeping her voice light. "Same time tomorrow, if that works for you?"

Bucky gives a faint nod. “Yes.”

Lily hesitates, then carefully ads, "If there’s anything I can do to make this easier, just let me know."

For a brief moment, their eyes meet —his blue gaze cool and unreadable— before he pulls away again.

"I'm fine," he mutters, voice flat. And without waiting for dismissal, he turns and heads for the door.

As the door swipes closed behind her, Lily lets out a slow breath she hasn’t realized she was holding and allows herself drop at the bench tucked against the wall, moving the pillows away. She stares at the pillow on her hands, at the soft lamplight she had added, at the potted plant on the windowsill —at all the little changes she had made, believing they would help make this a safe place, at least to her.

But Bucky hadn’t said a word, not a look, not a comment.

Lily exhales quietly, dropping the pillow and rubbing her face with her hands.

“It’s fine,” she tells herself, rolling her shoulders back. “It wasn’t for him anyway. Not really.”

Maybe tomorrow would be better. Maybe it just needs more time.

Pushing the thought aside, she straights up, her fingers moving almost automatically as she pulls up the session notes and begins reviewing them.

Height, weight, blood pressure are all within expected ranges, and the mental alertness questions are mostly fine, but with subtle hesitation on naming tasks and facial expressions... something to look into more closely.

The quiet hum of the med bay settles around her as she works, the soft background music still playing low from the speakers. Lily taps her pen against her notepad thoughtfully, already planning how to approach tomorrow's session.

Everything is going to be alright. This is just the beginning.

And by the time Lily finally leaves the med bay that night, she feels lighter, convinced she is on the right track.

Chapter 8: Sharp Edges

Lily couldn’t have been more wrong; and the days had started to blur into a pattern.

More than a week slipped by, each meeting with Bucky as stiff and awkward as the first. No matter what Lily tried —no matter how warmly she arranged the med bay, how careful and patient she was— it made no difference.

Every session brought some new small tasks. New approaches. New hope that maybe this time will be the breakthrough.

One day, she ran a flexibility and joint mobility test, checking the range of motion in both his arms. Bucky moved mechanically through the exercises with perfect angles, silent and precise, but his metal arm was rigid, tension locked in every muscle of his flesh side too, like he was bracing himself for something that never came.

Another day, she had him do a basic endurance test on the treadmill. Just a few minutes of walking to monitor heart rate recovery and stamina. He complied without complaint, his steps controlled and steady, but he never met her eyes once. At the end, she offered him a towel and a bottle of water with a small smile; he took it without a word.

There was a session focused entirely on cognitive pattern recognition —memory cards, quick problem-solving questions. Bucky’s answers were correct, but slow sometimes, as if dragging through fog. And every time she asked him to name something — even simple, familiar things — she saw a tiny flicker of frustration cross his features before he clamped it down.

Lily made discreet notes about it. A warning sign. A possible anomic aphasia.

Even once, in a lighter moment, she tried a simple grip strength test. She handed him the little dynamometer, teasing gently, “Now, don’t break it. I don’t want my first meeting with Tony Stark to be a scolding about his tech.”

Bucky gave the barest huff of air, something that sounded like maybe the ghost of a chuckle, but that was gone so fast Lily almost doubted it had happened at all.

And always, after the tests were done, there was that heavy, aching silence. No comments about the med bay, no signs that he noticed the new soft lights, the warm colours —the little touches of comfort she had brought in.

Sometimes, she thought she caught him glancing at the plants in the windowsill, staring at the pillows on the bench, or trying to pay attention to the background music. But if he noticed, he never said a word, and Lily buried her disappointment deep each time in the same heavy aching silence.

And today isn’t any different, she realizes. Or at least, it hasn’t started that way.

Today’s check-up is a full muscular-skeletal evaluation —posture, alignment, old scar tissue, mobility through his shoulders and spine.

Lily moves slowly, explaining every step in a calm, even voice. Always giving him time to nod —to brace— before she does even the lightest approach. But it is like looking at a beaten dog. Bucky flinches at the slightest approach, with tension radiating from him like heat. Yet, he stays still, grim and coiled, but staying.

Lily adjusts her stance, reaching gently to assess his shoulder alignment — a simple, quick extent of her hand — and without meaning to, her fingers brush against the sleek plates of his metal shoulder.

Bucky jerks away like she has struck him, his chest rinsing and falling, shallow and fast, and at that moment she sees something raw flash across his face —panic, fear— before he crushes it under anger like a lid slamming shut.

“I said I can’t—” he snaps, harsher now, voice fraying at the edges. He shakes his head, almost like trying to physically throw off the feeling. “This— this is a mistake! I told Steve it was a mistake!”

"Bucky—" Lily says carefully, lifting her hands in a peacekeeping gesture, keeping her distance. But he is already unravelling.

"You can't fix this! You can’t—" he chokes, frustration breaking through the cracks. "You think... you think plants and pillows are gonna fix me?!" His voice cracks slightly at the end, raw and vicious at himself.

The words hit Lily harder than if he had yelled. So he has noticed. He has seen the changes and how much she is trying and decided to no comment on it. On purpose.

Bucky’s breathing is ragged now, chest heaving. His fists clench at his sides, the metal one flexing like it doesn’t belong to him, like he’s resisting the urge to hit something —or someone— or himself. There’s a sharpness to his stillness now, an edge like coiled wire pulled too tight.

Lily steps forward, not even a full step, just a weight shift instinctive and subtle, but it’s too much for him.

“Don’t—!” he shouts, his voice raw. “Don’t come near me!”

It tears out of him like a reflex, a warning bark from something cornered and scared. His eyes are wide and wild, flicking around the room like he’s measuring exits. His posture is pure defense now, with tight shoulders and locked jaw —like every muscle is bracing for impact. And for a moment, he’s not a man in a med bay but a prisoner again.

She doesn’t move.

Bucky keeps breathing hard, chest rising and falling fast. Fists clenched at his sides, the metal one flexing restlessly like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

"You’re wasting your time," he mutters, almost to himself now, voice bitter and low.
"I’m not— I'm not something you fix."

And before she can find the right words or any ones at all, he is already moving and storming out of the med bay, leaving Lily standing alone, frozen.

She blinks once, twice, forcing down the sharp sting at the back of her throat. Her hand hovers uselessly at her side, the ache in her chest so heavy it feels like it is pinning her to the spot, and the scent of clean linens, the soft music still humming from the speakers, the neat little comforts she had fought so hard to create feel so laughably small now.

She presses her lips together hard, willing herself to breathe through the heavy, aching frustration knotting in her chest.

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” She mutters to herself like a mantra. “It’s just a bad day. He’s scared. He’s not angry at you.”

But the tightness in her chest doesn’t ease, and her hands are trembling now, the clipboard rattling softly against her fingers.

The room —the one she has worked so hard to make warm and welcoming— suddenly feels too small, the walls pressing in. The soft music she'd left playing is like a buzzing in her ears, meaningless and far away.

“He’s right. You’re wasting your time.” A voice tells her inside her head.

The thought hits her like a punch, and then the rest comes crashing down — everything she has poured into this place, everything she had tried to build to make this new chance worthy, all the efforts she has made to make herself go back to a life she once loved; and how none of it mattered because he didn’t want her help. Didn’t even want her nearby.

A sharp, helpless breath shudders out of her and her vision blurry at the edges, realizing with cold, sinking panic that she needs to get out.

She grabs her things with clumsy hands, heart hammering against her ribs, and practically runs for the door, barely registering the hallways as she stumbles through, head down —just trying to hold herself together for another second.

She collides straight into a solid wall of muscle and fabric.

Steve.

He catches her instinctively, strong hands steadying her by the shoulders.

"Lily?"

His voice is low and careful, and she hears it, distantly, through the rushing in her ears. She can’t answer, so she just blinks up at him, panic plain on her face, and Steve immediately softens.

"Hey. Hey, it’s okay. Come here, let's get you out of the hallway."

He gently guides her toward a quieter spot, away from the too-bright lights, while Lily fights the burning shame building behind her eyes.

Steve leads her into a small lounge just off the hallway and seats her down onto a couch without letting go. Like he isn’t sure she won’t just bolt again.

Lily sits stiffly at first, breathing too fast, her hands twisting into the fabric of her coat. She is shaking and trying so, so hard to stop, to be composed —to be professional.

But it is useless, because the second she feels the weight of Steve sitting beside her, solid and steady and not judging, something inside her cracks.

"I can't—" she gasps out, voice breaking into a sob she can’t stop.

She buries her face in her hands, the tears spilling over before she can even try to hold them back. Humiliation and frustration tingling into a knot so tight it hurts.

Steve doesn’t say anything at first. He just sits there with her, his presence calm and grounding.

"It's not working," Lily chokes out, words tumbling over each other. "I tried— I keep trying— but Bucky just— he doesn’t want to heal, he doesn’t want to trust me, and maybe he never will. Maybe I’m just making everything worse—"

Her voice hitches again, and she presses her palms harder against her face like she can physically stuff the feelings back in.

Steve waits a beat, letting her spill it all out, before speaking quietly, steady as ever:
"You’re not making it worse, Lily."

She shakes her head fiercely, not even lifting it. "You don’t know that. You don't. I thought if I made things nicer, if I showed him he was safe… If I just kept pushing— but it’s not enough. I’m not enough."

Her voice breaks completely on that last word.

Steve exhales slowly, a sound full of weight and understanding. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, speaking low so she can hear but doesn’t feel overwhelmed.

"Don’t say that. You’re helping us a lot. You are enough," he says. “You are hopeful. Brave. Stubborn as hell."

Lily gives a bitter, broken laugh. "You’re wrong. I thought— I thought if I just worked harder, if I just cared more— but it doesn’t matter. It never matters."

Her hands fist against her knees, nails digging into the fabric of her pants.

"I tried so hard before, too," she whispers, almost to herself. "Back then. I was so sure I could help. I was so stupid. Thought if I just kept believing hard enough, it would make a difference. And it didn’t matter. It was all a lie. Everything was a lie.”

She means HYDRA, of course. The false missions, the false people, the way they’d ripped apart everything she’d believed she was building, with every good thing she thought she'd made.

Steve shifts closer —not pushing, just being there.

"It wasn’t a lie that you cared," he says, voice low and steady. "It wasn’t a lie that you fought for people. That you still do."

She stares down at her hands, silent, struggling to breathe past the guilt and grief pressing on her chest.

Steve presses on, gentler now: "You helped me once when nobody else could reach me, Lily. When I woke up, I was scared. Angry. Lost. I didn’t trust anyone. Not even myself. It took a long time before I let anyone in."

He smiles a little, softer now.

"But you? You didn’t give up on me. You were just... there. Patient. Real. You helped me remember there was a world worth living in again. That maybe I could belong."

Lily swallows hard, a new wave of emotion rising in her chest.

"And Nat," Steve adds, chuckling under his breath. "You got Natasha Romanoff to like you. Trust you.”

A shaky, disbelieving laugh breaks out of Lily before she can stop it, wet and half-choked but real. Steve smiles at her, slowly reaching out and offering a hand, palm up —never pushing her. After a shaky breath, Lily puts her hand in his.

"You are still that person. The same person that told me that healing isn’t a straight line. It's messy, it’s ugly, and it hurts. But it's not about you fixing me, or Bucky. It's about being there when we’re ready to fix ourselves.”

Steve squeezes her hand gently, before adding, voice careful:

"And maybe... you need to be there for yourself a little too."

Lily looks at him, exhausted but listening.

"Take a day off," Steve says. "Tomorrow. Rest. Get out of this place for a while. You’ll be better after it."

Lily opens her mouth to protest automatically, torn between guilt and the aching need for a break, but Steve just gives her a look. The Captain America look that means don’t even think about arguing.

Lily lets out a long, shaky breath, feeling the fight drain out of her.

"...Okay," she whispers, voice hoarse but honest. "Tomorrow."

Steve smiles and tugs at her hand, taking her in a half hug that makes Lily exhale exhausted.

"You’re stubborn," he says again, with real affection. "Always have been. It’s your best damn quality. Don’t you dare lose it."

And somehow, against all odds, Lily feels just for a second like maybe she can hold onto it after all.

Chapter 9: The Epiphany

As Steve has suggested, or more like ordered, Lily is officially taking the day off, founding herself crammed into the passenger seat of Charlie’s new car, sunglasses sliding down her nose, a coffee in one hand and a grumpy scowl on her face.

"I mean, seriously," Lily huffs, gesturing wildly with her coffee cup. "You’d think at some point he would at least pretend to meet me halfway. I’m not asking for miracles, just basic human decency! Maybe a nod! A grunt that doesn't sound like he wants to throw me across the room!"

Charlie just laughs, one hand on the wheel, the other flipping on the blinker. "You’re obsessed."

"I am concerned," she corrects sharply.

"You’re obsessed and you need a hobby," Charlie says, grinning at her over the rim of his sunglasses. "Preferably one that doesn’t involve emotionally constipated super soldiers."

"I already have plenty of hobbies," Lily frowns.

Charlie snorts. "Yeah, well. Today your hobby is watching baseball and not thinking about your grumpy murder patient. Captain America’s orders."

Lily opens her mouth to argue, then closes it again with a dramatic sigh, slumping back against the seat. When they finally pull into the stadium parking lot, she gives him a sideways look, smirking.

"You know, you could’ve just said you wanted to drag your big sister along because you’re too much of a total loser to hang out with your crush alone."

Charlie gasps in mock offense, clutching at his chest like he’d been shot. "I can't believe you’d say that to me."

"I can," Lily deadpans, hopping out of the car.

She tosses her empty coffee cup into a trash can with a perfect flick of the wrist. "Don't worry, Chaz. I’ll make sure to embarrass you thoroughly in front of him. Real big-sister energy."

"You’re evil," Charlie mutters under his breath, but he is laughing as they cross the lot.

Near one of the stadium entrances, a small group is already gathered —three people roughly Charlie’s age, all casual jeans, sneakers, and sun-bright smiles.

Jack is easy to pick out —tall, a little awkward but cute in a way that makes Lily’s big sister instincts twitch. Standing next to him is a petite girl with blonde curls and sharp blue eyes (Charlotte, she’ll learn), and a taller guy with messy black hair and a mischievous grin (Edward).

"Lily, these are my friends," Charlie says. "Jack, Charlotte, Edward this is my sister, Lily."

Jack offers a small wave. "Hey, Charles. Glad you two could come."

“He calls you Charles?” Lily says with disapproval, low enough just for Charlie to hear. Then flashes a grin and nudges Jack lightly. "Nice to meet you. Thanks for letting me crash your little date.”

Edward laughs. Charlotte smirks. Jack looks visibly confused. And Charlie looks like he might actually abandon her at the pretzel stand later.

They shuffle through the crowd toward the gates, buzzing with easy chatter and jokes, getting their tickets scanned. The whole building hums with excitement. Inside, the scent of pretzels, hot dogs, popcorn, and sun-warmed concrete wraps around them, familiar and dizzying all at once.

They find their seats —a good row, high enough to see the whole field but close enough to still catch the players' shouts. Charlie and Jack settle beside each other (of course), Edward plopping down on Jack’s other side, and Charlotte squeezing in next to him, leaving Lily at the end of the row with a clear view of everything.

The game blurs into a flurry of colour and noise.

Lily has forgotten how loud baseball crowds can get —the cheers, the groans, the buzzing energy rising and falling with every pitch. At first, she sits stiffly, hands wrapped around her bottle of water, answering Charlotte’s friendly questions and laughing politely at Edward’s terrible jokes. But somewhere between the third and fourth innings, the crack of a home run sends the entire section into wild, collective celebration, and Lily finds herself jumping to her feet with everyone else, yelling at the top of her lungs without even thinking.

Charlie tosses a bag of popcorn at her; she catches it one-handed with a triumphant grin. Jack accidentally spills soda on his jeans trying to high-five Charlotte. Edward boos the wrong team by mistake and gets smacked with a foam finger for it.

They share pretzels the size of dinner plates, get into a heated debate about who has the better mascot, and cheer way too loudly for a team none of them actually care about. The sun starts dipping low, casting a golden haze across the stadium, the kind of light that makes everything feel softer, warmer.

By the time the middle break rolls around, Lily has shed the last bits of tension clinging to her shoulders. She slumps back into her seat, breathing in the heavy, sun-baked air, feeling light-headed but happy.

Charlie leans over, nudging her with his elbow. "See?" he says smugly. "Told you you needed this."

Lily rolls her eyes dramatically but can’t hide the smile tugging at her mouth. "Okay, okay, fine. I’ll admit it. This was slightly better than lying face-down in my apartment feeling sorry for myself."

"High praise," Charlie says with a mock bow.

Jack stretches and nudges Charlie with his elbow, a grin pulling at his mouth."Hey, wanna come with me? I think I’m gonna grab more food before the lines get crazy."

Charlie lights up like a Christmas tree trying not to look like he’s lighting up. He mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "Yeah, sure, totally," and springs to his feet so fast he nearly knocks over someone’s giant foam finger.

Lily watches all of this with the deadpan patience of an older sibling, and the second Charlie turns his back, she leans toward him with an innocent smile.

"So," she says under her breath, low enough that only Charlie hears, "almost tripping like a pup over treats for him, huh? Real smooth."

Charlie flips her off discreetly behind his back as he trails after Jack toward the food stalls. Lily cackles softly and sits back, feeling lighter than she has in days.

Edward and Charlotte quickly descend into a loud, sarcastic debate about the merits of stadium hot dogs versus pretzels, leaving Lily alone with her thoughts. She stretches out her legs, folding her arms behind her head, and lets the sounds of the stadium wash over her, the warm buzz of conversation, the rumble of announcements over the speakers, the crack of a bat hitting a ball in the distance.

She closes her eyes for a second, just breathing it in the smell of popcorn, fried onions, and sunscreen. When she opens her eyes again, she spots something happening close to the field.

A baseball player still in full uniform, dirt on his knees and cap pushed back on his head crouches by the fence. He’s trying to coax his young daughter into taking a photo with him and the team’s mascot —a bright green bird with a ridiculous foam beak and floppy feet, but the kid is having none of it.

One look at the mascot, and the kid starts wailing real, loud, stomach-clenching sobs. She clutches her dad's leg like her life depends on it, screaming like the mascot is going to eat her.

Lily straightens a little in her seat, watching how the father tries to calm her down, murmuring reassurances that don’t seem to be working. The mascot backs away, arms raised in a cartoonish "no harm" gesture and then —in a move that seems to Lily both spontaneous and deeply human— the mascot carefully removes one giant foam glove, and the woman underneath wiggles her fingers and waves, a sheepish, real smile breaking through the costume.

The little girl hiccups mid-sob, staring. The dad kneels, whispering something into her ear, pointing gently at the woman and slowly, the kid peeks out from behind her father's leg realizing there’s just a person there. Not a monster. Not something to fear.

A beat passes and then the little girl edges forward and taps the woman’s hand with her tiny finger, rippling laughter and soft applause from the nearby crowd.
The woman behind the custom beams and the dad swoops his daughter into his arms, spinning her in a big goofy circle while the mascot —now still half-in-costume— laughs along.

The photo gets taken and the moment passes. But Lily sits frozen, something heavy and aching blooming inside her. Her fingers tighten around her soda cup as the thought blooms, clear and painful, of how she’s been doing it wrong.

Bucky doesn’t need another professional. Not another doctor, another fixer. Not someone assessing him, diagnosing him, treating him like a puzzle to be solved. What he needs is a human being who sees him not as a mission, but as a man. He needs to see her for what she really is —just a person. Not a monster under a costume. Not a mask.

Her heart pounds as if she’s just run the bases herself and Lily leans forward, elbows on her knees, head spinning.

Charlie and Jack return moments later, arms full of nachos piled precariously high, and sodas. Without thinking, Lily shoots to her feet, nearly sending her seat flipping backward.

"I figured it out," she blurts, grabbing Charlie’s hoodie sleeve.

Charlie startles so hard he almost drops the nachos. He stares at her like she’s grown a second head. "What the hell are you talking about? Are you okay?"

"I figured it out!" Lily insists, beaming, practically vibrating with adrenaline.

Charlie gives her the same look you give a feral cat that just wandered onto your porch with a live pigeon in its mouth. Jack snorts into his soda. Charlotte and Edward glance over briefly, but seem content to let Lily have whatever crisis this is.

"You’re scaring me," Charlie says again, quieter now, like he’s bracing for her to combust in public.

But Lily just laughs —a real, breathless, bright laugh — and bounces back onto her heels, not caring in the slightest how crazy she must look.

Chapter 10: Bittersweet Tea

The compound halls stretch long and quiet around him, lights low, footsteps swallowed by the endless corridors, but Bucky keeps walking anyway. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He just knows he can’t sit still, because if he stops moving, the thoughts will catch him.

Each corner he turns pulls another memory to the surface. The med bay. The checkups. The way Lily had tried even when he gave her nothing back. The careful questions, the steady patience, the gentle hands that never pushed too hard. The way she smiled like she wasn’t scared of him. Like she could see past the wreckage.

Bucky grits his teeth and shoves his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, the memory of how he pushed her away; snapped at her. He had treated her like she was the enemy when she was just trying to help creeping into his mind.

The air feels heavy in his lungs.

He’d felt it building, that slow pressure under his skin, every time she looked at him like he was worth saving. He couldn’t let it happen. He couldn’t afford to need something he was only going to break. And then the last session —the moment she brushed against his metal arm, and he’d recoiled like she’d burned him.

He still hears his own voice, harsh and cruel in the sterile air. “This is a mistake. You’re wasting your time.”

And Lily, standing there stunned, trying so hard not to let it show that he’d hurt her.

A knot forms in his throat.

Steve had found him later and cornered him with that familiar mix of disappointment and stubborn hope only he can pull off.

“Was that really necessary?”

Bucky hadn’t looked at him. He’d been in the gym again, hand throbbing from hitting the wall instead of the bag.

“Don’t start.” Bucky had muttered.

“She was doing her job,” Steve said, stepping into the room. “Lily wasn’t trying to hurt you. And you made her cry.”

That had made Bucky freeze.

“I found her in the hallway outside the med bay, trying not to fall apart.” Steve continued. “She thought you hated her. Said she didn’t know what she did wrong. And even then, even when I told her it wasn’t her fault, she still tried to defend you and said it is her.”

“I didn’t mean to…” Bucky had said softly, more to himself than Steve.

“But you did,” Steve had crossed his arms then, watching him carefully. “And I’m not saying you gotta spill your soul to her. Hell, I know it’s not that simple. But punishing the people who try to care about you? That’s not survival anymore. That’s just cruelty.”

Bucky had said nothing. Because he didn’t know how to explain the panic that had cracked through him, like he was being flayed open. Like something dangerous inside him might rise the moment she touched him.

“She’s not the enemy, Buck,” Steve had said, quieter now. “She’s not trying to control you. She’s trying to help. You don’t have to let her in all at once, but you gotta stop punishing her for trying. She didn’t ask for this either, I begged her to do it.”

Bucky had just nodded and said whatever else Steve needed to hear just to get him to leave him alone, but deep down he knew it was too late, because Lily didn’t come back the next day.

He makes his way toward the far wing, where the training rooms and sparring arenas are. The low thud of his boots on the floor echoes around him.

It was stupid to think he deserved a second chance anyway. Stupid to think he could be anything more than the monster HYDRA made. Even now being free, aware and trying, he ruins everything he touches. Of course he’d ruined this too.

The changes she made to the med bay flicker through his mind, the little pieces of life shoved into a place that had once been all cold steel and sterile walls.

He hadn’t said anything, of course. Hadn't even looked too hard. Acknowledging it would’ve made it real and making it real would’ve made it matter. So he'd kept his eyes down, arms crossed when he could get away with it, pretending not to notice how the air didn’t smell like antiseptic anymore but like flowers and clean linen.

The shame twists in his gut.

She had tried to meet him halfway — more than halfway — and he didn’t even have the decency to acknowledge it. Maybe a different man would have said something, would had thanked her, or apologized. But he isn’t that man.

He drifts into the kitchen without thinking, drawn by habit more than hunger.

The lights are dimmed, the space mostly empty —the others probably training. Bucky steps inside, the ache in his chest twisting tighter, wondering how long it’ll take before the team gives up on him too, and he’s kicked out of this place.

And then he freezes.

Because she's there. Lily is there.

Lily stands by the counter, moving with an easy, almost careless rhythm, humming softly under her breath as she prepares something at the stove, her back to him.

For one raw second, Bucky stops breathing and braces for it. For the moment she'll turn around, see him and it all will come crashing down. She’ll yell. Tell him to get the hell away from her. That he has ruined it. That he’s just as bad as he’s always feared: too broken to be saved, not worth the effort. And he knows he deserves it.

But when Lily finally turns, and notices him standing there, frozen at the door, she just smiles like seeing him here is the most normal thing in the world.

“Oh hey,” she says, cheerful and casual. “I made tea. And there are cookies too. If you want some.”

Bucky blinks and for a second, he honestly thinks he’s hallucinating. There’s no way Lily is back offering him tea and cookies, instead of anger, disappointment or fear.

He shifts his weight uneasily, torn between retreating and waiting for the real blow to land. But Lily doesn’t move closer, she simply turns back to her task, pulling two mismatched mugs down from the cupboard.

Bucky hesitates, opening his mouth to protest automatically, but then Lily starts talking again.

"Chamomile’s my mom’s favorite," she says lightly, filling the mugs with steaming water. "My dad always makes it for her when she's had a rough day. Kind of their little ritual. He says it fixes everything if you let it."

She chuckles quietly, shaking her head at the memory. And Bucky... Bucky doesn’t know what to do with that.

No one at the compound talks about themselves like this. Not around him. Not ever. People walk on eggshells around him, their words too careful, their faces too guarded. Even the ones who mean well keep a safe distance.

But not her, Lily just talks. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal.

He notices, absently, that she’s not wearing the white coat she usually has on during check-ups. Instead, she's in a light, flowy dress patterned with tiny flowers, a dark green cardigan thrown over her shoulders, and casual black boots. Her redhead falling loosely past her shoulders.

Bucky moves stiffly toward the table, like he’s approaching a trap he doesn’t fully understand. He pulls out a chair and sits, every muscle tense.

Lily beams at him like this was the obvious outcome all along and slides one of the mugs in front of him.

“There,” she says. “World’s not ending after all.”

He wraps his hands around the mug without thinking, the heat seeping into his palms, still waiting for the anger, for the accusations, for the resentment to bubble up. But it doesn’t come, instead Lily just takes a sip of her tea, swinging one foot idly against the chair leg, and starts telling him about how her dad insists tea always tastes better in ugly mugs, and how one of her brothers thinks chamomile is just sad water.

At first, Bucky doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, shoulders hunched, cradling the mug like a shield, taking another sip of tea, and it burns his tongue a little.

She keeps chatting, her voice low and casual, weaving little pieces of herself into the quiet space between them.

"I also used to hate chamomile, you know," she says, grinning as she pulls apart one of the cookies and pops a piece into her mouth. "Thought it tasted like warm grass when I was a kid. I’d sneak sugar packets into it until it was basically syrup."

Bucky blinks slowly —almost disbelieving— and a half-smirk appears on his lips before he can catch himself, the expression foreign on his face.

Lily doesn’t seem to notice or if she does, she just doesn't make a big deal out of it. Instead, she leans her elbows onto the table, chin resting on one hand, as she keeps talking.

"My brother Charlie once tried to brew chamomile with an energetic drink because he thought it would taste better. It did not."

A soft laugh bubbles out of her, and for the first time, Bucky realizes how young she really is. Lily must be only 30. He knows she’s younger than him by decades, obviously, but even by today’s standards there's a brightness to her. A stubborn kind of warmth.

Something inside him aches, and he clutches the mug tighter, the ceramic scraping lightly against the table. Lily notices but doesn’t call him out for it, she just reaches for another cookie and keeps going.

"My dad," she says, "he always says that some things take time to grow on you. You have to give them a fair shot before you decide you don't like them." She glances sideways at him and adds, "I think that applies to more than just tea."

Bucky looks down into his mug, throat tight, half-expecting the conversation to die out after that, as if the air will get thick again, heavy with things neither of them wants to say.

But Lily just shrugs and goes on like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

She tells him about how she moved to New York with a scholarship for collage, getting a PhD on human biology. She tells him about how before that she used to help in her family’s flower shop, how she knows way too much about dahlias and roses and all sorts of things he’s never thought about once in his life.

And Bucky listens and somehow, almost without realizing it, he finds himself responding, barely at first — a low grunt here, a nod there. Then a rough word or two.

He makes a dry comment when she mentions how her brother once tried to plant a sunflower in a plastic cup and blamed her when it died. Lily laughs twirling her tea gently in her hands, watching the steam curl into the air like lazy clouds.

"I grew up in Virginia," she says after a while, her voice warm and sure, like a memory she doesn't mind revisiting. "Big family. Four kids total — three boys and me, right in the middle. Only girl, too. You can imagine how that went."

She chuckles lightly, and something about the sound stirs something in Bucky’s chest.

"Bet you had to learn to throw a punch early," he mutters before he can stop himself.

Lily flashes him a grin over her mug. "Oh, you’d be surprised. They were pretty nice to me, so I didn’t learn how to fight. They did it for me."

Bucky huffs under his breath. It's not quite a laugh, but it's close enough that it surprises him. Again, she doesn’t mention it, she just keeps talking, like this is any other afternoon, any other kitchen, with any other guy —not him.

Bucky watches her as she talks, and how she’s not asking him anything. Not digging for information, not waiting for him to open up, not probing like every doctor. Instead, she’s just talking; and for some reason he can’t quite name, he likes it. It lets him sit there quietly without feeling like a caged animal under inspection.

"Sounds nice," he says gruffly, before he can stop himself. “Having someone else fight for you.”

Lily shrugs, smiling softly. "It was. Still is, actually. I guess I got lucky."

Her phone buzzes suddenly against the countertop, making both of them jump a little. Lily picks it up, glancing at the screen.

"Speaking of the devil. My brother," she says, laughing quietly.

She stands, brushing invisible crumbs from her clothes, and Bucky feels a tight, uncomfortable sensation in his chest at the stupid thought of her leaving, which fills him with the overwhelming urge to say something —anything— before she goes.

"Lily," he calls out, rougher than he means to.

She pauses, hand on the doorframe, looking back at him without a trace of impatience. He looks down at the table, fingers tightening around his mug.

"I’m... sorry," he mutters, barely getting the words out. "For... snapping at you. For being—" he cuts himself off, because he doesn't even know where to start.

A burden? A failure? A broken thing she’d be better off walking away from?

"You were scared," Lily says simply, kindly, like it's not the shameful thing he thinks it is. "It’s okay."

He looks up sharply, searching her face for any trace of mockery, any sign of her just humoring him but he finds none. There’s just understanding. It rattles him more than any screaming or accusations would have.

"I'll see you around, Bucky," she says, offering him a small, genuine smile.

Something in him lurches forward without thinking, words spilling out before fear can pull them back.

"Yeah," he says roughly. "Tomorrow. Check-up. Same hour."

For a beat, he thinks maybe she’ll hesitate, or she’ll reconsider, but Lily just tilts her head slightly, her smile deepening like he's said something right without even knowing how.

"Of course," she says simply. "Same hour."

And then she slips out the door, leaving Bucky sitting alone with his half-empty mug of chamomile tea and a knot of something unfamiliar building steadily in his chest.

That night, he lies awake, staring at the ceiling from the floor of his room, fresh arm folded under his head, the other —metallic— resting heavy across his chest; the faint hum of the compound’s nighttime systems filling the silence. Sleep rarely comes, but tonight, it’s different. It’s not the nightmares that keep him awake.

He keeps replaying the encounter in the kitchen over and over. Lily, humming under her breath as she poured tea, and how it had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He was so used to white coats. To the cold, sharp smell of disinfectant. To hands that grabbed, that hurt, that tore pieces of him away and stitched new ones in their place. Even after HYDRA was long gone, the ghosts remained. Every check-up, every sterile exam, every careful, calculated question sent him spiraling inward.

But Lily hadn’t demanded or expected, she just talked, and Bucky had found himself listening. About her mom and camomile tea. About Virginia summers with her brothers and her family flower shop. About normal, human things that had no place in his world.

He squeezes his eyes closed, breathing slowly through his nose, telling himself over and over that it shouldn’t matter, that a few kind words shouldn’t change anything, because Bucky won’t know what to do if it mattered.

Notes:

omg, bucky finally apologized! it’s a small step, but an important one. things are starting to shift between him and lily, even if he doesn’t see it yet. how will their dynamic unfold from here? stay tuned!

Chapter 11: A Different Light

Notes:

Thank you for reading, leaving kudos and comments <3

The compound kitchen smells like real food and burned toast. Bucky stands in the doorway for a moment, letting the warm scent wash over him. It’s too early, but he woke up anyway. His shoulder aches from the floor, and he hasn't bothered tying his hair back. It falls into his eyes as he watches the scene in front of him.

Steve is at the stove, making breakfast like he’s done a hundred times. Nat sits at the table, silently peeling an apple with the precision of someone who’s trained for far more dangerous things. Sam’s already halfway through a mug of coffee, one foot resting on the opposite chair halfway through some long-winded story about a jogger who’d tried to race him around the perimeter trail.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Sam greets, eyebrows up.

Bucky crosses the room and grabs a piece of toast from the plate without asking. Steve slides a full plate toward him a second later without comment. That’s how it is with Steve —no need for words when he knows all of Bucky’s silences.

Bucky grunts a thank you, sits down, and tries to act like he belongs here. The kitchen is warm in a way he hadn’t let himself get used to. Too many mornings like this, and he might think it could last.

Sam glances at him over the rim of his mug. “You’ve got your med bay thing today, right?”

Bucky doesn't look up. “Yeah.”

“Same hour?” Steve adds, voice careful.

Bucky nods. “Yeah.”

Nat lifts an eyebrow but says nothing.

There’s a pause, then Sam nudges Steve with his elbow. “How’s the doc?”

Bucky can see her in his head, plain as day. Lily, standing by the counter in the kitchen, talking about chamomile tea and her dad, offering cookies like he’s not dangerous. Like he’s just a guy.

“Still alive, I guess,” Bucky mutters.

Sam smiles faintly. “She’s kind, huh?”

Bucky says nothing.

“She’s good at her job,” Nat offers, like it’s a neutral statement. “Seems like she wants to be here.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah, she’s got that Disney-princess energy. You sure she knows what she signed up for?”

Steve shoots him a look, but Bucky’s not listening anymore.

He eats in silence while the others chat, letting their voices blur into the background. The food tastes fine. He swallows it like fuel, not comfort, tough.

He thinks about yesterday. About Lily’s quiet voice and her strange determination to talk. Not poke, not prod, not diagnose. And he still doesn’t get it.

Most people tiptoe around him. Avoid eye contact. Keep their distance. And he’s seen enough doctors to last five lifetimes. They speak in clinical terms and tread like he’s nothing but an asset, just a test subject, a soldier that doesn’t feel. They wear white coats like armor.

But Lily has been different —she is different. She’s too kind, too open and trusting and that makes something uncomfortable stir in his chest. He doesn’t want to think about it. Because people like that don’t stay. Or worse, they get hurt.

He’s not going to let this matter. Not her, not the conversations, not the dumb cookies or the smell of her tea. It’s dangerous. Letting something or someone matter is a crack in the armour he’s fought too hard to rebuild.

But she doesn’t deserve to be punished for his damage. She didn’t do this to him. HYDRA, the world, his own past did, but not her. So if she wants to help, he will let her. But he’s going to draw the line. He’ll cooperate, he’ll answer her questions, he’ll show up to the check-ups on time and stop acting like she’s the enemy. No more outbursts or cold shoulders. Just enough effort to let her do her job. But that’s all, he won’t let it mean anything.

The hours pass in quiet routine. Bucky spends the late morning in the gym, gloves on, jaw tight, striking the bag with clockwork precision. Each punch lands like a metronome. He likes the rhythm and the repetition. It gives shape to the silence in his head.

Afterward, he showers, eats something light, then follows his usual loop around the compound.

He doesn’t plan on going to the library, honestly is all Natasha’s fault, because a few days ago she tossed a paperback at his chest after a sparring match, raised a brow, and told him to “read something that isn’t a report or a kill file.” He hadn’t touched it yet, but the idea stuck.

The compound’s library is tucked away on the second floor, just past the empty meeting rooms and one level above the lab. It’s rarely used —most of the team don’t have time to linger. The walls are lined with dusty shelves, old SHIELD records, even older texts from Stark’s curated collections. The lighting hums low, soft and golden.

He slips inside like a ghost and stops.

Lily’s on the floor, not noticing him at first, surrounded by open folders and stacked paper, barefoot except for a pair of fuzzy socks. Her shoes sit neatly at the edge of the carpet. Her red hair is pinned up messily, barely holding it in place with a hair clip. She’s wearing a loose skirt with a soft pattern of poppies and bees, and a cardigan hanging off one shoulder like she has forgotten it’s there.

There’s a notebook in her lap and a small pile of old files beside her. She flips through one, frowning thoughtfully, then taps a few things down with her pen.

He should leave. Instead, he steps forward and the floor creaks.

She looks up, surprised for only a second, and then she smiles “Oh, hi.”

He nods.

“I thought you’d be in the gym today,” she says, going back to her notes without pushing for conversation. “But it’s nice to see you somewhere else.”

He doesn’t answer. Just glances at the shelf, and lets his fingers brush the spines of unfamiliar books, although he’s not sure what he’s looking for.

“Are you here for something specific?” she asks, her voice mild. Friendly.

He shrugs. “Thought I’d read.”

She lights up —not too much, not overbearing, but enough to make the corners of his chest twist strangely.

“Good,” she says, tilting her head toward the far shelves. “That side has fiction. Some history. A few old journals I haven’t had the chance to go through yet.”

He finds a chair, not far from her but not close either. Just near enough to hear the faint scratch of her pen and the rustle of her pages.

The silence stretches, and after a while she speaks again quietly, more to herself than to him.

“I was looking through some files on the memory experiments,” she murmurs, her voice shifting as she reads. “Most of the SHIELD data was corrupted, but I found an old report by a defector who mentioned a facility in the Carpathians. They were using electrical mapping to try and trace memory triggers. That kind of disruption could explain… well, some things.”

He looks at her. She isn’t reading for fun; she’s digging for him. And Bucky listens, his elbow braced on the armrest, chin in his palm. There’s something about the way Lily reads that gets under his skin. Maybe is the way she doesn’t soften her voice like she’s trying to comfort him. She just reads, calm and measured like she’s sharing something she thinks is worth knowing.

The words settle in his chest, warm and unfamiliar.

She flips another page, murmuring a line about memory and identity; something poetic and sharp-edged. He doesn’t catch all of it, but it hits too close, and then she glances up, just briefly, and meets his eyes.

He looks away quickly, blinking hard. He shouldn't let it matter. He told himself earlier this morning that he wouldn’t let any of this matter but now she’s here, in her socked feet and poppy-patterned skirt, sitting on the floor with papers in her lap and a brain that keeps working to solve him like a problem worth solving. And that’s the issue. She thinks he’s worth figuring out. She cares.

His chest tightens like something sharp is lodged between his ribs, and stands abruptly, the chair legs creaking against the old wood. Lily looks up, startled, but not alarmed.

“I’m gonna, uh…” he gestures vaguely at a random book on a shelf and pulls it free, not even checking the title. “Read this. In my room.”

Lily doesn’t question him. She doesn’t try to stop him or reach out or fill the silence with concern. She just nods, giving him an unbothered smile.

“Alright,” she says. “See you later, Bucky.”

He nods once —short and almost apologetic— and then slips out the door before he can think better of it. The book is still in his hand, unopened. He doesn’t even know what he grabbed.

The next part of the afternoon Bucky just pretends to read, sitting on the edge of his bed with the book at his hand, staring at the pages without actually making sense of a single word. So, instead of reading, he ends up flicking on the TV. The noise is a good distraction, and he sinks back into the cushions, letting the mindless chatter of some old movie wash over him.

When it's finally time for his check-up, he pushes the TV remote aside, standing up and heading out the door. His thoughts are a bit scattered as he walks through the compound’s hallways, the weight of the morning still hanging over him. He’s trying, really trying, to stay detached, to not let Lily’s quiet kindness get to him. But it’s hard when she’s been nothing but patient and understanding.

As he approaches the med bay, the door slides open with a soft hiss. He pauses, not quite stepping inside, just standing there at the threshold. His eyes catch sight of Lily chatting casually with Sam, who has a hand pressed to his side like he's trying to nurse a bruise.

Bucky stays where he is, pressed against the wall just outside the door, trying not to make a sound. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but something makes him want to see how she interacts with others. Is it just him she’s like this with? Or is she this warm with everyone?

“You know, Sam, next time, maybe you should be more careful about slamming your car door,” Lily teases, her tone light but with that reassuring gentleness.

Sam groans, but he’s clearly not bothered. “It was an ambush. The door fought dirty.”

Lily leans in, examining his hand for a moment before offering advice.

“You definitely sprained the knuckle. Take it easy, no aerial flips for a few days, and don’t overdo it. You know, standard injury protocol. You’re fine. No need for any big drama.” She smiles, and Sam chuckles at the understatement.

Lily moves gently, expertly, as she wraps Sam’s hand with clean gauze. Bucky watches from the doorway, with the smallest knot loosening in his chest. The way her fingers are precise but soft, how she keeps checking Sam’s face for signs of pain without interrupting the conversation.

So, she’s not just acting this way for him because he’s fragile or because Steve asked; she is like this with everyone. It’s just who she is —genuine, warm, and caring. It’s hard not to notice. And for a moment, he allows himself to feel the quiet, almost overwhelming realization.

Bucky also notices, in a vague detached way that Lily is wearing the white coat again and that it hides most of her usual clothes —only the hem of the skirt he has seen at the library peeks out beneath it. It was bright and strange and soft, and for some reason, he doesn’t like the coat covering it.

He stays a little longer than he intends, just long enough to see Sam hop off the table with a dramatic groan, give her a mock salute, and head for the door.

When Bucky finally steps inside, Lily looks up, her smile shifting to something more knowing, less guarded. She doesn’t acknowledge that he’s been lingering by the door, doesn’t mention the fact that he’s been watching her with Sam.

“Hey, Bucky,” she greets, with that same easy warmth. “I’ll be with you in just a second.”

And as she finishes up with a few quick notes, Bucky stands there, still quiet, a little less guarded than before, staring at her.

The girl who smiles like nothing can touch her. Who looks at everyone like they deserved to be seen. But he doesn’t know what made her like that. He doesn’t know the truth.

Lily Bloom hasn’t always been that kind.

Chapter 12: Small Steps

Notes:

we’re expanding a little more on lily’s past this chapter… hehehe. i may have gotten a bit carried away while writing this chapter (sorry not sorry). it turned out longer than planned, but i couldn’t help it, i got excited! thank you for reading and for loving her story with me. <3

A couple of years earlier the lights used to be too bright. The room smelled like antiseptic and stale paper. It wasn’t harsh, not really, just lifeless. Like every other over-polished floor and underused couch in these buildings. SHIELD didn’t do cozy. Everything here was sharp angles and sharp people, and Lily was trying her damned hardest to look like she belonged.

Clipboard in hand. Lab coat crisp. Posture straight.

Behind the observation glass, Dr. Harvenson  —her superior—stood with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on her through the glare. She could almost feel his scrutiny through the thin earpiece in her right ear like a constant reminder that she wasn’t really alone.

“Remember your posture,” his voice crackled softly. “Keep your tone neutral, not friendly. These types read into everything.”

Lily’s fingers flexed once against the clipboard. “Understood,” she murmured back, just loud enough for the comm to pick it up.

This was her first session since being assigned to SHIELD’s rehabilitation wing. Her first real patient. Her first real test.

The subject —no, the patient— sat across from her. Male. Around forty. Military background, records redacted. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days; his leg bounced restlessly under the table, eyes flicking between the walls and the door as if measuring escape routes.

Lily took her seat without smiling. Not like she wanted to. She kept her face calm, professional just like how she’d seen the others do it.

Harvenson’s voice cut in again:

“Begin the evaluation.”

She drew a slow breath. “Patient 1139. Initial neurological and cognitive assessment, Doctor Lily Bloom presiding.”

The man flinched at her voice, just barely.

“Good,” Harvenson’s voice came through. “Authoritative but calm. Proceed.”

She nodded slightly, flipping to the first page of the file. “Can you confirm your name and rank for the record?”

The patient said nothing. His eyes tracked her movements like she was another threat in the room.

“He’s testing you,” Harvenson murmured. “Don’t wait. Move on. Keep control of the session.”

Lily’s throat tightened, but she obeyed. She reached for the small diagnostic light on the counter. “Alright,” she said, tone steady. “Follow the light with your eyes, please.”

His gaze darted between her face and the device, unsure, but he obeyed. She noted the movement speed, the tremor in his hands. When she stepped closer to check his pupils, he stiffened.

“He’s testing boundaries,” Harvenson said. “Keep him still. Light physical direction is fine.”

Lily hesitated, then placed a light hand on the man’s shoulder. Firm, just like she’d seen the others do.

The reaction was instant. He flinched hard, breath catching as his whole body locked up. His hand shot to the armrest, gripping until the plastic creaked, and that made her hesitated. For a heartbeat, instinct pushed her to say it’s alright, and soften her voice, but Harvenson’s voice cut in sharp as glass.

“Don’t soothe,” Harvenson interrupted, voice sharp in her ear. “Assert control. You lose him if you soften now.”

Lily froze. Then, swallowing, she adjusted her tone colder this time, detached. “Hold still, please. This will only take a second.”

But the moment the authority hit her voice, the man’s eyes went wide, terrified. He shoved her hand away and stumbled to his feet.

“You people—” His voice cracked, raw and shaking. “You say that every damn time. Safe. Always safe. You’re the same as them!”

“Sir, please—” Lily started, reaching a hand out instinctively.

He backed away like her touch was fire. “You’re all liars! You think you can fix us— you’re the bad ones!”

The chair toppled behind him as he bolted for the door. The room fell silent, the bright lights suddenly too harsh. Lily stood frozen, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Her hand was still half-raised, uselessly suspended in the air.

“End the session,” Harvenson said flatly through the comm. “He’s unstable.”

A pause. Then, softer:

“Stay where you are. I’m coming in.”

A moment later, the door slid open and Dr. Harvenson stepped inside. His presence filled the space not loud, but controlled, precise. The faint scent of his cologne clashed with the sterile air.

He stopped beside the table, eyes sweeping briefly over the overturned chair before settling on her. “That could’ve gone better,” he said mildly. Then, almost immediately, his tone softened. “But it wasn’t your fault.”

Lily blinked, unsure if she’d heard him right. “Sir, I— I touched his shoulder. I shouldn’t have—”

He lifted a hand, silencing her gently. “No, no, none of that. You followed instruction. He’s the one who broke protocol, not you. These subjects are volatile, unpredictable. You can’t let one episode shake your focus.”

She swallowed hard, staring down at the scattered papers near her feet. “I thought I could calm him—”

“You did what was required,” he interrupted again, voice lower now, reassuring. “Some people can’t be saved in the ways we wish they could. That’s not on you. You have potential, more than most here.”

Her eyes dropped to the clipboard in her hand. The paper was trembling slightly. She hadn’t even realized it was her.

He reached out, lightly resting a hand on her shoulder. The gesture was meant to comfort, but it made her still completely. “Don’t let this discourage you,” he said softly. “You have real promise. You’re bright, precise, steady. A few more rounds and you’ll be one of the best we’ve got. Maybe even ready for the deeper work when the time comes.”

Her chest tightened. “Thank you, sir.”

“Good girl,” he said quietly, giving her shoulder one last, paternal squeeze before letting go. “Come on. Let’s get this logged, and then you can observe the next evaluation. Watching how others manage control might help you find your rhythm.”

She tried to believe him.

For weeks after that session, Lily did everything Harvenson asked. Everything she thought a SHIELD doctor should be. She learned to steady her voice, to let the quiet stretch without filling it, to hold her clipboard like a barrier instead of a bridge. She repeated the mantras he’d taught her — control comes first, precision over empathy, help means discipline. And for a while, it worked. Patients didn’t lash out. The supervisors started nodding approvingly when she spoke. Harvenson called her “composed,” and that word filled her with a strange, hollow pride.

But the unease never went away.

It grew heavier with each session. Every blank stare. Every tremor. Every chart labeled “rehabilitation” that looked more like an autopsy report. She told herself she was helping, that this was healing, just in a form she hadn’t learned to recognize yet.

Until the boy.

He couldn’t have been older than seventeen. Barely more than a kid, his wrists still too thin for the metal restraints. He wouldn’t stop shaking, whispering apologies for things he couldn’t remember.

Harvenson’s voice through the comm was calm as always.

“Maintain control, Doctor Bloom. They trust steadiness. If he doesn’t respond, increase the dosage. Keep your distance. No touching.”

Lily did as told: every word, every measured motion. She spoke evenly. Recorded the vitals. Adjusted the dosage. Wrote down the way his eyes went glassy after thirty seconds.

And when it was over, she couldn’t make herself move. The clipboard felt heavier than it ever had. The room smelled like antiseptic again and she hated it, it was cold and endless and wrong.

When Harvenson’s voice came through the comm once more, telling her she’d done well, she didn’t answer. She just stared at the boy’s still hands and realized she couldn’t remember the last time one of her patients had actually looked alive.

Later that night, Lily let herself into her apartment with trembling fingers and a chest so tight it hurt to breathe. The lights stayed off. The city outside painted everything in blue and grey, a faint hum through the window. She dropped her bag by the door, kicked off her shoes, and sat down hard on the couch, her whole body sinking like the air had been punched out of her.

She pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to block it out but it was there, under her skin. The way the boy had looked at her. The way he’d flinched. The way she’d felt nothing until he was gone.

Her phone buzzed on the table, “Dad” flashing across the screen. She hesitated, wiped at her face quickly, and picked up.

“Hey, bug.”

Lily felt her throat tighten and forced a deep breath to answers with a trembling voice. “Hi, dad.”

“You okay? You sound off”, his dad said, his voice warm but instantly alert.

That did it. Her breath broke. “No,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I’m— I’m not okay.”

“Talk to me,” he said gently. “What happened?”

And she did. The words came spilling out in a rush: broken, breathless, too much all at once. Her father was quiet for a few seconds, listening the way he always did, not interrupting or fixing, just there.

Then, softly: “Lily, are you crying?”

She tried to laugh, but it cracked halfway out. “I guess.”

“Hey,” he said quietly, his tone shifting into something softer, steady. “Slow down. Breathe. Tell me what’s eating you.”

Her voice came small. “I don’t know if I helped him. Or hurt him. I keep trying to stay detached, clinical, show control like everyone else— calm, neutral, in command. I follow every protocol, every line. But they just— freeze. Like they’re terrified of me.”

There was a long silence. Her father didn’t answer right away, not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he was too busy processing. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, lower but edged with something that almost sounded like fear.

“Detached?” he repeated slowly. “Show control?”

“That’s the protocol. They say it helps the patients feel safe if we stay in control.”

“Safe?” He almost laughed, but it wasn’t amused. “Lily, that’s not safety. That’s command.”

She blinked, thrown. “What?”

He exhaled sharply, the sound rough, like gravel. “Bug, listen to me. I’ve worked with people on the edge — addicts, vets, kids who don’t trust a damn soul. You don’t get through to them by controlling them. You get through by being human.”

Her eyes burned again. “But they said—”

“I don’t care what they said,” he cut in, firm but not cruel. “You’re not building a machine. You’re trying to help a person. And people aren’t things you fix, they’re lives you hold.”

She went still.

His voice softened, but the weight behind it didn’t. “You’ve got the biggest heart I’ve ever seen. You care too much sometimes, and yeah, that hurts you. But that’s what makes you good at this. Don’t let anyone train that out of you.”

Tears blurred her vision again. “I just wanted to help.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know you did. But you can’t help someone by standing over them. You help them by standing with them. There’s a difference.”

She blinked away a tear.

He continued, softer now, grounding her with memories only they shared. “Think about Alexander Graves, your godfather. Ex-marine, tough as hell from everything he’s been through. To me, he’s like a brother. To you, well... he’s family. Uncle Alex. Almost like a second dad.”

She nodded instinctively, even though he couldn’t see.

“These patients,” he said quietly, “aren’t just cases or files. They’re parents. Someone’s kids. Siblings. People with scars you can’t see. You can’t let those bastards convince you they’re anything less than that. Not patients. Not subjects. Not cases. People. That’s it. That’s the whole job.”

She pressed her hand against her chest, trying to breathe through the ache.  “I don’t think they see it that way.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The line was filled only with the faint hum of the city beyond her window  and the sound of her father’s quiet breathing, steady and real.

“You’re not them, bug,” he said finally. “Don’t start sounding like them.”

Her throat closed. “Okay.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Ever since then she kept her promise from that night.

Just like right now, as the med bay is quiet now that Sam has gone, and Bucky sits on the edge of the exam bed, silent as ever, but with something different in the air.

Lily pulls up the file she has been reviewing, tapping through notes from previous assessments.

"Let’s start with something easy today. That alright?" she says gently.

Bucky nods once, shifting to straight his posture. His expression doesn’t change, but she doesn’t miss the way his jaw tightens. Lily hesitates for a beat, then quietly shrugs off her white coat and folds it neatly over the back of her chair.

She’s been thinking about it since yesterday, about how the coat only adds distance —too clinical, too cold. Too much of a symbol to cold hands and restraints, too many sterile rooms. And she doesn’t want that, not with Bucky. His eyes flick to the movement. She doesn’t explain, but she knows he sees it.

Now in just her shirt and one of her favorite skirts with poppies and bees, she settles onto the stool beside the exam bench where he sits, silent and still, making sure to keep a careful distance between them, not by accident but by deliberate choice. She notices Bucky’s gaze flicker to the skirt for just a second.

His shoulders are just a little too stiff. Right leg angled slightly forward like it aches more than the left. One hand flexing slow and careful, like it needs reminding that it’s there.

“Okay,” she says gently. “Before we get into anything formal, just take a moment. Breathe however feels right for you. I’m just going to start with observation.”

He doesn’t move, but he does breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Controlled. She watches him without staring. Notes the slight clench in his jaw. The heaviness in his eyes that even sleep wouldn’t fix. The tension that gathers in his shoulders like armor he can’t quite put down.

She doesn’t ask about the arm—not directly. Instead, her voice is soft, curious. “Are there any physical sensations that are bothering you lately? Anything that makes sleep harder, or focus difficult?”

A long silence follows. Bucky shifts a little, looking toward the window even though there’s nothing to see but the dull sky beyond. “Sometimes it feels like it’s still there,” he mutters eventually, eyes not meeting hers. “The arm. Like it’s cramping or itching. Hurts, even when it isn’t.”

Phantom limb pain. She nods, quietly validating. "That’s real, you’re not imagining it. It’s just your brain trying to make sense of signals it used to get, but doesn’t anymore. When there’s leftover tech or damage in the system, it can cause those weird feedback spikes, kind of like static. Have they been worse lately?"

“Some nights,” he admits, after a pause. “It wakes me up. I can’t... turn it off.”

Lily gives him a small, understanding smile. “I think we can adjust the feedback dampeners. That might help. But I want to start with something else too.”

He tenses slightly, and she softens her tone. “I’ve read through some of the SHIELD files on the memory procedures HYDRA used. Especially the early ones—the neural wipes, the feedback loops. It’s not just about what they erased. It’s about what they left behind, fragmented or rewired. That can affect your pain, your sleep, even how your body feels like it belongs to you.”

He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t shut down either. It’s enough.

“Can I ask you a few things? I want to know if anything has changed now that you’re following a structured routine.” She asks, gently now, as if inviting him instead of leading.

He nods once.

“I know sleep is hard for you but do you get any rest at all?”

Bucky lifts a shoulder in a shallow shrug. “I rest. I don’t always sleep.”

She tilts her head. “Nightmares?”

A beat. Then, “Not always. Sometimes… it’s worse. Sometimes it’s like my head’s full of… of… static. Like there’s something I should remember, but I can’t. Just noise.”

She nods again, quietly writing in her notes. “That’s consistent with what I’ve read. I think those might be... memory hangovers. Or remnants of the interference.”

As she stands behind him to set her tablet down, her eyes trace instinctively over the broad lines of his back, the way the fabric of his shirt clings to muscle and tension. “I’m just going to check tension now,” she murmurs.

He doesn’t hide away, but his jaw clenches briefly under her gaze and he straightens himself. Lily feels how his muscles respond, how deep the trauma lives in his body. This isn’t just nerves or scars. This is conditioning. Physical memory laid into flesh.

Her gaze catches on the faint, subtle sway of a chain beneath the collar, a glint of silver that disappears again when he shifts. Dog tags. It surprises her, for a moment. Not that he still has them, but that he wears them. There’s something achingly human about it —like something long buried but not lost. Her breath catches just slightly, but she says nothing about it, committing the detail to memory.

“Bucky,” she says softly, “I think some of what you’re feeling isn’t just about the arm. I think it’s in your nervous system. Your brain was rewired—not metaphorically, but literally.”

Still, he says nothing. But he’s listening. She can tell.

“They likely altered memory pathways to suppress identity,” she goes on, her voice low. “Forced neuroplasticity. That’s what the files suggest. They rerouted how your mind stores or accesses memories. Some memories were erased. Others were splintered or locked away. And some—especially emotional ones—might’ve been reversed.”

His gaze drops to the floor.

She steps back around to face him again. “That’s why it feels confusing. Why sometimes you remember something and it doesn’t feel like it’s yours, or why you feel angry when you should feel... something else. That’s not you being broken. That’s what they did to you.”

Silence.

“We can work on that,” she adds then. “Not to fix what they did overnight. But to find the pieces again. Bring some of them back together. Maybe start helping your brain feel like it’s yours.”

Another long pause. Then, his voice. “That’s not gonna be easy.”

She offers a faint smile. “No. But I think it’s worth trying.”

And for a moment, he doesn’t argue, he just nods. Once.

Lily finishes adjusting the settings on her tablet, double-checking the notes she’s made during the session. Her voice is soft but clear when she speaks again, standing just a step away from where Bucky sits, his posture still guarded but no longer completely closed off.

“I’m going to need to run some tests soon,” she says, not looking at him just yet. “To get a more accurate read on heartbeat variability, baseline feedback, and the sensor pings from the arm’s interface. It'll help recalibrate some of the neural dampeners. Hopefully, we can lower the baseline noise —you might not notice it all the time, but it’s there, like static.”

Bucky glances at her, then away, nodding once. “Alright.” He says not in protest, but not quite in approval —just a quiet understanding that she’s trying to help, and he’s letting her.

“The test will be mostly passive,” she assures. “You won’t feel much. A sensor array, some monitoring while you move through a few simple routines.”

She watches him absorb that. He's still, but not frozen.

“Alright,” he says again eventually, low and even.

Lily doesn’t smile too brightly but there’s warmth in her eyes when she nods. “We’ll start next time. I’ll prepare everything in advance. No surprises.”

He gives a slight tilt of his head in acknowledgment, then stands. It’s a quiet movement but not stiff the way it usually is. She notices the subtle shift and how he doesn’t turn his back on her as he moves to the door anymore. He lets her stay in his peripheral vision. Not trust yet but not fear either.

Their eyes meet briefly.

“You did good today,” she says quietly, like a passing thought rather than praise.

At the threshold, he hesitates. Just a breath. Then:

“Thanks,” he mutters, not looking directly at her.

The door slides closed behind him, and the med bay goes still.

Lily stands there for a moment, unmoving, eyes still on the space he occupied. She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and moves slowly, almost absently, as she tidies up the instruments, powers down the console, resets the damp lighting. Her movements are practiced but her mind is nowhere near the task. It’s still with him.

The tightness in his voice when he mentioned the phantom limb. The way he sat still while she spoke about the memory interference. And the brief glint of his dog tags when she stepped behind him, eyes tracking the line of his spine. It stays with her longer than she means it to. The metal is simple, worn, but it feels like something tethered to who he was before they took everything else.

She hadn’t expected anything dramatic, that’s never how healing works, but It matters. Not just that he came to the check-up but that he let her in, even a little. That he didn’t flinch. That he stayed.

This is what she built the med bay for. What the tea was for. The light, the books, the way she asks about sleep instead of scars —it’s all been part of this. An invitation, not a demand. And today, he finally stepped through the door she’s been quietly holding open.

Lily is halfway through organizing sensor leads when the door hisses open again.

“Hey,” Steve says, voice low and careful.

Lily glances up, her smile already forming. “Hey, Cap.”

He lifts a brow. “Thought I told you to stop calling me that.”

“I’m working on it,” she replies, a touch of amusement in her tone.

Steve steps inside. “Just wanted to check in.”

“Check in me or him?” she asks lightly.

Steve steps inside, arms crossed, his silhouette easy and familiar in the low light. “That depends. You crying today?”

That makes her smile softly, not defensive. She turns to face him, tucking a loose stray of hair behind her ear. “Not even a little.”

“Then it’s about him,” Steve says, tone still easy, but there's a flicker of concern beneath it. “Is he behaving?”

There’s a beat. Her eyes warm a little as she thinks about it.

“He is… trying,” she says finally. “Quiet, stubborn, and at least seventy percent refusal, but he stayed today. He didn’t check out. He even... talked, a little.”

Steve lifts a brow, intrigued but cautious. “Talked how?”

“Just enough that it’s not total silence. So... that’s something,” she says, almost smiling. “He’s in more pain than he’s letting on. Phantom pain, sensor spikes… the dampeners aren’t doing enough to help. I’ll need to run a few things: check his heart rate patterns, baseline response, maybe see if there’s a lag in the sensors. The goal is to quiet everything down. Help him feel a little more at home in his own body.”

Steve nods, thoughtful. “He says anything about it?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “But it’s in how he sits. How he holds tension in his jaw, or favors one side when he breathes. The pain’s always there, even when he doesn’t speak to it.”

She reaches for her tablet, flipping through the readings. Her tone shifts, quieter.

“I’ve been reading some old records,” she says, almost idly, reaching for the tablet she’d set aside earlier. Her voice quiets. “The ones about the neural restructuring and memory interference. They did a lot more than just physical rewiring. The feedback systems they used... they weren’t just about control, they were about punishment. Reinforcement. Pain as conditioning.”

Steve’s face darkens, familiar shadows drawing across his brow. “So,” he mutters. “They didn’t just want a soldier. They wanted a weapon that punished itself.”

“That’s what they do,” she says, quieter now. “Twist people. Hollow them out. Use them. And then leave them with nothing.”

Her own voice surprises her —not bitter, exactly, but... something close.

Steve hears it. His gaze shifts, steady and quiet, the way it always gets when he hears more than what’s being said.

Lily looks down, thumb grazing the edge of the tablet.

“I just wish I could take it out of him,” she murmurs, more to herself than to Steve.

She wishes she could take out everything they did to him. Not just for Bucky, but for her. For anyone who’s ever felt used by something they trusted. For anyone who had to rebuild themselves from the ashes of a betrayal too big to name.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. The med bay is dim and quiet, and the weight of HYDRA’s legacy sits heavy in the room. But Steve steps a little closer, voice low.

“You’re helping him more than you know,” he says. “He’s still here. Still trying. After everything they did, he still wants to be better. I can tell you what that means.”

Lily exhales, not quite a sigh. Just a slow release of breath. “Yeah,” she says. “I know.”

Steve gives a small nod, the corners of his mouth tugging upward, but there’s the kind of understanding that runs deep.

“He’s not the only one they tried to break,” he says after a beat, glancing at her with something quiet and deliberate in his expression. “They just used different methods.”

Lily doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes lower, focus drifting to her hands gripping the tablet —her knuckles are white.

“They got into everything,” she murmurs. “SHIELD, our protocols, our trust. They made us tools without us even realizing it.” She looks up, jaw tightening just a little. “And when they came back, when they showed their face again... I didn’t even fight. I was just— just there.”

Steve’s brow furrows. “You were held hostage.”

“I was a hostage the moment I joined something they already owned,” Lily says, voice soft but not small. “That’s what I can’t shake.”

Steve doesn’t flinch from the truth of it. Instead, he just says: “But you’re here now. Helping him. Fixing what they broke.”

Lily gives a soft, short laugh. “Some days I think I’m fixing myself too.”

Steve lets that sit between them for a moment, then steps closer and sets a hand gently on her shoulder. “You are.”

She meets his eyes, and there’s a flicker of something steady there —pain, yes, but also a kind of hope. The kind that isn't loud.

“I should run the calibrations soon,” she says, slipping her gaze back toward her files, deflecting just slightly. “If I can lower the baseline noise in the feedback dampeners, maybe it’ll help him rest easier.”

“Let me know if you need anything.” Steve’s voice is low again, but sure. “For him or for you.”

Lily doesn’t nod. She just lifts her eyes again and gives a small smile, tired but real. “Thanks, Steve.”

He leaves with a quiet step, and when the med bay door closes behind him, Lily turns back to her notes —her hands steady now. She’s not finished yet. Not even close. But she knows what she’s fighting for.

Chapter 13: The Shape of Progress

Notes:

hope you’re enjoying the science/medical bits rather than finding them boring. they matter for lily’s character and her approach to helping bucky heal. i’d love to hear your thoughts on them <3

Over the past several days, the sessions have shifted.

What started as baseline physicals and cautious check-ins has become something more methodical —more precise. Lily has begun a series of advanced diagnostics, digging deeper into the nuances of Bucky’s physiology and neurological conditioning.

She left behind the preliminary evaluations. Now she was tracing patterns, comparing readings, isolating abnormalities that required a much finer diagnostic. A rotating schedule of testing had taken shape: early mornings or late evenings, whichever time Bucky seemed most grounded, least likely to retreat into silence or tension.

Some days, Lily started with scans of his brain —high-res images tracking how signals moved through the parts HYDRA had tampered with. She followed the glitches, the weird traffic patterns, the little sparks in his nervous system that didn’t belong. What HYDRA had done wasn’t just controlling, it was punishing. The implants responded to his thoughts, to any hint of resistance. They’d been built to adapt, to fight back if he tried to fight them. Lily hadn’t expected it to be that advanced, but the evidence was there, clear as day.

Other days, she focused on his arm. She measured how fast signals moved through it, how it reacted to stress, how much delay there was when he tried to move it. The metal had sensors deep inside it, and those behaved differently under tension so she ran careful tests over and over, watching for the small stuff. The way his breathing shifted. The subtle twitch in his jaw. How his eyes looked away when something didn’t feel right.

Then came the body scans. Heart rate, how it changed under pressure, how fast his muscles responded when she applied resistance. She used tiny stressors — a sudden sound, a shift in light — to see how his system reacted. He went along with it, quiet and detached, answering questions but not volunteering anything extra. Still, Lily caught every detail. Every pause. Every flicker of discomfort in his body told her something words never would.

And still, he came back. Every time.

Physically, he was more at ease now. He sat without flinching as she placed cold nodes on his skin. He didn’t tense when she adjusted his posture or brushed a wrist while taking a manual reading. He still didn’t like the proximity, but he tolerated it with a steadiness that hadn’t been there before. His body no longer braced for contact like it was a threat.

Emotionally...

He didn’t speak much —short answers, clipped responses— but the guarded edge in him has dulled slightly, and the silence when one of them was talking didn’t feel quite so sharp anymore —it wasn’t cutting her out, not like before. Now it felt like space. A perimeter. Something he was letting her into.

And Lily, for her part, began adjusting without thinking. She moved more slowly when near him. She kept her voice low, never clipped, never clinical. When she passed close to him, she made sure not to startle, never from behind, always in his line of sight. Her posture softened. Her energy shifted. It wasn’t a strategy. It was instinct. And something in Bucky responded to that.

He didn’t say it, but he noticed. She caught it in the subtle way he stopped watching the door and started watching her. The way his eyes followed her hand when she reached for a tablet or lingered for half a second longer when she brushed hair behind her ear. Not searching for danger —just watching. She wasn’t invisible to him anymore.

She was being seen.

She’d also started to notice the small, almost imperceptible ways his attention shifted depending on what she wore. On the days she skipped the white coat —opting instead for soft cardigans, patterned blouses, or loose cotton dresses— Bucky seemed just a little less closed off. His shoulders stayed looser, his gaze less guarded. Once or twice, she’d caught him staring —not at her, not exactly, but at the hem of her floral skirt, or the embroidery on her sleeves, like he was trying to piece something together. The looks weren’t invasive. They were quiet, curious, almost confused, as if the colors and fabrics didn’t fit into the framework of what he expected from someone in her role. As if, in some small way, they made her more real to him. More human.

And that did something to her. Not pride. Not progress in the way a file might measure it. But something quieter. Something real.

Beneath the silence, beneath the calibration charts and neural reactivity logs, something was shifting between them. It wasn’t trust. Not yet. But it seemed like the shape of it, beginning to form.

Back in the med bay, the quiet hum of machines fills the space as Lily stands at the main console, eyes fixed on the holographic display projected in front of her. The tests have taken days to compile —neural feedback, biometric readings, sensory input calibrations, baseline cognitive responses— all meticulously logged and processed. FRIDAY hovers silently, her soft pulses of light flickering in rhythm with Lily’s work.

"Okay," Lily murmurs, half to herself, half to FRIDAY. "Baseline heart variability is stabilizing. That's good. Recalibrated feedback shows lower interference than last week, but there’s still too much noise in the secondary junctions. His parasympathetic activity shows better sleep cycles. Still interrupted, though. Probably the nightmares."

She swipes through another cluster of data points, pausing at the irregular neural pathways blinking in red.

“Somehow on his own, he’s been able to reconstruct a fair amount of his memory,” she says aloud, her voice thoughtful, almost reverent. “But there are still fragments of the HYDRA programming recessed deep within his subconscious. His limbic system was, and still is, like a Christmas tree on psychotropic drugs. It’s a wonder he can recollect anything at all, with the damage done to his hippocampus. His neuro-electric readings show the result of decades of brainwashing and reprogramming. The hubris of HYDRA thinking they could have total control of a living and breathing being is astounding.”

“Agreed,” FRIDAY responds, her tone crisp but gentler than usual. “The density of interference in his prefrontal cortex remains statistically abnormal. Would you like me to flag specific areas for targeting?”

Lily shakes her head, brow furrowed as she leans in closer. “No... I’ve already flagged those. But something’s not lining up. The midbrain signal transference doesn’t match the peripheral feedback logs. It’s like his system is compensating in ways I haven’t accounted for.”

She pulls up the latest neural scans again, layering them over previous readings. Her gaze tracks the patterns, over and over, jaw tightening with quiet frustration. The logic doesn’t click.

“FRIDAY, compile this latest batch for cross-reference. I need to double-check the biosynthetic relay pathways. And the adaptive re-mirroring algorithm. Something’s missing.”

“Compiling now, Dr. Bloom.”

Lily steps back from the console, tugging lightly at the sleeves of her sweater. The hum of tech is suddenly too sharp, too clinical. She needs to see it in another format—maybe look at the auxiliary logs, the earlier metadata from the arm's integration protocols. Something tactile. Something she can get her hands on.

“I’m heading to the lab,” she says, already moving. “Pull up Bucky’s old HYDRA blueprints for the neural interfaces and send them to Bay 3.”

“Done,” FRIDAY replies, and the med bay lights dim behind her as Lily strides out, data still racing through her mind.

The lab in Bay 3 powers on as Lily steps inside, motion sensors activating soft overhead light and bringing the hum of dormant equipment to life. She walks straight to the neural interface terminal, tapping her tablet against the screen to sync the files FRIDAY sent.

She barely makes it two steps into parsing the latest data before a voice behind her pipes up —quick, amused, and unmistakably smug.

“Ah-ha! So you’re the elusive Dr. Bloom.”

Lily turns, one eyebrow raised.

Tony Stark stands in the doorway holding a coffee cup and a tablet, wearing a suit jacket over a faded AC/DC tee, like he’s halfway between a press conference and a nap. He grins when she doesn’t immediately laugh.

“Tony Stark,” he says, though he clearly doesn’t expect her to need the introduction. “Genius, billionaire, reformed egomaniac, depending on the press cycle. And you must be the med bay’s new miracle worker.”

Lily blinks, then offers a polite smile. “Well, yes. I’m Dr. Bloom. But Lily it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry, but you have to be kidding,” he says, walking further into the lab. “There’s no way your name is Lily Bloom, because that's clearly a botanical pun, not a real person.”

Lily hums under her breath. “I get that a lot.”

“Well, I’m getting ahead of the curve. I'm calling you Flower from now on. It’s happening. Don't fight it.”

Before Lily can reply, another voice floats in, quieter, hesitant. “Tony, don’t bother her—”

Bruce Banner appears in the doorway, lab coat slung over his arm and glasses slightly askew. He hesitates just a moment when his eyes meet Lily’s. He stops mid-stride, blinking. There’s a long second where he clearly forgets whatever he was going to say.

“Hi,” he manages, awkward but warm. “You’re Dr. Bloom?”

“Lily,” she offers kindly.

“Right. Lily. Of course.” He smiles, crooked and a little stunned, and adjusts his glasses like they’re the reason his brain just stalled.

Tony circles the lab bench like a shark with a caffeine addiction, scanning Lily’s files over her shoulder with blatant nosiness.

“So,” he says, dragging the word out, “is it true you turned the med bay into a flower shop-slash-spa?”

Lily doesn’t look up. “I lowered the lights, added some warmth. It’s still a med bay.”

“I heard scented candles were involved.”

“There are no candles,” she replies dryly. “Just diffusers.”

“Diffusers, of course,” He turns back to Lily with a grin. “I’m just saying, I’ve never heard of anyone performing advanced trauma diagnostics next to a ficus and a lo-fi playlist.”

“It works,” Lily says simply. “He’s less tense.”

Bruce looks over, genuinely curious. “You mean Barnes?”

Tony grins wider, clapping his hands together as if he has just remembered something important. “Right! You’re here to untangle Winter Wonderland’s brain.”

She nods. “Physically, he’s doing better. Less tension, more control. But his memory? It’s strange. He remembers things that don’t really matter, and then there are just... blank spots where you’d expect structure. I’ve been trying to map it out, but the pattern keeps shifting.”

Bruce steps in beside her, eyes already flicking over the neural scan. “Yeah... this is messy. There’s a ton of interference between how his brain stores memories and how it reacts to them. Looks like HYDRA didn’t just mess with memory storage — they rerouted the emotional wiring too. Like they rewired the emotional center before the hippocampus ever got a shot at organizing the memory.”

“Exactly,” Lily says, dragging a hand through her hair. “He’s managed to piece a lot together on his own, which is incredible. But there are still bits of the HYDRA conditioning buried deep—like splinters lodged in his subconscious. They’re not always active, but they’re still there.”

Bruce whistles low. “You’re not wrong.”

Tony leans in, tapping one of the glowing nodes on the neural interface with the edge of his finger. “So what are we thinking here: hardware glitch, software corruption, or good old-fashioned psychological trauma?”

“A blend,” Lily says. “The human brain’s not made to be rewritten that many times. The neural lattice is frayed. I can trace the signals, but I can’t always tell which are his and which were... inserted.”

“Alright, Flower,” Tony says, softer this time. “You’ve got my attention. We’ll help.”

Lily glances at him, surprised. “Really?”

Bruce offers a small, kind smile. “Of course. No one should have to untangle something like this alone.”

There’s a long beat of quiet as Lily exhales, some of the weight slipping off her shoulders. She hadn’t realized how much she needed the backup until it was offered. Trusted eyes. Steady hands. People who understood the brain not just as biology, but as identity.

Chapter 14: Research and Resolve

Working with Tony and Bruce is like trying to keep pace with a pair of high-speed trains going in opposite directions. Tony talks fast and types faster, cracking jokes as he rewires diagnostic protocols. Bruce, meanwhile, is quiet but razor-sharp, with this gentle intensity that never really lets up. But despite their wildly different energies, the three of them find a strange kind of rhythm.

Over the past few days, Lily’s med bay data has been pulled apart, rebuilt, and turned inside out. Tony upgraded her analysis software in the first hour. Bruce rerouted a few scans through Stark's AI servers, cross-referencing neurological mapping with Tony’s access to old SHIELD and Stark Industries archives, and Bruce’s knowledge of the brain —especially brains altered by trauma and chemicals— they formed an unlikely trio, piecing together what HYDRA had done to Bucky like archaeologists brushing dust off the bones of something monstrous.

And what they found had made Lily’s stomach turn.

HYDRA hadn’t just broken Bucky Barnes. They’d redesigned him. They fragmented him intentionally. Each mission wasn’t just about memory suppression; it was memory restructuring. Bits and pieces were overwritten and recompiled to serve a function, like modular code written by madmen. And that code wasn’t just in his brain. It was everywhere —his nervous system, his reflexes, even the way his body processes stress. Everything HYDRA touched, they rewired.

Tony’s theory is that the metal arm acted like a feedback loop. Neural signals from the brain adapted the tech, but the tech also fed signals back into the body—signals HYDRA could hijack. Bruce called it "conditional neural reinforcement," which basically means: if Bucky deviated from his orders, the tech punished him. Not always physically, but neurologically—flashes of pain, disorientation, nausea. Subtle but brutal.

Lily’s medical scans confirmed it: certain patterns in his brain activity spike in response to simulated authority cues. Even phrases spoken in the right tone cause a measurable flinch —muscle tension, pupil contraction, a drop in blood oxygen. And that’s without using the trigger words.

They trigger words weren’t simple hypnotic cues, like she once thought. HYDRA had embedded them as a kind of neurological boot sequence—a verbal code that unlocked the Soldier’s programming and suppressed everything else. Each word activated a specific part of the brain, bypassing fear, morality, even recognition. Once triggered, Bucky couldn’t see friend from enemy. He only saw the mission.

And the programming didn’t disappear after HYDRA fell. It lingered, hidden.

Still, Lily refused to accept that nothing could be done. They worked out a theoretical reversal, one that didn’t involve force or sedatives. If they could isolate the corrupted pathways and recondition them using safe emotional stimuli like familiar voices, music, personal memories; they might be able to weaken the trigger response without triggering the Soldier.

“He’s like a computer running two operating systems at once,” Tony mutters when they’re at the med bay on the evening, arms crossed as he watches the neural simulation flicker. “And the violent one has admin access.”

Lily’s seated on a stool, one leg folded beneath her, fingers tapping distractedly on a tablet while she chews the inside of her cheek. Tony’s pacing like he’s on a conference call with the universe, stylus in one hand, cappuccino in the other. Bruce is hunched over one of the consoles, brows furrowed, a quiet “hmm” escaping him at Tony’s words.

“I still say we rename this file ‘HYDRA Brain Soup 2.0,’” Tony keeps saying, zooming in on the neuro-map with several layers of overlapping code. “I mean, who needs this many neural rerouting clusters unless you’re building a homicidal GPS system?”

Lily doesn’t even look up, but he keeps going. “It's evil software engineering at its finest. Terrible UI, though.”

Bruce slides his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “This spike here, you see it? It only appears when Lily’s voice plays certain tones. Not the words, necessarily. Just the frequency.” He glances over at her, thoughtful. “You modulate your voice around him, don’t you?”

She shrugs, caught. “Yeah. I noticed he tenses more when I’m firm, relaxes when I soften my tone. It’s subtle. But it’s there.”

Tony whistles. “Man, you’re good. Flower Power’s got observational skills.”

Lily rolls her eyes, but the nickname weirdly sticks less each time. “It’s not exactly hard. You just have to pay attention and not treat him like a bomb about to go off.”

“Which he technically is,” Tony says cheerfully. “But sure. Empathy. I hear that’s all the rage these days.”

Bruce shoots Tony a look that carries equal parts exhaustion and fondness. “Try not to sound proud of ignoring basic human emotion.”

Tony lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m evolving. Slowly. Like a turtle. A very handsome turtle.”

Then his attention shifts to Lily, curiosity sharpening.

 “But seriously, this stuff? Neural modulation, behavioral conditioning—most people don’t touch this level of nuance until they’re… old.” Tony waves vaguely at himself and Bruce. “Gray hair. Back problems. Existential dread.”

Bruce hums, noncommittal. He definitely has back problems.

Tony points at Lily. “You’re what, five minutes out of med school? And you’re casually reverse-engineering trauma conditioning like it’s junior-year biochem homework.”

Lily snorts. “I’m 30. And it was more like an accelerated doctoral program, actually. I skipped a couple years. And SHIELD recruited me before graduation.”

Tony points at Lily. “Child prodigy. Knew it. Should’ve spotted it. The flower aesthetic threw me off. Sneaky.”

She lifts her chin, just a little proud, just a little self-conscious. “Full scholarship at NYU at sixteen, MD-PhD hybrid track. SHIELD pulled me into their medical division at twenty-five.” A beat. “And I like flowers. It’s allowed.”

Bruce pauses mid-note, mildly impressed despite himself. “Explains the tonal observation skills. Younger brain, high adaptability, emotional intelligence wired early—”

Lily squints at him. “Are you analyzing me?”

“No,” Bruce lies softly. “Yes.”

Tony snaps his fingers. “Alright, new rule. Genius club has expanded. It’s now me, Banner, and the Med-Bay Mozart over here.”

Lily snorts. “Please don’t call me that.”

“Too late,” Tony says, already walking away like he’s making it canon. “Branding locked in.”

And just like that, they keep working, sifting through the data together. It’s chaos, but functional chaos. They test variables, recheck logs, and rerun old scans through new filters. Lily’s chest feels tight with how much there still is to unravel, but she also feels alone in it.

Then the med bay door opens.

Lily doesn’t even need to look up. Her whole body feels it before her eyes catch him.

 “Hey,” she says, voice easy and kind of cheerful.

Bucky steps into the med bay with that quiet, deliberate way of him. His eyes flick briefly to Bruce, then linger on Tony for half a second longer. Not with aggression —just wariness.

Tony, naturally, is unfazed. He lifts his hand in a lazy wave. “Mr. Barnes. Big fan. Love what you’ve done with the brooding menace.”

Bucky doesn’t react. Doesn’t even blink.

Tony lowers his hand. “Tough crowd.”

Bruce clears his throat gently. “We were just finishing up anyway. Lily’s got all the tech she needs now.”

Lily catches the small glance Bruce gives her, like he’s checking in. She nods in appreciation, grateful for the subtle read in the room.

Tony, already halfway to the door, claps Bruce on the shoulder. “Let’s leave the Flower and the Soldier to it. Try not to electrocute each other.” He flashes Bucky one last grin. “And if you ever want a new arm that can shoot espresso, call me.”

The door slides shut behind them, and just like that, the med bay feels calmer.

Lily gives Bucky a warm smile. “You know the drill.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

Bucky moves toward the chair without being asked, shrugging off his jacket and rolling up the sleeve of his black henley. His movements are easy, deliberate.

Lily watches him without meaning to. The curve of his shoulders under the fabric, the clean strength in his organic arm, the gleaming, silent power of the metal one. She’s seen them both a dozen times. It shouldn’t catch her off guard.

But today, it does.

There’s something almost hypnotic in the way the light catches on the shifting plates of his metal forearm, how the tendon lines in his flesh one flex as he adjusts his seat. Sculpted and strong and entirely out of her jurisdiction.

Focus, she reminds herself quickly, with a small shake of her head. She tucks the thought away and locks it. This is work. He is a patient. A very complicated, half-feral, slow-to-trust patient.

And she is not here to stare at his arms.

She clears her throat and lifts the scanner from its dock, returning her voice to neutral. “Here.”

Bucky attaches the vitals monitor to his wrist himself and looks at her for approval. Lily nods, and he huffs an almost-smile that catches her off guard. It's not big, not full, but it’s real.

“I’ve been going through your neural data again,” she says, eyes on the screen. “There’s some interesting stuff coming up. Bruce helped me isolate memory feedback loops, and Tony found traces of adaptive code still firing.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Code like programming?”

“Exactly. It’s more complex than we thought. HYDRA didn’t just wipe memories; they rerouted the way you form them. Like they were trying to control how you remembered things.”

He’s silent again, but she can see the tension ripple down his metal arm. His voice is low, rough. “So… anything I do remember… wasn’t supposed to survive?”

“No, it wasn’t,” she says softly. “Which makes it kind of amazing that you did remember it.”

He doesn’t look at her, but she catches the flicker of emotion in his jaw, the way he shifts in the seat. It’s not rejection. It’s absorbing.

“I need to place a sensor,” she says after a moment, carefully. “Near your temple. Just a quick one.”

He meets her eyes. There’s a pause. Not hesitant… just quiet permission.

She steps forward. His face tilts toward her ever so slightly.

And he doesn’t flinch.

Her hand rises slowly, her fingers brushing back a lock of his hair behind his ear, in a soft and intimate way. He stays still, letting her in. Her fingertips graze his skin as she presses the small sensor gently against the side of his temple.

Lily swallows. Her heart tightens, unexpectedly.

It’s a small thing. Just a sensor. But for a man built by control and conditioned to fear touch—this is trust. Not spoken. But given.

She forces herself to move back slowly, professionally, even as the warmth of the moment sits heavy in her chest.

“You didn’t even blink,” she says lightly, trying to diffuse it.

He looks at her sidelong. “Guess I’m getting used to you.”

Her breath catches, but she smiles. “That’s dangerous talk.”

He almost smirks. “You let Stark in here. That was the real danger.”

She lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head, and turns back to the screen. “He’s been surprisingly helpful, actually.”

Bucky shifts in his seat. “So… what’s it saying today?”

She glances over the new readings. “That your brain’s stubborn as hell. And that HYDRA didn’t stand a chance in the long run.”

He doesn’t say anything, but something in his posture relaxes a fraction more.

They keep working, side by side, the air between them softer now. The check-up becomes less of a procedure and more of a conversation. A shared space.

Chapter 15: A Gentle Ease

Lily remembers the first wound she healed.

It was summer, the one that smelled like flowers and soil and the faint tang of lemonade from the pitcher her mother always kept near the register.

The flower shop buzzed gently with life. Bees outside the screen door. The hum of the old ceiling fan above. Her mother moved between the bouquets, apron tied snug around her waist, her hands dusted with pollen and beauty. Lily helped where she could with her 9 years —trimming stems, refilling water jars, carrying ribbon spools between displays— proud to be part of something so delicate and alive.

The bell above the door jingled, and in came Mr. and Mrs. Collin, their daughter trailing behind them Sophia, Lily’s new friend from down the block, the one with tcurlyhair and scraped knees, who had just moved into the neighborhood that spring.

While their parents chatted near the register, the girls wandered toward the buckets of wildflowers. Sophia leaned in to sniff a bundle of coral-pink roses, too quickly and too close, and yelped.

“Ow!”

She jerked back, hand clutched to her face. A thin scratch bloomed across her cheek, a shallow scrape already welling with a tiny bead of red.

Lily froze for a second —not from fear, but from urgency. Instinct.

She moved without thinking, grabbing one of the damp cloths her mom used to wrap stems. She stepped in front of Sophia, small hands gentle, voice calm.

“Wait. I get it.”

Sophia’s lip trembled, but she listened.

Lily dabbed the scratch like she’d seen her mother do with petals bruised from transport —soft, precise, without fuss. The bleeding stopped quickly. It wasn’t much, really, barely a scratch. But the look in Sophia’s eyes stayed with her: surprise first, then trust. And her mom saw it too. From across the shop, she met Lily’s eyes and gave her a quiet nod, with that proud, secret kind of smile she had only for her kids.

That was the first time Lily realized she could help. Not just with flowers. Not just with arrangements or tidying counters. But really help with hands and presence and calm.

The memory flickers as Lily kneels beside one of her potted plants, carefully watering the roots of a climbing coral-pink rose she’d coaxed into curling along the med bay windowsill. It’s a small ritual; one of the things that makes the room feel human and alive.

She moves the watering can to the next pot, her mind still half in the past, and then she fumbles. Water sloshes over the edge too quickly, spilling down the metal cart and across the floor with a dull splatter.

“Shit—” she hisses, reaching for the paper towels, but the roll slips sideways onto the floor with a traitorous bounce. Classic. Of course.

She’s crouched, awkwardly balancing the can and trying not to step in the puddle when a shadow shifts beside her. Without a word, a hand reaches down and picks up the paper towel roll. A metal hand.

She freezes.

Bucky is standing there, brows slightly lifted, holding out the paper towels like it’s the most normal thing in the world. He must’ve come in early for today’s check-up. She hadn’t even heard the door.

“Oh,” she says, startled. “Thanks.”

He shrugs. “You were losing the fight,” he mutters, not quite looking at her but there’s something in his tone, something dry and almost teasing.

Her breath catches —and not from embarrassment. It’s the first time he’s ever helped her unprompted. No request. No clinical context. Just… stepped in.

She takes the paper towels from him gently, fingers brushing his for a second longer than they need to.

“I usually win, I’ll have you know,” she says, trying for lightness.

“Mm-hm,” he hums, and moves to sit in his usual chair, rolling up the sleeve of his today blue henley without being asked.

Lily, again, takes a second too long watching the muscles shift beneath his skin. Her heart does a little stutter and she mentally smacks herself back into professionalism.

She mentally scolds herself. “Focus, Bloom. You are not here to ogle.”

The check-up goes quietly.

Lily does her usual run-through, gentle and methodical. She checks reflex response, runs baseline neuro-readings, and calibrates signal strength from the metal arm — all routine now, the rhythm of it almost familiar. Bucky doesn’t flinch when she places the sensors. He doesn’t even tense. When she lifts his wrist to adjust the cuff, he lets her.

They wait in a lull for one of the scans to process.

She’s perched on a rolling stool, legs tucked up a little, jotting notes on her tablet. A soft breeze from the ceiling vent stirs one of the trailing ivy vines hanging above the medical shelf, and Bucky watches it shift. Everything about this place feels wrong for what it is. It doesn’t look like any med bay he’s ever known. Not sterile. Not cold. There are plants in every corner — herbs, wildflowers, ivy. There’s also mismatched mugs and chipped ceramic pots. The overhead lights glow warm, not that harsh blue-white he’s used to. There’s even soft music, and a scent in the air faint, but not clinical. Citrus maybe. Or lavender.

And Bucky hasn’t  even realized when she stopped wearing white coats around her, only that she had. At some point, the stiff lines and stark uniform had been replaced by soft cotton and gentle colors. Today it’s a pale, floral-patterned blouse with long sleeves and a tie front, the fabric loose and light like early spring. Tucked into relaxed, high-waisted jeans. Her braid is pulled to the side and pinned back with a carved wooden clip shaped like a crescent moon, the same warm brown as the little embroidered flowers scattered across her blouse. A pair of clean white sneakers peek out beneath the denim, grounded and practical, while layered gold necklaces and small hoops catch the light when she moves.

She looks nothing like a doctor. Not the ones he remembers, anyway. Not the ones from medical files or cold HYDRA labs and sterile rooms.

He looks over at her. She seems soft. Like something alive and real.

“You like plants so much.”

Lily glances up, surprised. A smile blooms slowly, instinctively, curling at the corners of her mouth. “Family thing,” she says. “I told you my mom runs a flower shop back in Virginia, right? Bloom’s Florals. Kinda on the nose.”

Bucky huffs softly. “A little.”

She chuckles. “Yeah, well. I grew up around flowers. It stuck.” She twirls the digital pen between her fingers, absentminded. “I almost stayed, actually. Would’ve taken over the shop. But I was more fascinated by human biology, I guess. Dad was a cop, mom’s got a green thumb… I guess I ended up somewhere in between being a doctor.”

Bucky doesn’t respond at first. He just… watches her.

The way she talks about being a doctor with no irony, no bravado. The way her lips tilt up when she talks about home, like the warmth is still with her. The way her hair slips over her shoulder when she leans in, the curve of her cheek soft and full of life. The way her hands, so damn gentle, never make him flinch.

It’s not sudden. It’s slow and subtle the way something loosens inside him.

Is also dangerous the way he starts to care. He knows that. He can feel it, low and quiet and deep in his ribs —a recognition he doesn’t have a name for. But it's there. In the way he notices the cadence of her voice, the way her laugh makes his chest ache a little in a way that isn’t painful.

She looks at him just then, catching his gaze, and instead of pulling away, he holds it.

“I get why you didn’t stay in Virginia,” he says, after a pause. “You don’t seem the type to do just one thing.”

That earns a soft laugh from her. “Is that a compliment?”

He shrugs a shoulder, but there’s the ghost of a smile there. “Dunno. Maybe.”

She shifts a little on the stool, resting her elbow on her knee and chin in her hand. “I could’ve had a very peaceful life, you know. Flowers and ribbons, Valentine’s rushes and prom corsages. But here I am instead, wiring sensors to a super-soldier.”

He huffs. “Lucky me.”

They’re both quiet after that.

Bucky watches her move — the careful, graceful way she crosses the med bay to grab a charger cable, murmuring thanks to herself when she untangles it. The breeze from the vent stirs the ivy above her head again, and he finds himself watching the leaves dance, the way she reaches up absently to touch one like she’s checking on a friend.

Then, after a beat, he says it —not loud, but not like it doesn’t matter.

“The team’s been talking. About missions.”

She looks over, still half-kneeling by the cabinet. “Missions?”

He nods. “HYDRA ones. Old bases. Intel recon. Tony’s got some leads. Steve wants eyes on it.”

“Are you—?” she starts, then hesitates. “Are you thinking about going?”

Bucky doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back slightly, gaze fixed somewhere just over her shoulder.

“I… I don’t know,” he says at last. “Nothing’s solid. Just… thought you should know.”

Lily watches him —the way he avoids her eyes again, but not in the way he used to. It’s not shame anymore. Not fear. It’s something closer to guilt, or maybe protection. Like he doesn’t want to worry her, but also doesn’t want to lie.

And the fact that he told her at all? That’s new. That’s big.

So she nods, quietly. “Thanks for telling me.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything else.

A soft ding cuts through the quiet — the monitor signaling the data’s finished compiling.

Lily straightens up from the cabinet, brushing her hands on her jeans. “Okay,” she says, rolling back toward her tablet. “Moment of truth.”

She scrolls through the display, tapping open a few windows, her lips pursing in focus. Bucky watches her —not the screen, her— and catches that faint citrus-lavender scent again as she leans forward. She reads in total silence for a few seconds, then huffs out a sound that’s somewhere between satisfaction and frustration.

“Well?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Lily twists the stool slightly to face him, lifting the tablet like she’s about to start a class lecture. “So,” she begins, “the signal response to the new calibration looks mostly consistent, which is good, but the latency around the sensory relay is still throwing weird numbers. Honestly, I’m not sure if it’s the arm or your brain being stubborn.”

“Could be both,” Bucky says dryly, folding his arms.

She grins. “No argument here.”

She turns the tablet toward him, pointing at the graph with her pencil. “See this dip? That happened right when I asked you to clench your fist. There’s a delay just before activation. Not dangerous, but I wanna keep an eye on it.”

He squints. “Looks like… like… like spaghetti.”

“Everything looks like spaghetti to you,” she says, exasperated and fond at the same time.

“You just said you weren’t sure what it meant.”

“Yeah, but I’m the one with the degree.”

He snorts. “Which one?”

Lily narrows her eyes. “All of them.”

He’s grinning now, barely, but it’s there. It’s the closest they’ve come to teasing like this. To banter that isn’t loaded with fear or tension or eggshells. And she likes it a little too much.

She sets the tablet down and leans back on the stool, arms crossed. “Anyway, my point is —it’s progress. Which is good. But you still need to do the calibration exercises every day.”

Bucky groans. “You’re worse than Steve.”

“No,” she says with a straight face. “I’m prettier.”

He smirks. “That’s debatable.”

She gasps, hand to her chest in mock offense. “Rude.”

“Truthful.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Dramatic.”

“Oh, I am so glad I chose this profession. So glad I get to deal with cranky World War II super soldiers who think sarcasm is a personality.”

He raises both eyebrows. “And yet, here you are.”

She opens her mouth to fire back, something clever and sharp.

But then Bucky cuts her off, voice low, soft, but amused: “Easy there, doll.”

Everything stills.

Lily freezes like she’s been unplugged from reality. It’s not the word itself. It’s the way he says it — like it just slipped. Like it wasn’t a performance. Like it was natural. Like he has said it before, in another life.

Bucky seems to realize it at the exact same time. His mouth opens slightly, then shuts again. His jaw ticks. He looks away fast, suddenly fascinated by the corner of the table. His heart is fluttering at his own words. He'd spent so long being gruff and distant, that using a term of endearment feels both strange and comfortable. But he realizes, with a slight start, that it feels natural, effortless even. Like a doll is exactly what Lily is. She brings out a gentler side of him, the side he long thought was lost.

Lily’s heartbeat stutters. She swallows and tells herself it’s fine, it’s just a word. It doesn’t mean anything.

Except that it does. Because it’s the first time he’s called her something that’s not her name. The first time he’s let something personal out without freezing up. And it hit like a pulse of warmth straight to her chest before she could even think about pretending not to care.

So she does what she always does when things get too close. She cracks a smile.

“Careful, Barnes,” she says lightly, “if you start getting nice, I might think you’re not hopeless after all.”

He glances at her again, jaw still tight, but there’s color in his cheeks now. And his voice, when it comes, is a little quieter.

“Too late.”

Chapter 16: What’s Left Behind

It’s a slow morning at the Tower —the kind that only happens when nobody’s actively bleeding, chasing, or being chased. A rare lull. Rain slicks the windows in soft streaks and the sky outside is low and gray, but inside, the air buzzes faintly with voices, coffee, and the shuffle of movement that says people are home.

Lily doesn’t mean to be late to the debrief, but she gets caught down the hall rechecking a lab result she already knows by heart. Again and again, just in case.

By the time she pushes into the common room, her braid slightly askew and her tablet tucked under one arm, she’s greeted by the unmistakable sound of Sam Wilson arguing with a Pop-Tart.

“I’m just saying,” he declares to no one in particular, “if this toaster can launch them three feet in the air, it can be upgraded to heat evenly. I believe in us as a society.”

“You’re yelling at it like it insulted your mother,” Natasha replies calmly from the couch, curled around a mug and an old paperback.

Steve, beside her and sipping black coffee, offers Lily a quiet smile. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Lily says, smiling back, then raising an eyebrow at Sam. “Fighting household appliances again?”

“Don’t take his side,” Sam says, pointing at the toaster like it committed a war crime. “You didn’t see what it did to my last blueberry.”

“I heard about the carnage,” she deadpans. “There was a memo.”

Natasha smirks into her tea.

Lily steps further in, eyes scanning the spread of people relaxed, not in gear for once. Bruce is at the breakfast counter with a laptop, reading something complicated and squinting through his glasses. Tony’s voice echoes faintly from the hallway —probably harassing FRIDAY or someone equally unlucky.

Sam tosses her a granola bar. “Fuel up, Doc. We’re doing the full run-down on the last intel drop in fifteen. Don’t let Stark talk over you — he’s not actually your boss.”

“Noted.”

“Also, I wanna hear what you’ve figured out with Barnes. You’ve been all mysterious lately.”

Lily raises a brow. “It’s called privacy, Sam.”

“It’s called a slow burn, and I respect it,” Natasha says smoothly without looking up.

Lily flushes immediately. “I didn’t mean— That’s not— It’s not like—”

Steve coughs very conveniently into his coffee, hiding his smile. Sam just laughs.

The common room for debriefing is already half-full by the time they arrive, with Lily having her tablet tucked under one arm and eating the granola bar with the other. Sunlight filters in through the tall windows, catching on the floating dust motes and making the tower feel unusually warm.

Steve sits near the head of the table, reviewing something on his data pad, while Natasha lounges sideways in her chair, idly tossing a pen in the air and catching it without looking. Sam has claimed a stool, one boot braced on the rungs, sipping from a water bottle with practiced boredom.

Tony strolls in with Bruce not far behind. Tony, naturally, is in full performance mode, announcing, “I have arrived, and I bring with me the last edible muffins this kitchen had to offer.”

“Did you bake them yourself?” Sam asks, dubious.

“Please,” Tony scoffs. “I don’t even toast my own bread.”

“That explains a lot,” Natasha mutters.

Bruce gives Lily a small, warm nod as he takes a seat near her. “Morning,” he offers, and she returns the smile. She likes this rhythm —easy, casual, like she’s part of something again.

And then the elevator doors slide open again. Nick Fury walks in like he owns the place. Which, arguably, he does.

His coat is damp from the light rain outside, his expression unreadable as always, and he doesn’t bother with pleasantries. Just grabs the coffee someone left on the side counter and says, “Tell me we’re starting this century.”

Tony gives him a mock salute. “Director Eyepatch. Lovely of you to grace us.”

Fury doesn’t blink. “Keep talking, Stark. I’ll put you in charge of HR.”

“Why are you like this?” Tony mutters.

“Where’s Barnes?” Fury asks as he sets down.

FRIDAY chimes in helpfully, “Sergeant Barnes is currently on the 23rd floor. No signs of movement for the past fifteen minutes.”

“He brooding again?” Sam asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Maybe he’s just tired,” Bruce offers gently.

“I could go get him,” Lily says before she can think too much about it. Her voice is calm, her heart not so much. “He probably forgot the time. I’m sure he’s fine.”

Steve glances up at her, nodding with a quiet kind of approval. Natasha’s eyes flick between Lily and the hallway, but she says nothing.

Tony doesn’t miss a beat. “Flower to the rescue,” he says cheerfully. “You’ve got the touch, Doc.”

Lily grabs her cardigan from the back of her chair, rolling her eyes as she throws it on. “I’ll be right back.”

Fury takes a long sip of his coffee, then speaks without looking at her. “If he doesn’t come, I want a report.”

Lily shoots him a small smile. “I’ll try my best, Director.”

And with that, she heads out of the room, walking down the hall. The elevator opens with a soft chime, and Lily steps into the stillness of the 23rd floor. No one is around. The rain taps lightly against the tall windows, turning the world beyond into a watercolor blur. For a second, she thinks maybe FRIDAY was mistaken because she is expecting to find him pacing. Maybe brooding on the balcony. What she doesn’t expect is to find him curled into the corner of the massive gray sectional, half-covered by an old throw blanket, reading. Well, not just reading but grinning.

The Hobbit is open in his lap, dog-eared somewhere near the middle. His metal hand rests on the arm of the couch, but his flesh fingers drum rhythmically along the page, almost absentmindedly. His brow furrowed, relaxed. He makes a quiet, amused snort —and then, suddenly, laughs. A real, full-bodied laugh. Not loud, but unguarded. Rich and real and warm.

Lily stops dead in the doorway, struck silent.

He’s so normal. So human. Just a man with a book, and it’s like catching a glimpse of something rare and wild in its natural state. Like he hadn’t been a ghost for years. Like he hadn’t been engineered into something inhuman. Like he wasn’t constantly watching his own shadow.

And god, he looks young. That’s the part that nearly undoes her.

No sharp edges, no defensiveness. No thousand-yard stare. Just Bucky Barnes with his hair falling forward into his face, a smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. The same smile that must’ve broken hearts in Brooklyn eighty years ago.

It guts her a little. The softness of it. The simple life in him.

A beat passes. Then FRIDAY’s voice gently interrupts her thoughts, soft in her words.

“Doctor Bloom? Would you like me to announce your presence?”

Lily jumps slightly, blinking herself back into the moment. Her heart flips once —twice.

Bucky finally looks up. His expression shifts, startled but not defensive. He doesn’t reach for the book like he’s been caught, doesn’t shut down. He just blinks at her, eyes soft, brow raised.

“Lily?” he asks.

Lily nods. “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt Bilbo’s adventure.”

Something flickers across his face. The corner of his mouth lifts again, and he sets the book down beside him with exaggerated care.

“You kinda did,” he says dryly. “But I’ll allow it.”

She smiles, quiet and warm. “Team’s waiting downstairs. Debrief.”

He groans as he stands, stretching lazily, the fabric of his T-shirt pulling across his chest, metal arm gleaming. And for a second, he doesn’t say anything. Just watches her. The little smile she wears. The way her cardigan hangs open over a patterned top, her red hair loose and kind of frizzing because of the rain. There’s something about her, something almost familiar.

He realizes he doesn’t want to go down if she’s not there.

“Lead the way, doll,” he says.

And this time he doesn’t blush. Doesn’t freeze. And she walks beside him, her shoulder brushing his just once.

The debrief is already in full swing by the time Lily and Bucky return, which makes a few heads turn. Bucky ignores the attention and slips into a chair beside Sam, who throws him a look and a quiet, “You good?” Bucky nods once. Sam nods back, satisfied.

Lily moves toward the seat she left earlier, near Bruce, who glances up from his notes just a little too quickly. He offers her a small, crooked smile that lingers for a second too long before returning to his tablet.

She doesn’t notice. Or if she does, she says nothing. Bucky notices, though, because he settles in his spot across the room, jaw flexing once, slow.

Fury claps his hands once, sharp. His eye swivels toward Lily.

“Dr. Bloom. Let’s get started with you now you’re both here. I’d like a clearer timeline on the Soldier’s neurological progress and how soon we can expect actionable results.”

Lily sits up straighter, tablet in hand, but her smile tightens at the way Fury says it—the Soldier, like Bucky is still just a designation, not a man. Not someone sitting ten feet away from them.

She lifts her chin, tablet untouched. Her voice is even, calm but tight.

“First off, his name is Bucky. Not the Soldier. Not a system. Not a threat status. Bucky Barnes. Maybe we could try using it.”

Steve doesn’t move, but there’s a slight tightening in his jaw. Natasha’s eyes flick toward Lily, proudly. Sam raises an eyebrow but says nothing, just sipping his coffee with a faint huff of approval.

Fury doesn’t blink. “Noted,” he says flatly.

Lily exhales, then taps her tablet screen and begins, her tone still tight around the edges.

“I’ve been tracking neural recovery through functional mapping. We’ve found evidence of suppressive tech HYDRA left behind —pieces of conditioning architecture. Not just blocks. Traps. Some of them are adaptive —if he thinks about resisting, it triggers pain responses. Physical. Immediate. That’s not trauma —that’s programming.”

Bucky doesn’t move. But he’s listening —his eyes trained low, hands folded.

“But we’ve made real progress. Signal activity is stabilizing across critical zones, especially during memory recall or proximity interactions. His autonomic spikes are lower. We’re seeing decreased stress reactions during routine medical procedures. He’s beginning to recognize safety on a neurological level. Not always. But enough to matter.”

She glances at Bucky —just a flicker of her gaze— before returning to her notes.

“I’m not trying to control him. Or fix him. I’m studying how to dismantle the damage. That takes time. Compassion. Trust. And treating him like a person. He’s not a faulty asset. He’s not a weapon you’re afraid to send back into the field.”

Her voice catches just slightly on the last word, and she bites it back with a breath. Silence follows again, thicker this time.

Fury’s one good eye locks on her for a beat longer than necessary. It is impossible to tell what he’s thinking —the man has mastered the art of unreadable decades ago. But he doesn’t interrupt. And that alone feels like a kind of respect.

Steve’s voice is soft when he finally speaks. “She’s right.”

Natasha gives a quiet nod, no fanfare. Sam offers Lily a look  —steady, warm— and lifts his cup slightly like a quiet toast. Bucky doesn’t speak but he is looking at her. Not like someone use to being defended, like someone not sure he deserves it.

Lily sets her tablet down, gently. Her fingers hover at the edge of it for a beat too long. Then, with a quiet inhale, she admits it.

“I’ve made it this far. We’ve made it this far. But I’m starting to feel... stuck.”

She doesn’t look at Bucky this time. She looks at her hands.

“I can map neural activity. I can isolate stressors and stimuli and document every micro-response his system gives me. But I wasn’t there. I didn’t see what they did to him. And HYDRA’s files —the real ones— the ones about the Winter Soldier program? They’re ghosts. Scrubbed, scattered, half-coded in languages no one’s spoken in fifty years.”

She lifts her gaze again, steady but tired. “I think we’ve hit a wall. And I don’t think science alone is going to tear it down.”

There’s a pause. No one interrupts her.

Then Steve leans forward, forearms on the table. “What if we help knock down that wall?”

Lily blinks. “What do you mean?”

“Field work,” he says simply. “Targeted missions. Go after the places that made the ghosts. Bring back anything that can help. We’ve been talking about it.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, going on a haunted house tour through HYDRA’s greatest hits.”

Steve doesn’t rise to the bait. “If that’s what it takes.”

Natasha shifts, arms crossed, tone calm. “I can dig into old safehouses, old handlers. We start threading the map from the outside in.”

Sam nods slowly. “We go back to where it started. Uncover whatever’s left. Whatever they buried.”

Bruce, quiet until now, speaks softly. “That might actually help. Trace signatures, environmental triggers. Maybe even physical artifacts. It could speed up the neural reprocessing.”

Lily’s brow furrows. “I don’t know if he’s ready…”

She doesn’t say Bucky. But they all know she means him.

Steve doesn’t hesitate. “We’ll go at his pace. Always.”

Fury stands near the head of the table, arms folded, unmoved. “You’re suggesting we start running recon on long-abandoned HYDRA assets based on one doctor’s gut feeling that her research is stalling.”

“She’s not just any doctor,” Bruce says, before he can stop himself. His voice is firm, and Lily turns sharply toward him, surprised.

Fury raises a brow.

Tony leans back in his chair, expression unreadable —which, for Tony, might as well be an announcement.

“She’s right, you know,”  Sam says simply. “You want Barnes on the field again? You need to help him stop looking over his shoulder every time someone drops a clipboard.”

And that makes Bucky shifts in his seat.

“I’m right here, you know.”

His voice isn’t loud but it cuts through the room like a clean edge and makes everyone turn. He doesn’t raise his gaze right away. His fingers are steepled, thumbs pressing together, slow and deliberate. But when he does look up, it’s at Fury.

“I don’t need a permission slip to want my life back.”

Fury’s eye narrows, but he says nothing.

“I don’t know what you’re expecting from me,” Bucky continues, voice low but steady. “You want the Soldier in the field again? Not gonna happen. But if there’s a chance to understand what they did to me... to stop it from happening to anyone else—”

He glances sideways, toward Lily. Her breath catches, just slightly.

“Then I want to be in it.”

Steve watches him with quiet pride. Sam lets out a slow breath, nodding once. Even Tony, for once, doesn’t offer a quip. Bruce, beside Lily, risks a brief glance her way. But Lily’s eyes are on Bucky —wide and open, something unreadable flickering across her face.

Natasha nods, eyes flicking toward Bucky with something that might almost be respect. “This won’t work unless he wants to keep healing, which he wants. And he’s not going to get better if we treat him like a bomb waiting to go off.”

Fury looks at each of them in turn. The silence stretches. But he doesn’t say no.

He finally exhales, low and sharp. “You’ve got a week to put together actionable leads. Old bases. Known assets. Anything we missed.”

His gaze cuts to Lily again. “You want more answers, Doctor? Go find them.”

Lily swallows, tension still coiled under her ribs —but something warm flickers through her, too. A kind of steady burn.

They’re not just indulging her. They believe in this. In him.

The debrief disperses slowly after that, details starting to spiral out —which bases to check, who takes lead, how to handle extraction protocols if they find something worse than expected.

But Lily barely hears any of it, because she’s too busy staring at Bucky Barnes, who just said he wants to be in it. He wants to heal.

His eyes meet hers across the table. And something in them is quieter than fear.

The debrief finished hours ago. Everyone’s scattered back to their routines —Tony disappeared into his garage with a protein shake and his running playlist, Steve’s been pacing between reports and quiet conversations with Fury, and Lily...

Lily left not long after the meeting ended, slipping away with Natasha. Something about Lily meeting Pepper, dinner and a girls’ night out. She’d glanced back over her shoulder before stepping into the elevator —just once, eyes soft, tired, and unreadable in the dim hallway light.

Now, Bucky leans forward on the railing, arms folded, a cold bottle of beer sweating in his hand.  The stars are faint above the city, blurred out by the glow of streetlights and the soft haze of summer heat still rising off the buildings. The city hums below the balcony, a low, distant thrum of traffic and wind.

He hears the sliding door open behind him, hears the familiar steps of the boots and weight.

Steve first. Heavy tread, familiar. Then Sam, lighter, with that half-casual rhythm that always makes Bucky feel like he’s walking into a conversation he has missed the first half of. They don’t say anything for a while. Just take up spots beside him.

Steve on the left, arms crossed, gaze fixed out on the city. Sam leans on the railing to the right, nursing his beer, and for a few minutes the only sound is distant traffic and slipping of beer.

Sam breaks the silence, naturally.

“You took the debrief like a champ.”

Bucky huffs a breath. “Wasn’t much to say.”

Steve huffs a laugh but doesn’t push. He’s looking at Bucky carefully, the way he always does when he’s worried. When he’s weighing something.

“You sure about going back in the field?” Steve finally asks.

The question isn’t a challenge. Steve doesn’t ask things to push buttons —he asks because he needs to know. For the team. For Bucky.

“I’m sure,” Bucky says quietly. He sets the bottle down on the ledge, watching the sweat slide down the glass. “Look. I know what you’re both thinking. That maybe I’m still too unstable, too… raw. But I can’t keep sitting around waiting to be fixed like I’m some busted weapon someone’s afraid to touch.”

“You’re not a weapon,” Steve says, voice firm.

“No,” Bucky agrees. “But HYDRA built me like one. And the only way to unbuild it is to understand it. That means going back. Finding the things they used. Bringing back everything that might help Lily figure out what they did.”

Sam tips his bottle and takes a slow sip. “You really think there’s something left to find?”

“I think there has to be,” Bucky says. “She’s been working non-stop, tearing herself apart trying to understand how deep it goes. And it’s not just trauma. Not just pain. There’s… programming. She said some of it fights back if I even think about resisting. Pain responses, hardwired blocks. Traps. Adaptive conditioning. Like they left landmines in my head.”

He lets that sit. Let them feel the weight of it. Not because he wants pity, but because it’s the truth. It needs air.

Sam’s brows pull in. “That’s not just sick. That’s calculated.”

Bucky nods. “And she’s mapping it. Figuring out what they left behind. She’s in there, picking apart every piece of what they did to me. And if she can do that for me, the least I can do is go after what made me the damn Soldier in the first place.”

“That’s what this is about? The debrief? The tests?” Sam tilts his head. “Lily?”

Steve watches him for a beat. “You’re doing this for her.”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says. “But I can’t sit in that med bay anymore while Lily does all the work. She’s fighting for me. Every damn day. If she’s willing to bleed herself dry trying to pull me out of this… then I have to meet her halfway.”

That lands heavy. Steve doesn’t speak, just nods again. But Sam… Sam gives him a sidelong look.

“So. You like her,” Sam says, not a question.

Bucky blinks. “What?”

Steve chuckles into his beer.

“You heard me.” Sam says, nudging him with an elbow. “You like her.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to,” Sam says, smirking now. “You talk about her like she’s gravity. Like you keep falling toward her, even when you don’t want to.”

Steve laughs quietly, amused. “She’s not exactly standard SHIELD protocol, huh?”

Bucky glares at both of them, gaze sharpen.

“No,” Bucky agrees finally, thinking of her flower-patterned dresses and the way she makes the med bay feel like a sunroom instead of a prison. “She’s not.”

Sam leans in, grin wicked. “And she’s cute.”

Bucky groans. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, come on, Barnes. She’s very cute. And she’s probably the first person you’ve let touch your head with cold instruments without threatening to kill them. That means too much coming from you.”

Steve chokes on his beer, and Bucky glares daggers at both of them. “You two are ridiculous.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “But I’m not wrong.”

Bucky stares down at the streetlights flickering far below, jaw tight. “I don’t— It’s not like that.”

“No?” Sam asks, feigning innocence.

“I mean it.” Bucky’s voice comes sharper now, more defensive than he wants it to be. “She’s... she’s kind. She’s helping me. That’s it. I owe her.”

“Owe her?” Steve echoes, head tilting.

Bucky nods quickly, like if he says it with enough conviction, it’ll make it true. “She’s doing something no one else has. She treats me like I matter. Like I’m not broken beyond repair. Of course I care. I’m grateful, that’s all.”

Gratitude. It’s the only word he can say out loud. But it rings hollow. Because in the pit of his chest, beneath all the cold steel and cracked memories, he knows there’s something else there. Something warmer, something quieter. And that makes it more dangerous.

He remembers the way Lily looks at him after every check-up. No fear. No pity. Just calm, stubborn presence. He remembers her hand on his head, grounding him. The scent of her perfume. The way she laughs under her breath when she thinks he’s not listening. None of that is gratitude. But he tells himself it is. Because it’s safer that way. Because the moment he admits it might be more, it becomes real. And if it’s real, it can be taken away, and he’s not brave enough for that.

Bucky shakes his head, forces a half-smirk, and adds, “Besides, she’s way too good for me.”

Sam doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. That’s true.”

Bucky slowly turns to look at him, blinking once. “You wanna say that again?”

Sam grins like a man who’s just found his favorite button to push. “What? I’m agreeing with you. Personal growth, Barnes. Be proud.”

Steve sighs. “Sam…”

“What? I didn’t say anything wrong.”

“You never say anything wrong,” Steve mutters, rubbing his temple.

Bucky just groans and tilts his beer bottle back, finishing the last of it. “You two are the worst.”

Steve offers a small smile. “You’re welcome.”

They fall into silence again, but it’s easier now. Softer.

The tension that coils in Bucky’s chest loosens a little with the breeze, with the company, with the fact that tonight he doesn’t feel like a monster or a mission. He feels like himself. Whoever that is now.

Notes:

this chapter is one of my favorites. after all the lab work and quiet healing, they’re finally heading out. The real action begins! i hope you enjoy it as much as i loved writing it.

Chapter 17: In the Grip of Memory

The next day passes in quiet, measured pieces.

He wakes before dawn, same as always. The sky outside is still gray, the city hushed and hazy. For a moment he just lies there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the Tower’s systems through the walls. He likes the silence, it’s predictable.

Coffee comes next: two cups, black. He drinks the first one standing by the window, watching the first streaks of morning light crawl up the skyline.

The second follows him to the gym. Always training. Routine keeps the noise quiet.

Down in the gym, it’s easier to breathe. The rhythm of movement —weights, pull-ups, strikes— gives shape to the hours. Sweat replaces thought. He doesn’t have to be anything but motion. Steve joins sometimes, but not today. Today, it’s just him and the ring of metal against metal when his arm meets the weights. Everything in order. Everything counted. He focuses on the mechanics and the strain in his shoulders, the burn in his legs, the way repetition makes the world smaller and manageable.

Next comes late lunch with Steve and Sam, who mercifully don’t mention the night before. Steve fills the silence with mission talk, while Sam pretends not to study him over his sandwich. Bucky eats slow and doesn’t say much but when Sam cracks a joke about paperwork, he gives a quiet grunt that counts as a laugh to everyone.

When Steve mentions the next HYDRA lead, Bucky’s fork hesitates midair. Just for a second. Then he lowers it again, smooth and careful.

“Let me know when you’re ready,” Steve says simply, and that’s that.

He spends some other time in the gym again, this time working a punching bag until the weight in his chest feels manageable. The rhythm settles him. The steady beat of leather against his fists, the soft echo that fills the empty room.

It’s not about anger today. It’s movement, control, muscle memory. Something to keep his body busy while his mind stays quiet. His breathing evens out with every strike; his shoulders roll loose, precise, practiced.

He likes the simplicity of it —no decisions, no talking, just the sound and the rhythm and the space between.

When he finally stops, the ache in his arms is the good kind, earned and grounding. He wipes his hands on a towel and breathes once, slow and deep, before heading out.

He showers before the check-up. Steam fogs the glass, blurring the edges of his reflection. He lets the water run too hot, but it’s habit, not indulgence. The kind of heat that makes him feel awake.

When he finally shuts it off, the air is thick and quiet. Drops trace down his shoulders, catching on the edges of old scars. He towels off and stands there for a moment, facing the mirror.

His reflection looks back at him, all long hair, still damp and curling at the ends, with stubble rough along his jaw. The faint shadows under his eyes haven’t vanished, but they’re softer now. There’s more color in his skin. More weight on his frame.

He traces his gaze along the map of scars across his torso, lingering on the jagged seam where metal meets flesh. It’s still ugly, still a reminder. But the skin around it looks healthy instead of raw or angry. He can’t remember the last time he noticed that.

For a second, Lily’s voice drifts through his head soft and jokingly: “Guess they’ve been generous with the food here, huh?”

He almost smiles. She says routine has been good for him. Gave him peace.

And she’s right, of course. Because his reflection stares back with the same face, and the same eyes but he doesn’t look like the ghost HYDRA left behind. Not entirely.

Without really thinking about it, he picks up the brush sitting by the sink. He hesitates, then runs it through his hair in slow, careful strokes. It’s been a long time since he’s bothered. The strands settle a little neater, still long, still unruly, but less wild.

When he opens his closet, it’s a row of the same shades: black, grey, navy. Practical, forgettable. He reaches for a shirt that isn’t too wrinkled. Dark grey, the kind that makes him look a little more like himself.

He catches his reflection again, and for a fleeting second, he wonders if Lily will notice. Then he shakes the thought off, rolls his shoulders, and pulls on his jacket.

By the time he walks down the hall toward the med bay, the light has shifted to be warmer and softer, late afternoon glow bleeding in through the tall compound windows. He walks with practiced calm, boots heavy against the tile. This is routine now. Familiar. Predictable.

He doesn’t flinch when the med bay doors open. Doesn’t look at the marks on the floor or the reflection of himself in the sterilized glass.

Lily’s already inside, humming faintly under her breath as she prepares something on the counter. Her hair’s pulled back, loose wisps curling around her face. She’s wearing one of those patterned blouses again, this time white dots against black.

She turns when she hears him. “Hi, Bucky. You are right on time like always.”

Bucky gives a quiet hum of acknowledgment and steps inside. “Just here for the poking and prodding, doll.”

She smiles at the nickname and doesn’t comment on the new habit Bucky is making of using it with her.

“Have a seat. I’ve been looking over some of your last scans.”

He sits, metal arm resting loosely against his leg. “That bad, huh?”

“Not bad,” she says quickly, shaking her head as she rolls her stool over. “Just… interesting. I noticed some signs of mild anomic aphasia —it’s a kind of language hiccup that can happen after repeated trauma or electroshock.”

Bucky’s brow furrows. “Aphasia?”

“It just means that sometimes your brain knows the word, but it can’t quite grab it right away.” She meets his eyes, steady but kind. “It’s probably why you occasionally pause before finishing a sentence, or why certain names take you a second longer to recall. Like the words don’t register in your brain even if you know what you want to say.”

He exhales through his nose with a soft, almost embarrassed sound. “Yeah. I’ve noticed that.”

“The good news,” she continues, adjusting the small screen beside her, “is that your brain is recovering. The serum’s still doing its job —it’s just that HYDRA didn’t exactly give it a chance to heal between rounds of damage. Think of it like bruising that never got to fade before the next hit.”

Bucky’s jaw tightens. “So it’s not permanent?”

She smiles faintly. “No. You’re already healing faster than most people would. You just need time and consistency.”

He nods, quiet for a moment, watching her type something on the tablet. “Guess that’s what you’re for, huh?”

She glances up at him, soft light catching in her eyes. “That’s what we’re for.”

There’s a pause, small, but not uncomfortable. The kind that feels like they both notice the shift but choose to let it sit there.

Then she adds gently, “I’ll send you a few exercises later. Things you can do on your own. Just little mental warm-ups, help your brain reconnect those pathways.”

He arches a brow. “You’re giving me homework now?”

Lily’s smile deepens, but it’s soft around the edges. “Healing takes effort, Bucky. You don’t get to skip the work just because you’re a super soldier.”

He huffs a quiet, almost amused sound through his nose. “Didn’t think recovery came with assignments.”

“Everything worth fixing does,” she says, and for a moment her voice carries something steadier, like quiet conviction.

Then she clicks her pen and tilts her head toward him again. “Now, I want to do a light session. Some neural stimulation tracking and one new test I want to run, nothing invasive.”

That should settle him. But something in her tone makes his skin crawl a little bit.

She approaches him and he lets her without complaint, lets her place the usual monitor patches and soft connections to the equipment that’s more hers than Stark’s these days. And then she brings over a small black case.

“I need you to wear this for part of the test,” she says gently, opening the lid.

Inside is a mask —sleek, medical-grade, oxygen-filtering. Clear mouthpiece, light sensors, designed to track breath and pulse under cognitive strain.

But to Bucky, it doesn’t matter what it’s supposed to be. All he sees is the shape. All he feels is the memory.

The cold bite of metal, the stink of sweat and leather. Muzzle. That’s what they used to call it. The thing they locked over his face before missions. It cut into the skin behind his ears. It kept him silent. Kept him less than human.

His heart skips. Then stutters. But he nods like it’s nothing. “Sure.”

Lily pauses. “It is okay?”

“Yeah.” It comes out hoarse. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah. Just... didn’t expect it, that’s all.”

She watches him for a beat too long. Like she already knows. Like she always knows.

“I can explain how it works,” she offers. “It’s just a tool for real-time data during elevated states. You’ll only wear it for five minutes, and you can take it off at any time. If it’s too much, we stop.”

Bucky clenches his jaw. “I can handle it.”

Lily doesn’t argue. She just gives a slow, soft nod and holds the mask out, waiting.

His fingers tremble when he takes it. Just a little. Barely enough to notice. But he feels it.

He raises the mask —hesitates— then fixes it over his nose and mouth with the elastic straps. The moment it touches his skin, something ancient and ice-cold coils in his gut. His breath shortens. His vision tunnels slightly at the edges.

He tells himself it’s fine. He tells himself this isn’t HYDRA; it is Lily here. This is his choice.

The machine beeps softly as it begins recording. Lily adjusts a few settings, her voice low and calm, narrating steps more for his comfort than her own notes. He stares straight ahead, hands gripping the arms of the chair, willing his heart not to race. But it’s too much. Too fast. Too tight.

The mask isn’t even hurting him, not really, but his brain doesn’t care. His chest tightens. His pulse spikes. The world narrows. He doesn’t feel the wires anymore. He’s back in the chair. Not this chair. That chair. The one where they wiped him. Where they taught him silence. Obedience. Pain.

And now his chest is tightening. He can’t breathe.

He rips the mask off in one sharp motion. Sensors scatter across the floor. The chair crashes back as he bolts upright, staggering back toward the wall, hand trembling like he’s reaching for a weapon that isn’t there.

His back hits the far cabinet. Breath ragged. Vision white-hot.

He doesn’t see Lily anymore. He sees handlers. He sees the muzzle.

He sees himself. The Soldier.

Then a voice cuts through the static.

“Bucky?” Lily’s voice is low, full of worry. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

His head jerks toward the sound —toward her —but his eyes are unfocused, darting like he’s trying to track an enemy in the dark. His breathing comes too fast, sharp, like every inhale scrapes the inside of his chest.

Lily stands by the overturned chair, both hands raised slightly, not to restrain him but to keep him from retreating further.

“Bucky,” she says again, quieter now. “It’s me. You’re safe.”

She doesn’t step closer. Doesn’t touch him, she just speaks even and clear.

“I’m not gonna touch you. You don’t have to let me. Just—look at me, all right?”

But Bucky’s whole body is trembling, barely held together. His gaze skitters over her face but doesn’t stay. The tremor running through his shoulders is violent now, his jaw tight enough to shake.

“Hey, hey,” she whispers, voice breaking just enough to sound human. “You’re not there anymore. You’re in the tower. You’re with me.”

The hum of the fluorescent lights fills the silence between them. Bucky blinks, chest still rising too fast.

“That’s it,” she says gently. “Just breathe. It doesn’t have to be deep, just steady.”

For a few seconds, the only sound is the ragged drag of his breath. His eyes flick to her again —there’s something there, something trying to anchor.

“Good,” she murmurs. “You’re doing good.”

Her voice softens even more, careful and deliberate. “Let’s try something together, okay? It’s called grounding. You don’t have to say anything, just follow along if you can.”

A faint movement in his throat, and Lily takes it as he’s listening.

“Five things you can see,” she says, slow and steady. “Don’t rush. Just look around the room.”

He swallows hard. His eyes twitch toward the monitor, then the floor. His voice is hoarse. “Chair... sink... you…” He blinks hard. “…light. Tiles.”

“That’s good. Four things you can touch.”

Touch.

He brushes his palm down his thigh. “Pants. Wall. Floor under my boot.” His metal hand closes and opens once. A pause. “My arm.”

He doesn’t say metal out loud. She lets a breath out, quiet and steady.

“Three things you can hear.”

“Fan. Humming. Your voice.”

He says that last part quieter. Like it’s anchoring him.

“Two things you can smell.”

He hesitates longer this time, brows pulling together.

“Disinfectant,” he mutters. Then, faintly: “Flowers.”

Lily’s lips twitch. “Last one. One thing you can taste.”

Bucky swallows hard. “Copper.”

His mouth is dry and bitter, like blood and metal, but he’s breathing. His hands are loosening. The world’s no longer collapsing.

He presses the heel of his palm into his eye and lets out a long, shuddering breath. When he looks back up, she’s still there.

Not moving. Not pushing.

Just there.

“…sorry,” he whispers.

“No,” Lily says firmly, voice soft. “No apologies. You didn’t do anything wrong. That was a trauma response. Not your fault.”

“I thought I could handle it.”

“I know.” She crouches slightly to gather the mask off the floor but stays far enough not to breach his space. “And you tried. That matters.”

“I ruined your test. I’m sorry.” he whispers. Voice cracked and low.

Lily shakes her head, gesturing gently to the mess. “This… is data. It tells me a lot more than the machine ever could.”

He lets out something like a hollow laugh. “Yeah, well. Bet it’s not great data.”

She walks over to the chair, uplighting it without fuss, and begins gathering the scattered sensors. “It tells me your nervous system still links certain triggers to immediate threat. But it also tells me you’re aware of it. You tried to override it. That matters.”

He sinks down to the floor, back to the cabinet, legs stretched out, hands resting over his knees. “Didn’t work.”

“You think healing means it never goes wrong?” she asks gently. “That you don’t fall back, or freeze, or panic? Because if it did, none of us would ever get better.”

He looks at her. “You ever panic like that?”

She holds his gaze. “I have.”

He nods once and looks away. Silence stretches between them.

“I hate masks,” he mutters eventually. “HYDRA made me wear one. Felt like... like a muzzle. Like I wasn’t supposed to speak. Like I wasn’t supposed to be a person.”

Lily doesn’t move. Doesn’t interrupt. Just lets the silence sit for a moment.

“I didn’t even think I’d react like that,” he continues. “It’s stupid. I’ve worn worse. Been through worse. It’s just a piece of gear—”

“It’s not stupid,” she says gently. “I told you; it’s memory. Your body remembers things, even when your brain tells you you’re fine.”

Bucky presses his hands to his pants, knuckles white.

“I don’t even know what memories are mine anymore. I think I do. I think I’ve got a grip. And then something like this…” He looks up. “Feels like I’m still in it. Still stuck down there.”

“You’re not,” Lily says. “You’re here. Right now. You ripped the mask off. You got through it.”

He huffs softly —half a bitter laugh, half a breath. “Barely.”

“But you did.”

She lets that settle. Bucky looks at her with tired eyes, but clear now.

“You’re not just patching me up,” he says, quieter. “You’re doing more than that, you know? And I know how much work this is for you.”

“I don’t do it because I have to,” she says. “I do it because I want you to get better. And I know you can.”

His mouth twitches like he wants to say something else. But instead he just nods, slow. Then Lily straightens, hands loose at her sides.

“I think we’re done for today,” she says gently. “No more tests. I’ll rework the scan another time… one that doesn’t need the mask.”

He looks at her, startled. “You don’t have to stop—”

“I do,” she says. “Because today, you hit a limit. You’re allowed to stop when that happens. It doesn’t mean failure. It just means you need a breath.”

He studies her a moment. And then slowly —very slowly— relaxes his shoulders.

“…thanks.”

Lily gives a small smile, like it’s not even a question.

“Now,” she says, stepping over to the small side counter, “I still have leftover apple pie. And good tea. Maybe you want to try the earl grey this time.”

There’s a pause.

Then he huffs a laugh, low and surprised. “You’re really gonna bribe me with tea and pie?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Would it work?”

Bucky hesitates. His hand relaxes a little on his pants.

“…yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, it might.”

So she heads to the cabinet and starts prepping the tea tray like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like it’s not strange that they’re about to have tea in a medical room. Like it’s something they do.

And Bucky watches her move around the space —soft blouse, sleeves pushed up, focus tucked into her motions— and something deep in his chest unclenches, just slightly.

He stays still as she works. He doesn’t try to leave.

Because maybe he does like tea with her.

Chapter 18: Uncovering the Pattern

Her half-drunk coffee has gone cold hours ago but is not like Lily cares.

She sits cross-legged on the floor, one foot numb, surrounded by open files, two laptops, and her tablet. On-screen, redacted SHIELD and what is left of HYDRA documents flash in a dozen tabs: blurred maps, outdated codenames, sterile mission summaries that say a lot without saying anything at all.

And still, it isn’t enough. She didn’t go home last night. Not after what happened with the mask.

Bucky had calmed down, eventually. Had sat with her on the tiny table she stuffed into the corner of the med bay, the one under the windowsill with a cactus. He didn’t touch the pie, but he asked for more tea when she offered. He didn’t talk, but he didn’t leave either. And she hadn’t pushed him. She’d just let him be.

But the bone-deep terror wrapped in shame in his eyes has stayed with her.  And he’d done what she asked anyway. Because he thought he had to.

Lily hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it. The mask had triggered him. Not in the vague, clinical way SHIELD talks about triggers, but in the conditioning way. The HYDRA way. And the longer she sits with that realization, the more it hollows her out.

She should’ve known better. Should’ve anticipated it. But she didn’t, because she still doesn’t understand what they did to him. Not the real extent of it. Not beyond the files and summaries and whispered stories people said around.

That’s why she is digging, covered in papers, laptops, and tablets. Most of them are useless, some of them are dangerous, but all of them are incomplete.

She finds fragments of asset logs, references to neurological experiments, vague mentions of "phase six" protocols that no one ever bothered to explain. She cross-checks them against what little she has from SHIELD’s post-fall archive. Everything Maria Hill ever gave her, everything Bruce ever hinted at but didn’t share.

She doesn’t know what exactly she’s looking for. But she knows she can’t keep treating symptoms.

Bruce shows up around noon, holding a takeout bag in one hand and coffee in the other.

“You didn’t go home,” he says.

“Nope.”

He takes in the chaos, as he leaves the bag and coffee on the countertop “I brought you lunch, by the way. And coffee that is not cold.”

She glances over, blinking hard, and cracks a tired smile. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“No, I’m a scientist with decent instincts for your crash patterns.”

Lily huffs a laugh but it’s weak. She sits back, pressing her palms into her eyes.

“Are you alright?” he asks, tone gentle.

She exhales. “I can’t stop thinking about the mask. About how he froze. Like… it wasn’t fear. It was memory. Physical memory.” Her fingers press into her brow.

Bruce quietly lowers himself to the floor beside her. Crosses his legs like he’s settling into a long conversation. He doesn’t interrupt.

Lily shifts, reaches across the tangle of papers for a page she’d printed hours ago. “And then I found this.”

She pulls up a scan of a faded document. One line is highlighted: Behavioral Override Implant Testing: 06B in SIBERIA.

“I think they built the conditioning across multiple sites. Not just one lab. Not just one team.”

Bruce’s expression shifts; interested, but cautious. “You think there’s a pattern.”

“I think there’s a map, and no one’s bothered to piece it together because it’s fragmented across too many files. But if we find the origin points —the places where they laid the foundation for the Winter Soldier protocol— maybe we can find the key to unmaking it.”

Bruce doesn’t answer at first, he just watches her. There’s admiration in his eyes, and a bit more than that. Concern tucked under quiet curiosity. His gaze lingers on the exhaustion in her shoulders, the tight edge in her voice, the way her fingers haven’t stopped fidgeting with the corner of a paper scrap. And still, she’s going.

“You ever think about sleeping?” he says gently.

She leans her head back against the cabinet behind her and closes her eyes. “I’ll do that when his brain isn’t a puzzle built by war criminals.”

Bruce chuckles under his breath. “God, you’re stubborn.”

“And you’re still here.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Funny how that works.”

She opens her eyes and finds him still watching her, but when she meets his gaze, he quickly looks away. He’s quiet a moment. Then: “Alright. Let’s find it.”

Hours pass but no one of them notices till FRIDAY reminds them is pass lunch time.

They’re spread out across the floor, whiteboard covered in coordinates, red strings of ink marking potential connections between lab sites, timeline gaps, known mission dates (messy and inconclusive) when they decide to take their lunch break.

Bruce offers to unpack the food.

“You got dumplings,” she says happily when he gets them out the bag.

“I remember what you like.”

She opens the container and picks one up. “Well, thank you.”

They eat quietly for a while. The kind of silence that isn’t awkward, just well-earned. Then, just as she’s wiping soy sauce off a report and Bruce is halfway through a ramble about outdated medical code, there’s a soft hiss of the door opening.

They both look up.

Steve stands in the doorway, arms crossed, jacket half-zipped, eyes scanning the two of them like he’s already ten steps ahead. But still, he waits for Lily’s nod before stepping in.

“You’ve been busy,” he says gently.

Lily exhales through her nose. “You can say that.”

He walks in, hands her a thin file.

“We’re heading out tomorrow morning,” he says. “First field recon.”

She opens the folder, scans it. Moldova. An abandoned HYDRA lab buried under layers of denials and burned paper trails.

Bruce frowns when Lily reads it out loud. “That’s not on any of the declassified base lists.”

“It’s not,” Steve agrees. “But Hill traced a few old European shell companies tied to HYDRA science divisions. One address kept popping up, even after it should’ve been scrubbed. Burned lab, old paperwork. If there’s anything left, it’s buried deep.”

He looks at Lily. “We’ll be on the ground at 0600. What do you need?”

She pushes to her feet, dragging a half-folded file from the desk and laying it out between them. “I’ve been cross-referencing mission logs with medical fragments, trying to reconstruct a timeline of his reprogramming. If this lab is legit—”

“It could be one of the anchor points,” Bruce cuts in, catching on. “Foundational conditioning. Maybe the place where the first override procedures were installed.”

“Or where the tech originated,” Lily adds. “It may not look like much. Could be completely burned. But if you find anything—logs, drives, old surgical trays, sample kits, med-tech, cryo tech, anything labeled with serials or internal code systems—it could help us build a map.”

Steve glances down at the file, taking in the mess of circled code strings and colored lines between photos.

“You’re doing all this by hand?”

“We haven’t been able to digitize most of it,” Bruce says. “Too many mismatched sources. Too sensitive.”

Steve nods once, focused. “Alright. You’ll have eyes on it as soon as we land. I’ll loop in Natasha and Sam. If there’s anything usable, we’ll bring it back.”

He looks back at Lily again, gaze steady. “You sure this is where you want to put your energy?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

It’s not just about Bucky anymore. Not just about one man haunted by someone else’s programming. It’s about every room like that. Every hallway lined in sterile white, every hand that forced someone to forget their own name. Every time the lights flickered too bright, or too quiet, and someone came out the other side less human than they went in.

And she remembers, in flashes, what it felt like. Not for long like Bucky or others. But long enough for her to know what it means to be powerless in a room where someone else decides what “help” looks like. Hours as someone’s hostage. Someone she thought she trusted. Someone she thought she knew.

Dr. Harvenson —white coat, clipboard in hand, calm like nothing is wrong. Like he hadn’t helped orchestrate the fall of SHIELD. Like he hadn’t just stood by while people Lily cared about were murdered in the halls of what she considered her own home.

“Bloom,” he said softly with that same tone he’d always used, warm, measured, deliberate. “You’re lucky, you know. You’re special.”

She stared at him, voice gone raw, throat burning from hours of screaming that hadn’t changed anything.

He smiled faintly, almost proud. “The work we’ve done together, all of it’s been for people like you. People who can understand the necessity of progress.”

He clicked his pen and began to write, as if taking notes during a routine check-up. “I always told them you were bright. Too bright for the mundane. Staying on the med bay never suited you, Lily — you were meant for something greater.”

He moved closer, footsteps unhurried, and her body tensed instinctively.

“But you’re going to help us now,” he continued, as if explaining an equation. “Help us refine the serum, stabilize the iterations. You’ve seen the data. You understand the science. This isn’t cruelty, it’s discovery.”

He touched her shoulder like the mentor she thought he was, and she flinched hard enough that the restraints groaned.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said quietly, a trace of disappointment in his voice. “You’re reacting emotionally, not rationally. I thought you were past that.” He sighed, almost pitying. “I didn’t betray you, Lily. I freed you. All this time, SHIELD has been lying to you — to all of us. They chained you to sentiment, to illusion. But HYDRA… HYDRA gave us clarity. They gave us a future.” He crouched slightly, lowering himself to her level, voice softening again, coaxing. “Don’t fight this.”

She had fought quietly, with her silence, with her eyes; and somehow survived the hours.

She’d buried that memory for years, let it get tangled in reasons why she left, in polite explanations and long silences. But it’s there, still sharp, still humming under her skin when she works too late or skips meals or stares too long at the wrong file.

She used to believe she could outdistance it. Run far enough from HYDRA, from everything it touched. But maybe it was never about outrunning it. It is about going back and making sure no one else has to survive it alone.

Steve sees something in her face, determination, maybe. Or just exhaustion she’s still pushing through. He nods.

“We’ll update you on contact.”

And then he’s gone. No drawn-out speeches, no extra warnings. Just Captain America, already thinking five moves ahead.

Lily lets out a breath as soon as the door closes behind him.

Bruce sets down his chopsticks. “You ever take a break?”

Lily stares at the file. “We don’t have time for breaks.”

“Even soldiers sleep.”

“I’m not a soldier.”

Bruce lifts an eyebrow, not arguing, just watching her again. “No. You’re something else entirely.”

She doesn’t answer. Just reaches for a pen and starts drawing the next thread on the map.

 

The med bay is quiet now, machines humming softly in the background as Lily finishes logging her notes, Bruce gone some hours ago. She stretches, feeling the familiar ache of a long day in her shoulders and wrists. Time to call it.

She heads toward the common room to say her goodbyes. The low murmur of voices and the clink of mugs fills the space. The team is scattered in small groups, unwinding after their shifts.

And then she spots Bucky. Leaning back on one of the couches, eyes fixed somewhere distant, shoulders tense beneath his shirt.

Then she notices the small notepad in his hand, the one she gave him. He’s doing the exercises. The ones for word-retrieval. She can see it clearly now: a page of simple prompts she designed for him.

Word association chains. Category naming. Picture-to-word recall.

His flesh thumb taps lightly against the page as he works through a line, whispering the connections under his breath:

“Tree… leaf… green… summer… heat…” A pause, a frustrated blink, then— “sun.”

He exhales like that one cost him something.

Warmth hits her chest so suddenly it almost knocks the breath out of her.

He’s doing the exercises even when she isn’t here, and not because she told him to, because he wants to. This is trust. This is choice. This is Bucky deliberately doing something to heal.

He flips the page just as she steps forward, and the moment he realizes she’s there, he jerks slightly. Lily can’t help the soft smile tugging at her mouth.

“Hey,” she says gently as she sinks onto the couch beside him. “What are you doing?”

He closes the notebook, almost like he’s been caught doing something embarrassing.

He stiffens. “Just… killing time.”

“Mhm.” Her tone is warm, teasing but not mocking. “Bucky, that’s really good work. I could hear your associations, your chains are good.”

He shrugs, eyes flicking away. “Nothing impressive.”

“It is impressive,” she says quietly. “You’re retraining a part of your brain that’s been overworked and under-healed for years. That takes effort. And consistency. And… courage.”

His jaw shifts at that word, but he doesn’t argue.

He just mumbles, “You said it would help.”

“And you trusted me enough to try,” she says, voice softening even further. “That means something.”

His chest rises slowly; in one deep breath he doesn’t seem aware of taking. He doesn’t look at her, but his ears turn faintly pink.

“It’s not a big deal,” he mutters.

But the small, almost-hidden upward twitch at the corner of his mouth gives him away.

She lets him keep his dignity and doesn’t push it further. Instead, she folds her hands in her lap and shifts the conversation gently.

“Actually… I wanted to ask about the mission tomorrow. The one at the burned-out HYDRA lab.”

He blinks, shoulders tightening a little.

“You sure you want to go?” she asks, voice low. “I mean… it’s dangerous. And I know these places can bring up a lot.”

His jaw tightens, but he nods. “Yeah. It’s important.”

Lily bites her lip. “I just... I want you to be sure. Not just because the team’s going, or because Steve said so. Because you really want to do this.”

Bucky looks away for a moment, the weight of old memories flickering in his eyes.

“I’m ready,” he says, voice low.

She studies him, searching beneath the surface, sensing the hesitation he’s not voicing.

“You’re not alone,” she adds quietly. “Whatever comes up, we’ll get through it.”

He gives a faint, almost imperceptible nod. Then his eyes flicker to her face and a quiet knot of worry forms deep inside him. She looks... wrecked. Dark circles under her eyes, hair pulled back hastily, the way her shoulders slump like the weight of the whole world is pressing down on her.

He has got to know how stubborn she can be, how she throws herself into her work like it’s the only thing keeping chaos at bay. But this isn’t just tiring, this is exhaustion biting at her soul. And that scares him because he knows what happens when someone like her burns out.

“You look wrecked,” he says quietly, voice rough but sincere. “You should take it slow tomorrow. Rest.”

Lily tries to brush it off, forcing a smile. “I’ll be fine. There’s still a lot to do.”

Bucky shakes his head, lowering his voice. “We’re gonna be gone on the mission. There’s nothing you can do till we get back with whatever information. You don’t have to carry all this right now.”

She hesitates, caught off guard by the concern in his tone.

“Maybe... take a break,” he urges gently. “Just for one day.”

Lily swallows, a flicker of gratitude warming her chest. “I’ll think about it.”

He nods, satisfied. “Good. I mean it.”

Lily manages a small, tired smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach her eyes but still feels genuine. She stands up slowly, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“I’ll be fine,” she says softly, trying to sound more confident than she feels. “Just... be careful yourself, okay?”

Her gaze lingers on him for a beat, a quiet plea hidden beneath the words.

Bucky meets her eyes and nods, a flicker of something like warmth softening his expression. He’s about to say something else, but the words stick in his throat.

Finally, with a slight smirk, he lets the words slip just for her. “Goodnight, doll.”

Lily smiles, no longer surprised but quietly pleased as the word settles comfortably between them. She shakes her head with a soft laugh and heads off to say goodbye to the others.

Chapter 19: Chasing Shadows

The hum of the Quinjet is steady, low and constant, like a heartbeat. The kind of sound that used to make Bucky flinch. Now it just settles deep in his bones.

He sits near the back, elbow against the cool metal wall, staring out at the clouds through a narrow window. The sun is still low on the horizon, casting soft gold light over the cabin. No one’s talking. Not yet. Just the quiet rustle of gear being checked and rechecked, and the occasional click of a harness strap being tightened.

Sam’s the first to move. He reaches into the supply bag at his feet, fishing out a water bottle. When he pulls it free, a small folded scrap of paper flutters loose and lands on the floor between his boots.

He frowns, leans down, and picks it up. The handwriting stops him.

“Seriously?” he mutters, holding it up. “She’s leaving us notes now?”

He unfolds it carefully. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“ ‘Stay safe. You got this.’ ” He reads it aloud, then holds it up so they can all see the curving script. Lily’s handwriting: neat, warm, unmistakably her.

Natasha snorts under her breath. “She even dotted the ‘i’ with a flower.”

“Of course she did,” Sam says, shaking his head fondly. “She must’ve slipped it in when she gave me the bag this morning.”

Steve takes the note, studies it with a quiet smile, then tucks it into one of the panels near the nav controls. “She’s worried.”

“She’s always worried,” Natasha says, but there’s no edge to her voice. “Especially about him.”

Her eyes flick briefly toward Bucky, and he doesn’t look up. Just exhales slowly through his nose. He doesn’t need anyone to point it out, he knowns Lily would be losing sleep over this since the second she told him to be careful.

He reaches for the water bottle Sam abandoned and takes a slow sip, letting the cool plastic ground him for a second. Her voice echoes faintly in his head.

“Just... be careful yourself, okay?”

She had looked exhausted last night and still tried to carry everything.

Steve’s voice cuts in. “We stick to recon unless we find something concrete. No solo moves, no risks unless we vote it.”

Everyone nods. Routine. Familiar.

But Bucky’s already on edge. Not because of the mission, or because it’s HYDRA. It’s because he’s seen how much this matters to Lily and he needs to bring something back.

The clouds begin to thin as the Quinjet cuts lower through the atmosphere. Bucky feels the subtle shift in pressure, the familiar lurch of altitude drop. Natasha’s already unstrapped and checking the weapons bag with quick, practiced movements. Sam stands, stretches his shoulders, and peers over Steve’s shoulder at the terrain readout on the nav display.

“Moldova,” Sam mutters. “You’d think after all this time there’d be nothing left but ash and mold.”

“There might be,” Steve says without looking up. “But we’re not here for what’s on the surface.”

“Yeah, we’re here for what can’t be seen,” Natasha says dryly, slinging her holsters on.

Bucky keeps his eyes forward, watching as the tree-covered hills below begin to take shape. The ruins of the facility aren’t marked on any map. Just a dip in the earth, a patch of unnatural stillness where the forest seems to stop.

“Facility’s beneath that ridge,” Steve says. “Thermal scans show cold spots underground, but no clear structure. We’ll need to move carefully.”

Bucky rises, fastening the last strap on his tac gear. “Booby traps?”

“Or worse,” Natasha says. “HYDRA doesn’t like loose ends.”

Sam double-checks the drones packed at his hip. “I’ll send eyes ahead once we land. Lily said she was looking for storage rooms, research drives, maybe cryo tech.”

Bucky nods. “If there’s anything left, it won’t be in plain sight.”

They all feel it in his words, that edge. The weight of going back into something he has fought to leave behind. Even now, years later, Bucky can feel the ache in the metal arm, like it’s warning him.

As they descend lower, Natasha glances over at him. “You good?”

He gives a curt nod. “Yeah.”

She doesn’t push like none of them do. But he knows they’re watching, just like he’s watching them.

Steve’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Remember the mission. We get what we need and we get out. No heroics.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sam mutters with a grin. “I look great in heroics.”

Bucky huffs a quiet breath. He’s grateful for the ease between them. The quiet jokes. The rhythm of trust they’ve built through this time together.

The Quinjet hits the clearing with a soft hiss of hydraulics. The ramp lowers, revealing nothing but thick trees, silence, and the heavy press of earth.

Steve steps out first, shield in hand. Then Natasha, graceful and alert, eyes scanning everything. Sam’s already launching his drone Redwing overhead.

Bucky lingers for just a second at the top of the ramp.

He thinks of Lily’s note and the way she’d looked at him last night, tired but also hopeful, as he tightens his glove and steps into the trees.

The air grows colder as they descend the hill, like the earth itself remembers what’s buried beneath. The trees are wrong here, like they are too still, too quiet. No birdsong, no rustle of life. Just the wind threading through dead leaves and the creak of the forest holding its breath.

Steve leads them with his usual quiet confidence, shield on his back, eyes scanning the tree line. Natasha walks a few paces to his left, crouching occasionally to check old tripwires. Most are long dead, but some still blink faint red lights if you look hard enough.

"Someone wanted to erase this place," Sam murmurs, adjusting his goggles. “But not before making it hell to enter.”

Natasha finds the hatch first, being half-buried under moss and a collapsed section of concrete. It’s rusted but intact. She brushes aside the dirt, revealing a faint HYDRA insignia etched into the metal.

"Charming," she mutters, then looks up at Steve. "You want to do the honors?"

Steve steps forward and digs his fingers under the seam, muscles flexing as he wrenches it open with a groan of twisting metal. The air that rises up is damp and sour, laced with rot and something chemical.

Bucky goes still.

The scent hits an old reflex unwelcome and automatic. Memory presses in: steel restraints, bleach, the sound of his own breathing echoing through a cell. He grits his teeth and pushes it away. Now is not the right time.

“Let’s move,” Steve says, dropping down first.

They follow in silence, one by one descending into the dark. Sam flicks on a portable light, and the beam slices through decades of dust. The corridor is narrow and cracked, old HYDRA tech lining the walls in flickering ruins. Some of the panels hum softly, but most are shattered or melted beyond repair.

Bucky moves ahead, boots landing with a thud that echoes down the corridor.

“Place is a coffin,” Sam mutters.

Bucky keeps moving, scanning with muscle memory more than sight. His metal fingers skim a charred control board. Beneath the soot, he recognizes the faint etched HYDRA catalog numbers.

The deeper they go, the worse it gets.

Whatever happened here wasn’t just sabotage, it was rage. The kind meant to bury evidence, not preserve it.

The walls are scorched black in long, sweeping arcs, and the air is thick with the chemical stink of burned wiring and mold. Most of the computers are melted into slag. Monitors shattered. Cabinets buckled in the heat.

“Someone torched this place on the way out,” Sam mutters, sweeping the flashlight beam across the destroyed lab.

“HYDRA covering their tracks,” Natasha agrees.

“Yeah, well,” Sam says, nudging a melted monitor with his boot, “they weren’t subtle about it.”

Steve is already moving through the wreckage with his jaw set tight. “Look for anything that survived the fire. Storage cores. Notes. Even paper.”

Bucky nods and starts moving faster, pushing debris out of the way with his metal arm. The sound echoes through the hollow ruin —crunches of glass, groans of warped steel, the occasional hiss of pressure from a line that hasn’t fully bled out.

He spots a half-melted drawer embedded in the wall and rips it out. Charred folders spill across the floor. He drops to a knee, scoops them up, shoves them into a duffel.

Steve gives him a worried look mixed with approval. Bucky ignores both.

Sam crouches beside a toppled workstation. “Got something.” He kicks aside rubble and pulls out a scorched file folder. Inside are intake forms, blurred, half-melted, with only strings of numbers still readable.

“It’s something,” Steve says. “Bring it.”

There’s too much and not enough at the same time. Most of the data ports are fried. Cabinets were gutted. The few files that remain are soaked through, pages fused together from moisture and heat. But Bucky keeps grabbing and shoving them anyway into the duffel without reading the labels.

He knows better than to assume he can spot the important things. He just knows he can’t leave empty-handed.

Natasha disappears into a collapsed office. There’s a crash —metal hitting the ground — and she reappears holding a rusted keyring and a sealed metal logbook.

“Hopefully not full of mold,” she mutters, tossing them toward Steve.

“Are we sure Lily will be able to make sense of any of that?” Sam asks, watching Bucky yank a dented panel off the wall to pull out a melted cable array beneath.

“She’ll try,” Bucky says. “She always tries.”

They keep moving, ducking through half-collapsed doorways and rooms half-swallowed by fire. A cryo-chamber lies tipped on its side in one corner, glass spiderwebbed and frame half-melted. Bucky pauses, staring at it longer than necessary.

He remembers that model. Remembers waking up inside one, blinking through frost and silence and the taste of blood in his mouth. He forces himself to turn away.

Steve catches his eyes, and gives him a short nod. A silent 'we keep going?'. Bucky nods back.

Sam finds a scorched folder half-buried under a desk. Inside are old, faded intake forms. No names, just numbers, medical notations and conditioning logs. Most of it is unreadable, but Steve gestures for him to bring it.

“Grab everything with markings,” Steve orders. “Even fragments.”

Bucky grabs another piece of equipment —he’s not even sure what it is, just a blackened metal device the size of a toolbox with HYDRA’s crest still faintly visible on the casing. He slings it into the bag anyway.

Natasha ducks into a side office and reemerges with a rusted keyring and what looks like a physical logbook sealed in a metal case. “Might be a locker codebook. Or a maintenance journal.”

“We’ll take it,” Steve says.

They keep grabbing what they can.

Scorched binders, melted drives, twisted tools with serial numbers stamped in HYDRA black. Sam fills his pack with anything that still had weight to it. Natasha scoops up charred logs and handwritten notes barely clinging to legibility. Steve pries open a half-melted cabinet and took the rusted files inside without a word. No one speaks much. It is not clear what is valuable or what is trash, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is not leaving anything behind that might matter to someone like Lily.

They regroup at the stairwell, bags heavy and soot-stained. Steve climbs out first, Natasha behind him. Sam hauls himself up, then reaches back to grab Bucky’s bag.

Bucky pauses a step behind the others. He looks back one last time at the burned halls, the shadows still clinging to the corners like smoke.

It’s a tomb now. A grave for things no one ever should’ve built.

But maybe they will dig deep enough to bring something useful to light. And he hasn’t come back with empty hands.

 

By the time the team returns, it’s well past midnight, but Lily’s still in the lab —hair tied up, sweater sleeves pushed to her elbows, a half-drunk mug of tea forgotten beside her laptop.

The alert ping from the hangar startles her out of her daze. She’s on her feet in seconds.

She meets them at the freight lift. The doors slide open with a groan, revealing four exhausted figures weighed down by gear and ash. Steve looks like he hasn’t taken a breath since they left. Natasha’s braid is caked in soot. Sam’s carrying two duffel bags in each hand like they’re weightless. And Bucky... Bucky’s covered in dust, cuts, and fury.

“You’re back,” she breathes, more relieved than she means to show.

The words barely leave her mouth before she crosses the room and throws her arms around Natasha. Natasha’s startled for half a second, stiff beneath the embrace, then exhales and leans in, chin resting lightly on Lily’s shoulder.

“We made it,” she murmurs. “Don’t look so wrecked.”

Lily let’s go with a half-laugh, half-shaky breath. “Too late.”

She steps back just as Steve sets a heavy case on the nearest table. Sam flashes her a small smile and nods toward the duffel bags. Bucky, still silent, lingers behind the others like he’s waiting for something.

“We got what we could,” Steve says as they start unloading onto the tables. “It was… not in great shape.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Sam mutters, dropping the bags with a dull thud.

Lily’s eyes move over the haul —warped drives, scorched folders, scraps of uniforms, clipped ID tags, syringes in broken cases, notebooks with half the pages burned through. It looks like garbage. But to her, it’s a gold mine.

“Some of the stuff’s too damaged to scan,” Natasha says, brushing ash from her gloves, “but you might get lucky. A few of the files were locked in metal cases.”

Bucky hasn’t said a word. He just drops the last container onto the bench and steps back, arms folded, watching.

Lily’s heart keeps thudding, but she switches gears fast, eyes already scanning what they’ve brought. “Is any of this still functional?”

“We don’t know,” Steve answers. “Some of it looked promising. A lot didn’t.”

“Thank you. Seriously. I know it probably didn’t feel worth it.” She says.

Steve shakes his head. “If it helps, it’s worth it.”

“We weren’t gonna leave empty-handed,” Sam adds, with a look in Bucky’s direction.

Still dusty and tense, Bucky meets her gaze and doesn’t look away.

The others peel away slowly. Steve offers a tired nod, Sam rubs at his shoulder with a groan about finally getting a real shower, and Natasha gives Lily a knowing glance that says later. The door shuts behind them with a hiss.

Bucky lingers. He stands a few feet away, the dimmed lights casting faint shadows under his eyes, and his jacket is still smudged with soot.

For a moment, Lily thinks he’s going to follow the others. Instead, he shifts his weight and glances at her sideways.

“Did you rest at all while we were gone?” he asks, voice low but unmistakably pointed.

Lily crosses her arms. “Define rest.”

“That’s a no.”

She tries to look indignant. “I did eat. Bruce made sure of it.”

He quirks a brow. “Did you sleep?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it.

Bucky lets out a soft, tired huff, almost like a laugh. “You’re worse than Steve.”

“That’s not true,” she protests, smiling despite herself. “Steve takes jogs for fun.”

“And you skip sleep to sort through burnt data,” he says. “Real wild card.”

Lily rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’ll rest. You win.”

“Good,” he says, with the smallest smirk. “Because I’m too tired to argue.”

A quiet settles between them. Not heavy, not awkward just warm in a way neither of them acknowledges.

“You did good today,” she says finally.

He doesn’t quite meet her eyes, but something in his jaw softens. “Thanks, doll.”

She reaches for the duffel bag on the table —the one overflowing with charred binders, partially melted drives, bent metal pieces. She hefts it, grunting at the weight.

“Where are you taking that?” Bucky asks.

“To the archive room,” she says instantly. “I want to label everything, sort it by material type, heat exposure, maybe even see if I can—”

“Okay,” Bucky interrupts, stepping closer. “Hold on.”

She blinks up at him. “What?”

“You said you will rest,” he says, already taking the duffel from her hands like it’s weightless. “Not pull an all-nighter.”

“But I’m just going to sort—”

“No.”

“Bucky—”

He gives her a look. A very sergeant Barnes look. The kind that could command a whole unit into formation back in the day.

Lily groans but follows him anyway as he heads down the hall. He walks slow enough for her to keep up, though he pretends like he isn’t doing it for her sake.

They enter the archive vault. A cold, reinforced room at the far end of the lab floor. Tables line the walls, each with labeled containers and sealed cases. It smells like old metal and ozone.

Bucky sets the duffel on the central table and unzips it. Lily leans in immediately, eyes bright, hands twitching like she’s resisting the urge to start organizing.

Bucky sees it instantly.

“Don’t,” he warns.

“I’m just looking.”

“You’re planning.”

“I can plan a little.”

He crosses his arms and plants his feet in front of the table like a barricade.

“Lily,” he says quietly, “you’re dead on your feet.”

She bristles. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he says. “I’ve seen fine. This isn’t it.”

That stops her.

He exhales, softer now. “We got this stuff for you. Not for you to kill yourself over.”

Her throat tightens. He said for you without hesitation. Without shame. And that does something strange and warm in her chest.

But she tries one last argument anyway. “Just one file—”

“No.”

“One drive—”

“Not happening.”

A beat. She looks at him.

He looks right back, unmoving.

She sighs, defeated but not annoyed. “You’re really not going to let me, huh?”

“No,” he says simply. “I’m walking you out.”

Her lips twitch. “Big bad Bucky Barnes walking me to the elevator.”

“Yeah,” he deadpans. “Feel honored.”

She laughs quietly and tired, but genuine.

He waits until she shuts off the archive lights, then walks her down the hall in an easy silence.

At the elevator, she hesitates. “You’ll go to sleep too, right?”

“Eventually.”

“Bucky.”

He smirks. “Yeah. I will. After a shower.”

She steps inside. He stays in the doorway, hands in his pockets, shoulder leaning against the frame.

“Goodnight, doll.”

Her breath catches just a little. “Goodnight.”

The doors close between them but not before she sees the small, relieved smile he tries to hide.

Notes:

yayy!! the team finally went on a mission!! i’m not the best at writing action or field scenes, but i’m trying my best. hope you like it.

Chapter 20: The Strain of Care

They haven’t exactly staged an intervention —though if Natasha had organized one, Lily’s pretty sure she’d never have seen it coming. Still, after a few too many nights where her shoes were still under the med bay bench at dawn, and after Steve found her asleep face-down in a pile of half-burnt files, the message became clear: she wasn’t going home anymore.

Tony, ever efficient in his way, had a private suite prepared for her in less than a day. Quiet, sunlit, tucked into one of the tower’s upper floors. It smelled faintly of new paint and lavender when she moved in. Someone had added a vase of fresh flowers.

“You’re officially a tower goblin now,” Sam had joked. “Welcome to the club.”

Since then, the next weeks unfold in a rhythm that barely feels like time at all.

The team goes out again and again.

Every few days, the elevator doors open to Steve, Natasha, Sam, and Bucky hauling in more crates —some stamped with HYDRA insignia, others jagged from explosions. They bring back armfuls of half-burnt folders, warped metal consoles that spark when touched, cracked syringes sealed in contaminated bags.

Once, Sam sets down a rusted device with tubes like veins and mutters, “I’m not even asking what this one does.”

And Lily works.

She spreads the new haul across her workstation, gloves and coat on, hair tied up, and eyes sharp despite the dark crescents underneath. She and Bruce pore over samples, running tests late into the night until Bruce finally groans and mutters, “This is ninety percent trash,” while Lily is already reaching for another slide.

Tony wanders in at one point, coffee in hand, eyebrows climbing as he surveys the explosion of post-its, diagrams, string maps, tablets stacked two-deep.

“You know,” he says, “if HYDRA’s goal was to annoy future researchers, they absolutely stuck the landing.”

Lily doesn’t look up. “Something in here has to matter.”

Tony sighs, drags a hand through his hair. “Flower, get some rest. Or at least blink.”

But she keeps going.

One afternoon, the elevator opens and Bucky walks out carrying three enormous black evidence bags, one slung over each shoulder and another gripped in his metal hand.

Lily brightens instantly, stepping forward as if he’s returned with treasure. “Oh—thank you. Thank you, this is perfect.”

Bruce and Tony, who are standing nearby, exchange looks that scream we’re never getting our clean lab back. “So that’s… more trash to sort,” Tony mutters.

“Fantastic,” Bruce deadpans.

Bucky sets the bags down carefully. “I brought everything there was,” he says, a little defensive but mostly earnest. “I know better than to think I can tell what’s important.”

Lily beams at him, already untying the first bag. “This is great, Bucky. Seriously. You might have gotten something crucial.”

Tony snorts under his breath. “Or three bags of biohazard confetti.”

But Lily is already sifting through charred metal, her focus locked in.

Some nights, she’s alone in the lab, the hum of machines the only sound. She scans pages that crumble at the edges. She translates fragments of German, Russian, sometimes languages she has to send to three different linguistics databases. Most pieces lead nowhere. A handler rotation list with half the names burned off. A schematic of a conditioning chamber missing its entire center section. A note about neural pruning, but the formula is smudged beyond use.

Sam stops by once, leaning on the doorway with his arms crossed. “You look dead on your feet,” he says.

“I just need to finish this batch,” Lily murmurs, not looking away from her tablet.

Sam’s gaze softens just a fraction. “Lily… HYDRA erased things for a reason. Don’t let it eat you too.”

Still, Lily works.

Another supply run comes and goes. The team drops off more crates. Sam brings her a protein bar. Bruce nags her about hydration. Steve asks gently if she’s getting enough sleep. Lily lies and says yes.

One evening, Steve lingers after helping unload the latest haul.
He hesitates, thumb hooked in the strap of his shield, before saying quietly, “I’m sorry we’re not bringing you something useful.”

Lily blinks up from the stack of folders she’s already reaching for. “Steve, you’re bringing me plenty. I can work with this.”

He exhales, shoulders heavy with something like guilt.

“It’s just… most of these places are rubble,” he says. “Labs burned, systems wiped. We’re grabbing anything we can, but truth is…” He trails off, looking at the scattered debris on her workspace, the piles of half-readable fragments she’s been piecing together like a madwoman. “We don’t always know what we’re looking for,” he admits.

Something in Lily’s chest twists at that — not frustration with them, but with the impossible gap between what they’re finding and what she needs.

“We’ll figure it out,” she says, trying to sound steady.

Steve nods, but the worry in his eyes lingers.

Soon after, Bucky lingers as well. Long enough to watch her pin a new set of printouts to the wall, her fingers moving with determined precision.

“You don’t have to fix all of this alone,” he says quietly.

She gives him a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m not. I just… need to try.”

And so the walls fill up with color-coded maps, half-translated notes, chemical results, cross-referenced timelines. Her tablet grows heavier with files. The lab lights stay on long after midnight.

But the picture never sharpens. The puzzle never clicks. Everything she uncovers loops back into ash, into contradictions, into fractures too small to rebuild the truth from.

And gradually, with each passing night and each disappointing test, the frustration starts to claw at her ribs. That awful fear that maybe HYDRA left nothing behind on purpose. That maybe all that’s left is a maze designed so no one could ever understand what they did to him.

 

Tonight the lab is dim: the faint blue gleam of monitors, the soft hum of a centrifuge, the cold overhead lights that never fully sleep. Lily hasn’t noticed the passage of time in hours. She’s hunched over a stack of half-burned reports, highlighters strewn across the desk, tea stone-cold beside her hand. Her eyes sting, her neck aches, but she pushes through it, scanning another line of smeared Cyrillic.

She doesn’t hear the door open. She does, however, hear something slam.

Lily jolts upright as a folder —one of the empty, useless ones— hits the far wall and flutters pathetically to the floor.

Natasha stands in the doorway, arms crossed, expression a precise blend of annoyance and something that looks a lot like fear.

“Get up,” Natasha says.

Lily blinks. “What— Nat, I’m working—”

“No,” Natasha says, striding across the room. “You’re not. You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” Lily mutters, rubbing her temples. “I’m sorting. I just need to finish this batch and—”

Natasha reaches the desk, picks up one of the broken HYDRA devices —a melted chunk of metal that they have no scans for— and without breaking eye contact, tosses it into the trash bin with a dull clang.

“Hey!” Lily protests.

“It’s garbage,” Natasha says flatly. “Most of what we bring you is garbage, and you know it.”

“Nat, I can’t just stop—”

“You can,” Natasha cuts in, voice low, deliberate. “And you will. Tonight.”

Lily tries to stand her ground, but she’s exhausted and frayed and too close to snapping herself. “I can’t just take a break. What if I miss something? What if the next file is the one that has the pattern, or the chemical chain, or—”

Natasha suddenly palms the reports off the nearest stack and shoves them aside, papers scattering like startled birds.

Lily freezes, stunned.

Natasha’s voice softens, not by much, but enough. “Look at yourself.”

Lily’s throat tightens. “I am fine.”

“You are shaking,” Natasha counters.

Lily glances down. Her hands are trembling, visibly.

Natasha steps closer, lowering her voice to something quiet and fierce. “You have been in this room for fourteen hours. Bruce told me. Tony told me. Steve told me. Sam texted me from the gym to check on you. Hell, I had to personally stop Bucky from coming here to drag your ass out.”

Lily swallows. Her eyes burn.

“Natasha,” she whispers, “I just need more information. I can’t fix what was done to him if I don’t understand it.”

Natasha’s expression flickers with pain, sympathy, helpless rage on Lily’s behalf. “Lily… we’re not giving you information.”

Natasha leans in, hands braced on the desk like she’s trying to ground both of them.

“We don’t know what we’re grabbing,” Natasha says. “We go into these ruins blind. Everything’s scorched. Files are half-gone, machines are dead, and anything useful was wiped after HYDRA fell. We don’t know what we’re looking for.”

The words land like a blow.

Lily’s breath stutters. “You mean… you’re just—bringing me whatever you can find?”

Natasha nods once.

“We bring you everything,” she says. “Anything. Because we trust you. Because you’re the best shot we have.”

Her voice wavers, just a thread, but enough for Lily to hear something raw beneath it. Then Natasha exhales, and the change is subtle but immediate. Her shoulders drop, the tension around her eyes softens. When she speaks again, it’s quieter. Honest.

“But you can’t keep killing yourself over scraps.”

She reaches out, not grabbing, just resting her fingertips lightly against Lily’s forearm in a rare, gentle gesture from someone who never touches unless she means it.

“You’re no good to Bucky if you collapse,” Natasha murmurs. “And you’re no good to yourself, either.”

Lily swallows, throat tight.

Natasha’s gaze holds her, steady and unflinching but no longer sharp, now is warm, worried, almost pleading. “You matter too much to all of us to burn out like this.”

The words land softly, but Lily feels them like weight pressing into her ribs.

Lily’s breath stutters. “Nat…”

But Natasha shakes her head gently, her hand still resting on Lily’s arm. The fight is gone from her posture; what’s left is worry carved into the weary line of her mouth.

“I’m not trying to stop you,” she says quietly. “I know why this matters. I know what you’re trying to give him. And I know you won’t quit until you’ve torn every last secret out of HYDRA’s corpse.”

Her thumb brushes once, barely there, like she’s afraid Lily will break from too much touch.

“But you can’t keep going like this.” A softer inhale. “You’re shaking, Lily. You haven’t eaten. You’re running on caffeine and adrenaline and stubborn hope.”

Natasha steps forward and gently cups Lily’s elbows, guiding her away from the desk. “You need sleep. Not ten minutes. Not a nap on this awful chair. Real sleep. In a real bed.”

Lily presses her lips together, blinking fast, throat thick.

 “Come on,” Natasha murmurs. “Bed. I’ll walk you there.”

Lily opens her mouth, and Natasha shuts it down with a raised brow. “Lily. I can and will carry you out if I have to.”

A shaky laugh escapes Lily before she can stop it, and her shoulders sag, exhaustion crashing through her like a wave she can finally stop outrunning.

“Okay,” she whispers.

Natasha exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours. “That’s better. Come on.”

Natasha sweeps the highlighters aside with a careful hand this time. No force, no frustration, just a best friend clearing the path so she can guide Lily out of the ruins she’s drowning in.

 

Back on her own quarters, Lily moves through the motions of her nighttime routine like she’s floating.

The overhead light hums softly as Lily pulls on her pajamas —a soft lilac cotton set with thin white stripes, familiar and comforting in a way nothing else has been lately. She brushes her teeth in silence, leaning over the sink, the fluorescent glow deepening the shadows under her eyes. When she finally lifts her head, she pauses.

Her reflection looks worn. Too many nights like this. Too many days that bled into each other with no answers waiting on the other side.

She splashes cold water onto her face, hoping the sting will ground her. But her mind is already drifting back to the lab, back to the scattered fragments of HYDRA ruins spread across her desk.

Tony’s voice echoes first: “Most of this is junk, you know.” He’d said it lightly, flippantly, like it wasn’t a knife twisting under her ribs.

Then Bruce, quieter but no less defeating: “Structurally compromised, waterlogged, half melted… I don’t think you’re going to get anything viable out of most of it.”

She presses her fingers to her temple, eyes closing for a moment.

“I know. I know. But I have to try.”

She dries her face and turns off the bathroom light, stepping into the dim glow of the city outside her window. She moves toward the bed, feeling the weight of the last few days pressing into her spine.

And then she hears Bucky’s voice in her head—low, steady, almost resigned as he handed her those three heavy duffel bags.

“I know better than to think I can tell what’s important.”

It hadn’t been criticism. It had been trust. A quiet offering. But even that had underscored the problem: she was trying to stitch together a map from ashes.

She crawls beneath the covers and lies on her back, staring at the ceiling. The sheets are cool, the faint scent of lavender floating around her, but her chest still feels tight.

Steve’s honesty surfaces next, gentler but painfully clear:

“We’re grabbing anything we can, but truth is… we don’t always know what we’re looking for.”

That one hit deepest. Because he was right. They were all right.

Even Natasha had finally said the quiet part aloud:

“We don’t know what we’re grabbing, we go into these ruins blind. Everything’s scorched. Files are half-gone, machines are dead, and anything useful was wiped after HYDRA fell. We don’t know what we’re looking for.”

Lily turns onto her side, pulling the blanket to her chin as her breath trembles unevenly.

She has catalogued everything. Cross-referenced, scanned, decoded, cleaned, preserved… and none of it has brought her closer to the truth. Not to the trigger words. Not to the blackout states. Not to the impossible precision of what was done inside Bucky’s mind.

Her wall of notes is starting to look like a maze instead of a map.

Another exhale escapes her, slow and unsteady, and her eyelids grow heavy, but the thought presses harder into her mind as she dreams of the curb outside the SHIELD building, with late afternoon sun streaking the sky in warm golds and soft pinks.

She’s twenty something, still in her uniform from orientation —stiff jacket, a little too big in the shoulders. Her cheeks are flushed with leftover nerves; her hair frizzed from the humidity. A satchel of medical files she didn’t understand half of bumps against her hip, and they’re waiting for her.

Her brothers, all three of them, leaning against Simon’s beat-up car like they’d been there for hours.

Ben is the first to spot her, his arms crossed but his smile easy. Simon nods, gentle and solid as ever, like the oldest sibling he is. And Charlie’s already jogging over, arms wide open.

“Well?” he says, grabbing her bag like it’s his duty. “Are they treating you okay in the big scary superspy building?”

She laughs, bright and breathless. “They’re fine.”

Ben raises a brow, poking in a way only a middle child can. “And?”

Lily turns toward them, still a little overwhelmed and buzzing from the way the world had opened up inside that building: the possibilities, the promise of it. Her voice is soft when she speaks, but steady.

“I think I’m going to help people.”

That makes them go still, without mockery or doubt, just quiet pride.

Charlie grins, almost too big for his face. Simon claps her shoulder with a hand that means we’re proud of you. Ben just says, “Yeah, you will.”

Charlie’s the first to joke, tough. “So… do we call you Agent Bloom now or what?”

Lily laughs. “God, no. I’m not doing fieldwork. You won’t catch me leaping out of helicopters anytime soon.”

Ben makes a mock-disappointed face. “What, no spy gadgets? No dramatic explosions?”

“I’m not made for that,” she says easily, ducking into the car. “I’m made for bandages and blood pressure monitors. Not bullets.”

Simon, quiet until now, closes the trunk and looks over at her with that thoughtful weight he’s always carried.

“Maybe. But maybe one day you will have to be.”

She blinks at him.

“You’re one of the only people who understands what to look for,” he adds. “You see things the rest of us miss, Lils. Maybe not in combat, but…” He shrugs. “You’re more than just the lab coat. And one day, that might be what someone needs most.”

There’s a pause in the car, light but thoughtful.

Then Charlie tosses a straw wrapper at Simon. “Stop scaring her. You sound like dad.”

Simon just smirks, and Lily leans back into the passenger seat, feeling seen in a way she didn’t expect.

The breeze from the open window brushes against her cheek —warm and full of sun and movement. Her eyes slip close and for a second, she floats there, held between the weight of memory and the hush of morning.

Somewhere distant she hears a soft hum, the rustle of leaves outside the tower window as Lily wakes slowly, caught in that soft gray space between dreaming and morning.

Her pillow still smells like lavender and laundry detergent. Her hand is curled against her chest, right where Simon’s words still echo, gentle and firm: You’re more than just the lab coat.

She breathes out, a long, unsteady exhale. Not fully awake, not asleep, just… suspended. And in that quiet, something shifts.

Maybe this is why everything feels so wrong. Because all she’s been working with are second-hand pieces. Fragments. Survivors pulled from a fire meant to erase the truth forever.

She’s been trying to build clarity out of smoke.

Maybe expecting answers from the ruins is the wrong approach.

Her eyes open, slow and steady, adjusting to the pale morning light crawling across the ceiling. She doesn’t move; she simply breathes, letting the thought settle deeper.

And one day, that might be what someone needs most, Simon had said.

But what if that day isn’t some distant point in the future?

What if it’s now?

Because if the pieces she has aren’t enough… if the ruins can’t speak from afar… then maybe she needs to go to them.

Maybe she needs to stop waiting for fragments to fall into her hands and start searching for the rest herself.

The thought settles in her chest with a quiet, unmistakable weight.

She finally blinks, fully awake now.

Maybe that day is now.

Notes:

omg… will Lily actually join them on the next mission? stay tuned, her journey is only just beginning!

Chapter 21: Speaking Into Silence

The cuff hisses gently as it deflates around Bucky’s arm, and Lily scribbles something down on her tablet, the faint smile on her face not quite hidden by the way she chews at the corner of her lip.

Bucky watches her from the exam table, head tilted slightly. “You know,” he says, voice low and just a little rough from disuse, “now that you’re living here, we can do these check-ups whenever.”

Lily glances up. “Whenever?”

He shrugs with one shoulder. “Middle of the night. Over breakfast. While watching reruns on the couch. You’re basically on-call now, doll.”

She laughs with a small, genuine sound and sets the tablet down. “Right, because nothing says relaxation like blood pressure readings and neurological assessments between episodes of a quiz show on TV.”

Bucky smirks. “Depends. If I start answering the questions wrong, you’ll know something’s off.”

“That’s actually… not a bad baseline metric.”

“See?” He nods, pleased. “I’m helping.”

Lily gently guides his arm down and starts checking the mobility in his wrist, slow and careful like always. “I’ve been told you’re more cooperative when you’re fed. So maybe next time, I’ll bribe you with breakfast first.”

“Only if you’re eating too.”

She meets his eyes for a second, a little surprised. His tone is casual, but the look is softer than usual.

“I will,” she says after a moment. “Promise.”

They fall into a quiet rhythm again without tension, or walls. Just the sound of movement, her occasional notes, and the low hum of life in the Tower beyond the med bay.

After a moment, Lily glances up from her tablet, voice softer now. “Hey… how are you holding up? With the missions, I mean.”

Bucky doesn’t answer right away. He stretches his arm out, then flexes the metal fingers once, twice. “They’re fine. Messy. Too quiet, sometimes.”

She watches him, careful not to push too far. “But are you okay?”

He finally meets her eyes, and there's a flicker of something unreadable there, like he wants to be honest but isn’t sure how.

“I’m managing,” he says at last. Lily nods slowly, giving him space, before he adds, quieter, “I think it helps. Having something to do. Some kind of purpose.”

She smiles a little, but it doesn’t touch her eyes.

Bucky watches her for a beat longer, his brows drawing together. “What about you?”

She blinks. “Me?”

“Yeah.” His voice is low but steady, almost careful. “You’re running yourself ragged with all this. I see it, y’know.”

Her throat tightens not with fear, but with how gently he says it.

“I’m fine,” she says quickly. Too quickly. “Really. Just tired.”

His jaw shifts. He doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t push. “Tired turns into burnt out if you don’t stop. Just… keep an eye on yourself.”

Her mouth softens into something small and grateful. “I will.”

Bucky watches her for a moment longer, then clears his throat. “You got something today? From the last run?”

She hesitates, her fingers brushing the tablet still in her lap, but doesn’t lift it. “A few things. Notes, names, files that barely open. Most of it’s burnt or scrambled. I— I keep hoping there’s going to be a moment where it clicks, but…”

She trails off and gives a small shrug. She doesn’t need to finish because he can see it: the slump in her shoulders, the tight line of her jaw. The quiet guilt curling at the edges of her voice.

Bucky shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey.”

She looks up.

He hesitates, his mouth pulling slightly as if searching for the right words and not finding them. “It’s not your fault that they left garbage behind or that it’s not clear.”

She exhales, looking down at her hands. “I know. I just... I want to help. And right now it feels like I’m trying to fix a puzzle someone set on fire.”

He huffs something close to a laugh. “You will. Just maybe not in a day.”

Her eyes lift to meet his again.

“I mean it,” he says, quieter now. “You’re not the reason this is hard… so don’t carry what’s not yours.”

It’s not elegant or polished, but it lands at her and Lily softens, the edge in her chest easing slightly.

“Thanks,” she murmurs.

Bucky shrugs. “Just sayin’ the truth, doll.”

She offers a small smile. “If it means anything… I do think you always have a purpose, even before the field missions. Even if it’s just showing up for check-ups and answering quiz TV shows’ questions wrong.”

That earns a faint chuckle from him.

She opens her mouth. This is it, the moment she could say that she’s been thinking about going with them. That she finally understands why she needs to.

Her tongue moves before the words do.

“Bucky, I—”

But the sentence catches and her courage stutters whe he looks at her, waiting. Her throat closes around the truth she isn’t ready to say.

Lily forces a small smile instead as she puts her tablet down. “Never mind. Come on, we’re done and I heard there’s leftover pasta from last night.”

Bucky studies her for a second longer, like he can feel the unsaid thing hanging in the air, but he lets it go.

“From Sam’s cooking experiment?”

“I’m hoping Natasha intervened.”

He chuckles and waits for her to end and leave the med bay together, side by side. The hallway is brighter now. Familiar.

As they head toward the common room, Lily brushes her fingers through her hair and says, “Thanks for being a decent patient.”

Bucky glances at her sideways. “Thanks for not poking me with more needles.”

“I’ll save those for next time.”

He huffs a laugh and doesn’t pull away when their shoulders bump lightly as they walk.

The kitchen is warm with chatter by the time they get there —Natasha setting plates on the table with casual precision, Sam juggling cutlery and napkins while complaining about the lack of good mustard, and Steve emerging from the fridge with a bowl of leftover pasta like he’s on a mission. Bucky grabs a loaf of bread and starts slicing, grumbling under his breath, while Lily instinctively reaches for the stack of cups, lining them up beside the pitcher of water already set out.

It’s all easy movement, familiar in its own quiet rhythm, like they’ve done this a hundred times before, and maybe they have. Maybe Lily has never noticed how good it feels. A soft kind of routine stitched together between battles and long nights.

Lily ends up squeezed at the table between Bucky and Sam, a lemonade glass in both hands, the cool slowly sinking into her fingers. They talk about the mission yesterday, about how Steve nearly set off a trap that turned out to be a glorified smoke bomb (“You’re never living that down,” Natasha said flatly), about how the quinjet always smells faintly like old coffee and hydraulic fluid.

Lily listens and laughs quietly with them but beneath it all, something hums in her chest. The thought she woke up with. The thought she’s been carrying since last night. The thought that hasn’t let her breathe properly all morning.

She swallows, glancing around the table, and before she can talk herself out of it, she says it:

“So... when do you think you’ll go back out?” she asks gently, eyes flicking around the table. “To look for more.”

The table pauses, not tense just surprised.

Steve looks up from his plate. “We just got back yesterday,” he says, not unkindly. “That lab outside Prague. You’ve scanned everything we brought in already?”

Lily’s smile wavers. “Most of it.”

She hesitates, and glances at Bucky almost unconsciously. His presence is steady, grounding, and it helps her get the rest out.

“I mean... yes,” she says softly. “I scanned everything. Ran it through what I have. A lot of it’s either too damaged or... just dead ends. Lists of supply runs. Blank drives. Partial schematics that cut off mid-sentence. It's like sifting through ash hoping something’s still alive underneath.”

There’s no judgment on their faces, just quiet understanding, but still, her chest twists, because she hates being the one who has to say it. The one delivering another maybe, another nothing.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts before she can stop herself. “I know how much effort it takes to get all that back here. I wish there was more.”

Sam shakes his head. “You don’t have to be sorry. This stuff was garbage before we even walked in.”

Natasha nods, resting her chin on her hand. “We’ll find something that matters. We just haven’t yet.”

Across from her, Steve studies Lily a second longer, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, but no one else talks about it again. Instead, they settle in with full plates and light conversation: Sam teasing Steve about his food choices, Natasha calmly stealing a slice of bread from Bucky’s plate without blinking. The clinking of cutlery and low hum of voices fill the space, comfortable and familiar.

Lily chews slowly, and even if the warmth of the group is soaking into her like sunlight, something itches under her skin. The same restless, buzzing thought she can’t shake that has sharpened into clarity this morning.

They’re trying, every one of them are risking themselves for scraps; and she keeps waiting here, hoping the important pieces magically find their way back to her.

Her fork slows and her breath does, too. She sets the utensil down carefully.

And when she speaks again, her voice is calm but too deliberate. Like she rehearsed it in her head a thousand times.

“You know… if I was there with you,” she begins, eyes lowering briefly to her hands before lifting again, “maybe I could help find something useful. Not just guess from what’s left behind.”

The words float into the space between them soft, steady, and unmistakably bold. For a moment, no one moves.

Bucky’s fork stops halfway to his plate.

His head turns slowly and he looks at her. Really looks. Like something clicks in his mind, like he suddenly understands what she almost told him earlier in the med bay. The worry he saw. The hesitation. The swallowed words.

And the realization hits him like a punch to the ribs.

Before anyone else can speak, his voice cuts through the table.

“No.”

Flat. Immediate. Too quick. The kind of no that comes from instinct, not thought.

Lily freezes mid-breath, fingers clenched lightly around her glass.

There’s a pause —just a breath too long— and then Sam chuckles, stabbing a piece of mushroom from his spaghetti with his fork. He sounds half-amused, half-like he thinks she has to be kidding. “What, you wanna suit up and crawl around in ruins with us now?”

Steve snorts softly, good-natured. “That place barely had air, Lily. It’s not exactly built for people who aren’t used to field ops.”

Natasha doesn’t laugh. She stays quiet, chewing slowly, but her eyes lift and linger on Lily for a second too long. There’s no expression on her face, she’s just watching.

“I’m serious,” Lily says gently, brushing her fingers over the rim of her glass. “Sometimes I wonder if we’re missing something just because I’m not there to—”

“No,” Bucky says again, quieter this time but harder, sharper. He doesn’t even look away from her.

Lily freezes, hand halfway to her mouth with her lemonade. She swallows and forces a tiny smile. “Right. I just meant maybe it could help.”

“Maybe,” Steve says, clearly trying to soften it. “But it’s better for you to stay here where it’s safe. You’d be in danger every second out there. It’s not like med bay rounds. We can barely keep each other intact most days. We’d be worrying about you the whole time.”

Sam tries for a grin that lands too quickly and too bright. “Yeah, doc, what are you gonna do? Throw a ficus at a HYDRA agent? Hit ’em with the power of friendship and photosynthesis?”

He laughs like he expects her to laugh with him. Lily’s smile flickers and drops before she recovers it.

And just like that, they go back to eating. Sam teases Natasha about stealing his bread. Steve asks Bucky about the flight path for next week. The conversation rolls on like she hadn’t said anything at all. Except she had.

Lily nods and forces a little laugh, but the heat is creeping up her neck, flushing her ears. Her fingers tighten around her glass until the condensation slicks her palm.

It’s not that they were cruel, because they weren’t. They were joking, protecting, doing the nice, reasonable thing. But they hadn’t even considered it, not even for a second, like it wasn’t worth discussing, just instinct, unanimous and immediate. Like the idea of her out there wasn’t only unrealistic, but absurd. Like she belonged exactly where she already was, and wanting more wasn’t her place.

Her chest feels tight, like something shrinking inside her. Like she’s small, foolish and embarrassing.

“I just remembered something I need to double-check in the lab,” she murmurs as she stands, carefully collecting her plate even though she won’t eat another bite. “Don’t wait up.”

Natasha glances up for a beat as Lily moves to set her plate down in the sink but doesn’t say anything, doesn’t stop her. No one does.

Lily walks steadily out of the room, her heart thudding too fast. She doesn’t let herself breathe until she’s out of sight.

The quiet of the corridor wraps around her like a thin shawl, not warm enough to comfort, but enough to hide behind. She drifts toward the balcony at the end of the hallway, steps light but hollow, like her body is moving on its own just to get away.

It’s cool out, with soft wind brushing over her bare arms, and tugging at the ends of her skirt. Below, the city glows and pulses with life, completely unaware of her. She grips the railing, knuckles whitening.

They're right, she thinks, of course they’re right.

What was she even thinking? That they’d take her seriously? That she— what, strolls out in a floral blouse and flats into collapsed bunkers and fire-charred halls, like she belongs?

She lets out a soft, shaky laugh. It sounds ridiculous. She sounds ridiculous.

They didn’t even say it to be cruel. It wasn’t malice. It was just… true.

She’s not like them. She’s not made of the same stuff: not sharpened by combat or carved by war. She's careful, and soft, her weapons are a lab coat and a clipboard. She just knows how to stitch wounds and whisper comfort. Just knows how to dress cute and take blood samples and decorate med bays with flowers like it makes a difference.

She's not like Natasha, slipping through shadows with guns in both hands. She's not like Steve, all unwavering resolve and battlefield leadership. She's definitely not like Bucky, who’s seen hell and walked back out of it again and again. She’s just Lily, and maybe that’s the real problem.

Her chest tightens, and she presses her forehead to the cool metal of the railing.

All this time, all this work, and she’s gotten nowhere. The intel they risked their lives to bring back? Worthless. Just smoldering remnants of a nightmare she can’t decipher. She should stay in the lab, look pretty and stay out of the way. Just like she did when HYDRA tore SHIELD apart.

Her breath catches, a quiet, startled hitch. Her eyes sting. She blinks fast, but the memory rushes in anyway, thick and hot and awful.

She still remembers how the hallway lights flickered an ugly, frantic orange as the alarms wailed overhead. Smoke burned her lungs with each breath. Gunshots cracked through the floor like thunder.

“Lily— Lily, get down!”

Agent Ramirez, or Manny how she called him, had shoved her behind an overturned desk just a second before the glass wall exploded inward. She remembers the sting of shards against her cheek, the ringing in her ears, the heat of the blast.

Three of her colleagues laying bleeding on the floor, one of them trying to crawl toward her, leaving a dark smear behind.

“Lily— hey— look at me,” Manny rasped, gripping her shoulder. “You need to run. Now.”

“No— no, wait— you’re bleeding, sit down— let me see—” Her hands were already moving, trying to press against the wound, trying to help, instinct overriding terror.

Manny hissed in pain but pushed her hands away. “Forget me. You don’t have time.”

“I can help,” she whispered, her voice tiny, shaking.

A shadow moved behind them. Lily didn’t even have time to scream before the desk was yanked away, and an arm hooked around her waist, yanking her backward off her feet. Her knees hit the ground hard.

She twisted, clawing at the grip, and froze when she saw Dr. Harvenson, her mentor, the man who taught her half of what she knew, smiling calmly behind HYDRA blacks like he’d always belonged there.

“Bloom,” he said pleasantly, tightening his arm around her. “You really should have listened to him.”

Manny reached for his dropped weapon, dragging himself forward despite the pain.

“Let her go,” he snarled.

Harvenson sighed, almost disappointed. “You SHIELD agents… always so eager to die for nothing.”

He raised his gun.

“Stop— wait— please—!” Lily tried to lunge toward Manny, but Harvenson held her easily, like she weighed nothing.

“She can’t help you,” Harvenson told Manny, voice eerily gentle. Then he leaned down to Lily’s ear. “You can’t help anyone.”

The shot echoed off the walls. Manny’s body went still.

Lily’s scream scraped raw in her throat, but Harvenson covered her mouth with a gloved hand.

“My dear,” he murmured, “some people are meant to heal. Others are meant to decide who is beyond saving.” His fingers slid through her hair, casual, possessive. “You can’t do much for them here. You were never meant for the field, Bloom. You break too easily.”

She shook, breath choking, eyes locked on Manny Ramirez’s body. Her fault. Her failure. Her useless hands still stained with his blood.

The memory slams into her chest with brutal force. She grips the counter, breath stuttering, and then a tear slips free.

Lily flinches, wiping it away with the heel of her hand almost angrily, as if scrubbing away something shameful. But more threaten to follow, burning hot at the corners of her eyes, and she blinks fast, swallowing hard, trying to force herself back into focus, but the old terror coils anyway inside her ribs, filling every space she tries to keep calm.

She’s still that frozen, useless, breakable girl. She couldn’t save her friend. She couldn’t stop Harvenson. And sometimes —on the worst nights— she still thinks she didn’t deserve to be saved.

What makes her think she could save Bucky? Or help the team find anything that matters?

And yet… Some small, stubborn hope refuses to die.

But what if Simon was right? What if there is something only you can see? Something only you can do?

She closes her eyes and swallows hard, because right now, all she sees is failure.

Chapter 22: What We Don’t Say

Notes:

honestly… choosing to stay gentle in a world that keeps giving you reasons not to is a kind of strength we don’t celebrate enough. I wrote this for anyone who needs a reminder that kindness isn’t weakness. It makes you powerful. And you’re not alone.

It took Natasha Romanoff less than an hour to fly from D.C. to New York. Faster than she’d ever admit, given the airspace restrictions and the smoke still rising from half the coast. It took her almost two hours to find Lily Bloom in the chaos that used to be SHIELD’s northern compound.

The room smelled of antiseptic and smoke. The lights flickered, stuttering in the haze. Someone had set up a temporary evac station with blood bags, broken monitors, scattered syringes. And in the corner, half-hidden under a silver emergency blanket, was Lily.

For a second, Natasha didn’t recognize her. She was sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, hands trembling so hard the blanket shook like leaves in a storm. Her hair was matted, orange dulled with dust and dried tears. There was no color in her face, no spark in her usually warm hazel eyes; just a blank, hollow stare at the far wall.

Lily had always been light —sunshine in human form, all soft colors and warm smiles and words that somehow made the coldest places feel human again. But now, the bright, floral-scented doctor Natasha once teased for bringing candles into a government facility looked gone.

“Lily,” Natasha breathed.

Lily’s head jerked up, eyes wide and terrified, not recognizing her at first. Her hands flew to the bag, clutching it like a weapon.

“Hey,” Natasha said softly, raising her hands. “It’s Natasha. It’s me.”

Lily’s breathing quickened. She shook her head, a small, sharp movement, as if trying to wake from a nightmare that wouldn’t end.

Nat’s chest tightened.

She crouched down in front of her, slow and steady, the way Lily used to do when comforting her after missions had gone wrong.

“Hey, look at me,” Natasha murmured. “You’re alright, okay? You’re with me now. You’re safe.”

Something broke in Lily’s face at that word. She flinched like it burned. Then she pushed herself up too fast, nearly stumbling, the bag slipping from her shoulder. She caught it with trembling fingers and started toward the door.

“Lily—”

Natasha reached out before she could stop herself and Lily recoiled instantly. The kind of instinctive, full-body flinch Natasha knew too well. Like she expected pain. When her eyes finally met Natasha’s, there was fear there. Sharp, childlike fear.

Natasha froze, hand half-extended. “Okay,” she said softly, drawing it back. “I won’t touch you.”

Lily didn’t answer. She just kept moving, unsteady but determined, eyes fixed anywhere but her.

When she reached the doorway, she paused for half a heartbeat —not looking back, not speaking— and then she was gone.

Natasha wanted to reach for her, to pull her back, to say I’ll keep you safe the way Lily had once promised I’ll keep you steady, but she didn’t. Because looking at her trembling and shattered and furious at the world, Natasha knew that kind of safety didn’t exist anymore.

So she just stood there, letting her go as Lily disappeared into the smoke and sirens, the echo of her footsteps swallowed by the ruins.

And Natasha had regretted it ever since. She could’ve followed. Could’ve pushed past her own shock, her own orders. She could’ve grabbed Lily’s arm before she slipped out of reach forever. But she didn’t. Instead, she watched her vanish from a distance. But she didn’t stop caring when the dust settled. No, she kept track. Quietly, carefully and out of sight, the only way she knows how. That’s why when Steve thought about Lily to help Bucky, Natasha had already known where she was. She even knew where she worked; she just… never approached her. Not after the way Lily left that day. Not after the way she broke.

All she ever did was keep her safe from the shadows, and didn’t see her again until two years later, just like none of them have seen Lily since she walked out of the kitchen after lunch.

She didn’t stay in the Tower that night, just a brief text saying she had some things to do and would go back to her apartment. No one pressed further. But it's been too long now, and according to FRIDAY she’s been holed up in the lab ever since.

Steve had stopped by once this morning, only to find the lights dimmed low and Lily half-hidden behind two monitors, her voice calm and polite, but distant. She’d smiled barely and assured him everything was fine.

“Just sorting through the last few boxes,” she said. “I’ll be back soon.”

But she has not showed up for lunch, again, and the table feels strange without her.

No clinking of glass as she sets the pitcher down, no quiet humming while she arranges the cutlery just so; no Lily asking them about their morning run or teasing Natasha for stealing her seat. Just space. A quiet, aching space.

“She’s not answering?” Sam asks, peering over the edge of his phone at Steve, who shakes his head.

“Not really. I mean... she responds. But it's all just work stuff.”

Bucky keeps his gaze on the table, jaw tight.

Natasha doesn’t speak; she’s staring at her untouched plate when she decides she has had enough. Pushes her plate away with a sharp clink, stands up without a word, and walks out. Steve calls her name, but she doesn’t answer.

She knows exactly where Lily is, and it takes her less than five minutes to cross the compound and make her way down the familiar corridor to the labs. She's been here a lot, often with coffee, sometimes with bruises, once with her arm in a sling. But today she doesn’t knock.

She swings the door open and strides in like she owns the place.

“Hey!” Lily startles from her desk, eyes wide. She’s pale and tired and the white coat has come back, sleeves rolled up, hair tied in a messy knot. “I— uhm— Nat, I’m in the middle of—”

“No, you’re not,” Natasha cuts in, cool and flat. “You’re hiding.”

Lily blinks. “I’m not hiding. I’m working.”

“Bullshit.”

Natasha crosses the room and stops in front of her, arms crossed, gaze pinning her in place. She’s not angry, not really, but she looks furious —just not at Lily.

“You ghosted us. You left without a word. You didn’t even come back to the Tower. What the hell, Lily?”

Lily looks down at her lap, her fingers twisting into the hem of her sleeve.

“I just… needed time. I needed to think.”

“No.” Natasha’s voice cuts through, sharp but not cruel. “You’re doing it again. You’re disappearing.”

Lily blinks, caught off guard. Natasha exhales, tension cracking at the edges of her calm.

“I’m losing you again,” she says, quieter now. “Just like when HYDRA tore SHIELD apart. You packed up, vanished, and I didn’t see you for years. I got it then. I really did. And I don’t blame you for it. But this? This isn't about survival. This is you giving up on yourself. And I’m not letting that happen. Not again.”

Lily looks away, but Natasha doesn’t let her escape and crouches down slightly to meet her eyes. “You’re my best friend, Lily. And if you leave again, I don’t think I’ll get you back. Talk to me. Please.”

Lily swallows. Her voice is quiet when she finally speaks.

“I realized you were right. I’m not meant for the field.”

Natasha’s jaw clenches.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said at lunch,” Lily continues, her eyes not meeting hers. “I get it now. I’m not like you guys. I— I can’t fight, Nat. I’m not strong or trained or useful out there. I’m just… this.” She gestures vaguely around her, at the lab, at the screens. “I wear pretty clothes and I’m good with tests. That’s where I belong. That’s where I can help. And I don’t want to slow anyone down. I’m not built for field work. I wasn’t brave enough before, and I’m not now.”

Her voice breaks off, and that’s when Natasha stands.

“No,” she says, firm and final. “Absolutely not.”

Lily flinches.

“You don’t get to talk about yourself like that. You don’t get to write yourself off because the team is too thick-headed to understand what you bring.”

“I was stupid,” Lily whispers.

“No. You were brave. You spoke up because you saw a gap no one else saw. Because you care. Because you want to help.”

Natasha steps closer, voice dropping lower.

“You know what I see? I see a woman who survived HYDRA, stayed soft anyway, and still walks into rooms filled with trauma and blood and fear just to bring someone a little comfort. I see someone who rebuilt her own heart so many times she can now patch up others like it’s nothing. I see someone smarter than all the men in this building combined, who never once made the rest of us feel small because of it.”

She doesn’t stop.

“Don’t you dare for a minute believe that your kindness makes you anything but insurmountable. You didn’t unzip your chest to every kind of hurt —didn’t stagger back, wounded and alive— just for me to stand here and hear you call yourself weak for trying.”

Lily swallows hard, blinking fast.

“You stayed soft, even when you had every reason not to,” Natasha says, her voice steadying with emotion. “You chose to care. That takes more courage than anything anyone has ever done with a gun in hand.”

There’s a beat of silence between them. Lily’s eyes fill slowly, shimmering and wide. Her lip trembles.

“I can’t lose you again,” Natasha whispers, barely above breath like the words have been breaking her open from the inside out.

Lily lets out a soft, stuttering sound, not quite a sob, but not far. Her throat works as she tries to swallow it down.

Natasha leans in, forehead resting against Lily’s. “Fuck them.”

That startles a short, wet laugh from Lily, and Natasha doesn’t miss a beat.

“Fuck the way they dismiss you like your softness makes you breakable. Fuck the idea that you have to be like us to belong out there.” Her voice builds — not loud, but sharp with purpose. “You want to come with us?” She lifts Lily’s chin gently with two fingers, locking eyes. “You will come with us.”

Lily stares at her, speechless.

“I’m not letting you shrink back just because they couldn’t imagine you out there,” Natasha says. “They can’t see what I see. But I do. I see all of it.”

Lily lets out a shaky breath. “Even if I’m terrified?”

“Especially if you’re terrified,” Natasha says. “You think any of us weren’t the first time we stepped into something bigger than ourselves? You think I wasn’t?”

Lily shakes her head weakly, but Natasha nods once, firm.

“You don’t have to be fearless.”

Another silence passes but this one is different.  Lily nods slowly, her shoulders still trembling, but her eyes steadier now.

Natasha wraps her arms around her and tugs her in. “That’s my girl.”

 

Natasha stays the rest of the afternoon, perched on the edge of a stool, legs lazily crossed, as Lily moves around her with more energy than she’s felt in days. They talk, or rather, Lily talks and Natasha listens, arms folded, occasionally making a dry comment that makes Lily laugh despite herself.

“I mean, I’m not saying I’d be good at stealth,” Lily says, rolling her chair to another table and scribbling on a pad, “but if you gave me a chance to scope out a base from a medical angle — layout, supply trails, experiment traces — I might be able to spot things you’d miss. Things meant to be hidden in plain sight.”

 The comfort of it settles over them. It’s not a plan yet, not entirely, but it’s something.

The sun has dipped lower by the time the door creaks open quietly. Lily turns, surprised, when Bucky steps in slowly, tentative, like he’s trying not to be noticed. He freezes a little when he sees Natasha. There’s a flicker of something across his face. It is not guilt exactly, but surprise. He straightens like he wasn’t expecting Lily to have company.

Natasha lifts a brow, arms still crossed. “Didn’t know you were coming in for a check-up.”

Bucky blinks. “Wasn’t.”

Lily tilts her head, curious but warm. “What’s up?”

He clears his throat and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Just... dinner’s ready… If you feel like coming.”

Lily offers a smile, soft and unsuspecting. “Thanks, Bucky. I’ll be there in a second.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything, just watches him in all hawk-eyed calculation. She sees right through it, and she knows he didn’t come to get her for dinner.

Bucky glances her way and then quickly back to Lily. “I’ll just—” He gestures vaguely behind him. “Yeah.”

He turns and leaves before he can embarrass himself further.

Lily watches him go, then looks back at Natasha. “He’s sweet.”

Natasha snorts, still watching the closed door. “Mhm. That’s one word for it.”

But when she looks back at Lily, her expression softens. “You gonna go?”

Lily nods, already standing to clean up her scattered papers. “Yeah. I think I’m hungry now.”

Dinner smells like roasted vegetables and something garlicky as Lily steps into the dining area. She smooths her jasmine patterned dress and tries not to feel too conscious of Natasha flanking her like a silent shadow. The table’s already crowded —Steve, Sam and Bucky— plates out, drinks poured, casual conversation humming in the air.

But the moment they see her, it halts.

“Hey, Doc.” Sam says first, quick to stand a little. “You’re here.”

Steve straightens with a cautious smile. “Hi. Glad you’re here.”

Sam gives her a little wave. “We saved you the good part of the chicken. Yours doesn’t even have weird burnt skin.”

She gives a small smile, taking the seat they’ve clearly left empty for her, right across from Bucky. He’s already seated, silent, fork in hand, gaze low.

“We just—” Steve starts again, then trails off. “About the other day…”

Sam chimes in, gentler than usual, “We didn’t mean to shoot you down. Wasn’t personal, Doc.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, “it’s just… none of us were expecting you to offer. It caught us off guard.”

“We know how much you care,” Sam adds. “You’re doing more than anyone already.”

“I know,” Lily says softly, unfolding her napkin. “It’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t. We were out of line,” Steve says. “It wasn’t the right reaction. We’re sorry.”

“Seriously,” Sam adds, “you’re the smartest person at this table. If anyone’s gonna crack this HYDRA mess, it’s you.”

They mean well. Their tone is gentle, their faces open.

Lily sets down her water glass, then meets their eyes one by one, calm but steady. “I’m going on the next mission.”

Silence. It hangs like a thundercloud over the table. Then—

“No.” Bucky’s voice cuts across the room like a blade. He’s not even looking at her, just staring at his plate.

Sam frowns, glancing between them. “Lily, c’mon. You don’t need to prove anything. You’re already helping—”

“I’m not,” she interrupts. “Everything you’ve brought back is meaningless without context. I’m spinning my wheels in the lab while time runs out.”

Steve raises a hand. “I get what you’re saying, I do. But the field is a different thing. You can’t just drop in and expect—”

“She’s not ‘dropping in,’” Natasha cuts in coolly. “She can do it.”

“It’s true,” Lily says. “You think I belong in a lab. But if I don’t see this stuff where it lives, I’ll never make sense of it.”

“She’s right,” Natasha adds. “We’ve been bringing her scraps. She needs the full picture.”

“It’s not happening.” Bucky doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. There’s a hard, quiet finality in him, like the edge of winter.

Natasha’s jaw tics. “You don’t get to make that call.”

“She’s not trained for it,” Bucky says, eyes still on his plate. “She’s not going.”

Lily straightens. “I’m not asking permission.”

Now he looks at her, reluctantly, like it hurts. His voice is steady, cold around the edges. Bucky’s chair scrapes harshly as he stands. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I do,” she says, standing too, breath catching. “I know it’s dangerous. I know it’s messy. But I also know that I’ve hit a wall. And I’m done waiting for someone else to break it for me.”

“You’re not stepping into HYDRA territory.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I do when it’s going to get you killed,” he snaps.

“Bucky,” Steve warns under his breath.

But Bucky’s eyes are locked on hers; angry, afraid, and beneath it all betrayed. His voice is low and harsh. “You don’t belong out there.”

“Oh, I don't?” Lily fires back, voice tight. “You think because I didn’t wear a uniform, I never saw the cost?”

“I think you’ve never seen what HYDRA really is,” he says, trembling now, barely keeping his voice level. “You think you’re ready, but you’re not. You haven’t seen the real version.”

It hits her like a slap. Not with cruelty, but with certainty. A belief built in blood and horror.

“You don’t know what I’ve been through!” she fires back, voice cracking.

There’s a long, awful silence where Bucky stops. Just stops. His shoulders lock, and for a second she thinks he’s going to turn around and say something softer, but when he faces her, his expression is carved out of stone.

“You’re not coming with us,” he says, low and final. “That’s it.”

Lily opens her mouth  “Bucky—”

“No.” The word cuts clean through the air. Sharp. Absolute.

She tries again, breath shaking. “I don’t need your—”

“Don’t you dare,” he snaps, the words raw and choked and terrifyingly sincere. “Don’t you dare put yourself out there.”

Bucky breathes once through his nose, clenches his jaw and walks out without another word. His boots echo down the hall until the sound vanishes.

He storms down the hall, jaw locked so tight it aches. The echo of her voice still rings in his ears — “I’m going on the next mission.”

He barely makes it to his room before slamming the door shut and pressing both hands to the wall, head bowed.

“No. No, no, no—” the words shudder out of him, quiet and frantic.

She can’t go. She can’t.

HYDRA bases aren’t some puzzle room to solve. They’re death traps. They’re poison. They’re full of shadows that don’t die even when you burn them down.

He sees it too clearly: Lily in a field uniform, too bright for that world, too soft. Hands that shake as they press against bleeding wounds. A scream. A fall. Her name shouted into a comms link that cuts out.

He presses his palms more to the wall, his breath stutters, catches, then breaks apart into short, jagged bursts.

Lily on the ground. Blood staining her pretty face. Her eyes wide and unfocused. Her pulse fading under his trembling fingers. He can’t save her. He can’t— he can’t— he never—

Bucky presses harder against the wall as if he can hold himself together by force alone. His eyes squeeze shut. His shoulders tremble.

A soft knock startles him. He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to, because the door opens anyway. Of course it does.

“Should’ve figured you’d be sulking in here,” Natasha says, stepping inside like she owns the place. “You made an ass of yourself at dinner.”

“Not in the mood, Nat.”

“Too bad.” She folds her arms. “Because Lily’s not in the Tower anymore. She went back to her place.”

That stops him cold. He turns slowly. “What?”

“She didn’t even take her things. Just walked out. Said she needed air.” Natasha arches a brow. “You want to guess why?”

He sits down heavily on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. “I’m trying to protect her.”

Natasha tilts her head, unimpressed. “No, you’re trying to control her. There’s a difference.”

“She doesn’t understand what she’s asking for.”

“No, you don’t understand who you’re talking to,” Natasha snaps, stepping forward. “You think she’s some fragile thing you have to coddle? Let me tell you something, Barnes.”

She pulls a slim file from under her arm and tosses it on the bed beside him. It lands with a soft, accusing thud. He doesn’t touch it, just stares at the cover like it might burn him.

“You weren’t the only one who walked out of the Triskelion in pieces.”

He frowns. A muscle in his cheek tightens.

“Same day Steve get you out of HYDRA’s control,” she says, quieter now, “Lily was being held hostage. By people she trusted. Agents she worked with. HYDRA buried deep inside SHIELD, and she was right in the middle of it.”

Bucky’s head jerks up.

“She watched her friends get shot in front of her. She hid bodies. She begged for her life while wearing the same badge that gave the shooters orders.” Her voice catches faintly, just once. “And when she got out, barely, she disappeared. For two years.”

Bucky looks like the floor has dropped out beneath him. His chest twists.

Natasha watches him for a long, assessing moment. Then she sighs and walks to the door, hand resting on the frame.

“She’s strong,” she says softly, but with an edge of steel. “And you’re too busy being scared to see it.”

Bucky’s voice is hoarse. “I’m not scared for me.”

“I know.” She crosses her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “And she’s not scared for herself either. That’s why she’ll go. With or without you.”

A silence stretches thick, heavy, charged.

Natasha’s eyes narrow slightly. “What is this, Bucky? Why do you care this much?”

His jaw tightens. He looks away. Not at her, not at the file, but somewhere far off, someplace he refuses to name.

“I just do,” he says finally, voice low, ragged around the edges. It’s almost a confession by itself.

Natasha doesn’t let up.

“You ‘just do,’ huh?” she replies. “Funny. That’s not what it looks like from over here.”

He says nothing.

“What it looks like,” she continues, stepping closer, “is a man who’s terrified. Not of the danger. Not of HYDRA. Not even of losing control.” She stops right in front of him. “You’re scared of losing her.”

The words hit him like a blow. His throat works, but no sound comes out.

“Don’t bother denying it. I’ve been around too long,” she says, softer now. “You look at her like she’s… something you don’t think you deserve to touch.”

Bucky’s breath shudders. He drags a hand over his face, fingers pressing into his eyes as if he could push the feeling out of existence.

“I don’t want to feel this way, Natasha,” he mutters, voice barely more than gravel. “I don’t— I don’t like what that means for me.”

Her expression softens, but only slightly. “What do you think it means?”

He laughs with a broken, humorless sound. “It means I have something to lose again.” His shoulders curl inward, his metal hand flexing restlessly. “And I’m not strong enough for that anymore.”

Natasha steps closer, boots soundless on the floor. “You’re wrong.”

“No,” he snaps, finally lifting his head. His eyes are hollowed, beaten, terrified in a way that has nothing to do with HYDRA. “I know what happens when I care too much. I know what happens when I let myself have something good.” He swallows hard. “It gets taken. And I destroy whatever’s left.”

Natasha watches him for a long moment. Then:

“You know what we said in the Red Room?” she begins quietly.

He looks up, wary.

“The healer has the bloodiest hands.”

Bucky blinks, thrown off. Natasha continues, voice calm but cutting:

“You cannot treat a wound without knowing how deep it goes. You cannot heal pain by hiding from it. You cannot save someone if you refuse to look at what hurts.” She steps fully in front of him. “And you can’t protect Lily by pretending you don’t care. That only makes the wound deeper.”

He looks away, jaw tight, throat working.

“You think caring makes you weak,” she says. “It doesn’t. It makes you human again.”

“She deserves better than this,” he whispers.

“No,” Natasha says bluntly. “What she doesn’t deserve is your fear. She deserves your respect. Your trust.”

His fingers curl against his knees, metal creaking.

“She respects you,” Natasha says. “She listens to you. She values you. All she’s asking is that you give her the same thing back.” A beat. “She deserves that much, Bucky.”

He breathes in like it hurts.

Natasha tilts her head, watching him carefully. “You think keeping her out of missions keeps her safe. But she’s not a child. She’s not delicate. And she’s not yours to save from herself.”

He winces at that.

“If you care about her,” Natasha finishes, “then you respect her choices, not replace them with your own.”

Silence falls between them, heavy but clearer than before.

Bucky finally speaks, voice rough: “I don’t know if I can.”

“You can,” Natasha says. “You just don’t want to. Because once you respect her choice… you can’t blame yourself if she gets hurt. And that scares you more than HYDRA ever did.”

He closes his eyes, the truth hitting like a blow.

Natasha steps back toward the door but pauses, giving him one last look.

“She deserves a partner in this, not a cage. Decide which one you’re trying to be.”

And with that, she watches him for a moment longer, then leaves quietly, letting the door close behind her.

Bucky leans forward slowly, rests his elbows on his knees, and rubs his hands over his face like he’s trying to scrub away whatever the hell’s happening inside him. But it won’t go. It hasn’t for a long time. And now it’s worse, because somewhere under all the fear and protectiveness and pain twisting up his ribs, he knows he can’t hide what he feels anymore.

He stays seated for a long time, the weight of the unopened file like a live thing beside him. When he finally lifts the cover, his hands tremble.

Chapter 23: A Quiet Thaw

The morning light spills gently through gauzy curtains, casting soft shadows across Lily’s small apartment. It’s quiet, the kind of quiet that makes her thoughts louder than they ought to be.

She eats breakfast in silence. Toast with honey, and scrambled eggs. The coffee goes cold on the counter before she remembers it. She showers next, steam curling into the corners of the bathroom, washing away the weight of sleep but not the ache in her chest. Her movements are efficient, quick and careful. Like keeping herself busy will keep the thoughts away.

She brushes her teeth, ties her hair and pulls on a loose knit sweater in white, soft and worn-in at the cuffs, and a pair of pale blue corduroy pants with a drawstring waist. No patterns today. No florals. Just quiet color and fabric that doesn’t ask anything from her. She’s not in the mood for more. Then comes the moisturizer, sunscreen, and lip balm. The soft rituals she’s clung to all her life for structure and normalcy.

Still the knot in her stomach won’t ease, because she’s still upset. Not furious, not even particularly angry, just hurt. More than she expected to be. And worse, she doesn’t understand Bucky’s reaction yesterday and the coldness, the flat refusal, the way he’d shut down so completely still gnaws at her. It makes her feel small in a way she hasn’t in a long time.

It’s a familiar kind of ache, like being reduced again to a version of herself she thought she’d outgrown. Like she’s been quietly shoved back to the beginning, to those first weeks with Bucky, when every check-up felt like walking on glass and he looked at her like a stranger. All over again, she feels too soft, too silly and too much.

She hates how easily the way he looked at her unravels her. Like she was fragile and breakable. Like he didn’t see her at all.

She’d offered something honest, something brave, and he had shut the door in her face, once more. And now all she can do is carry it, quiet and tight in her chest, as she smooths down her blouse and locks the door behind her.

When Lily arrives at the med bay, Bucky is already there.

He’s sitting on the edge of the exam table, shoulders hunched, hands clasped between his knees. The second he sees her, his spine straightens, like he's been caught doing something wrong. And maybe, she thinks, he has.

She doesn’t look at him for long. Doesn’t let herself soften.

“Morning,” she says gently, professionally, setting her bag down and slipping into her work routine like armor. “Let’s get started.”

He nods almost too quickly, and doesn’t speak, even if she can feel him watching her, though. The way her sweater sways slightly as she moves, the soft brush of her hand as she tucks behind her ear the stray locks of hair to get them out of the way. But his silence stretches and lingers, so she keeps things medical —blood pressure, reflexes, pupillary response…

It’s quiet between them. Not hostile but stilted, heavy with the weight of what wasn’t said the day before. She’s kind, as always. Gentle with his arm, careful when she touches him. But she doesn’t meet his eyes unless she has to, and when she speaks, it’s all business.

And it kills him.

When she presses the stethoscope to his torso, her fingers accidentally graze his ribs and he flinches slightly. Not from pain, but from the closeness of it.

He still hates being touched, and he even used to brace himself every time someone’s hand came near, waiting for pain, for pressure, for control. But Lily’s touch changed that, slowly and gently. She never forced it, never took more than he gave. And somewhere along the line —somewhere between check-ups and quiet silences and her soft voice in the cold sterile room— her hands had become the first that didn’t hurt. They were warm, careful, and real. Now, that same touch feels distant. Not cold, but careful in a different way; professional, almost detached.

It shouldn’t ache but it does, because he’s lost the quiet closeness of her hands. The safety of her presence. And it’s his fault. Again, it is his fault.

First, he made her cry with sharp words spoken through fear and panic, when she only made a mistake. Now, he has made her mad. Drive her away with the very same fear, dressed this time in silence and refusal. How much of an ass can he be?

Bucky doesn't understand why it happens. Why the thing inside him —the thing that’s supposed to be gone— still lashes out when he's afraid. Still bites when all he wants is to protect.

He's not a violent dog, but sometimes he feels like one. Muzzled by guilt and the tail tucked with shame. He’s not going anywhere and, definitely, he’s not getting better.  He’s still here, still sitting at this table with her just a breath away, and yet he feels like he’s lost something precious. Something he didn’t know he needed until it slipped from his hands.

He wants to be better for her and for himself. He wants to be the kind of man who doesn't hurt the people who try to hold him gently. That thought sits heavy in his chest, burning behind his ribs like guilt, like grief, like something he doesn’t deserve to feel but does anyway.

He watches her work in silence, her gentle touch still precise, still soft, even if her face is closed off. Not cruel, just distant, and that kills him more than anger would.

Bucky swallows. His throat is dry, but the words are there now, caught somewhere between shame and need.

“I know,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

Lily glances up, uncertain. “Know what?”

“About HYDRA,” he says. “About what happened to you. The day SHIELD fell.”

Her hand pauses mid-movement, a tremor running through her fingers before she hangs the stethoscope back around her neck, suddenly needing the motion to feel like something she can control.

He keeps going, because he has to. Because Natasha is right and he can’t protect her by pretending he doesn’t care. Because maybe this is how he shows her he does, not with big gestures or apologies, but with the one thing he’s always been so scared to give: the truth.

“I read the file. I didn’t want to— Natasha gave it to me. After dinner.” His jaw flexes, shame flickering across his face. “She told me I needed to know who you really are.”

He lifts his eyes to her finally.

“I know you were there. That you trusted people who turned on you. That you watched them kill people you cared about. And you couldn’t do anything. You were just a victim.”

Lily doesn’t speak. Her mouth parts slightly, her breath catches.

“And you still came back,” Bucky adds, softer now. “For me.”

He shakes his head once, bitter at himself. She sees the weight behind his eyes, the guilt, the understanding, the regret that’s been eating him alive.

Lily stands frozen, her throat tight and heart racing. His words and his deep blue eyes strike something inside her, something that trembles between relief and pain. She looks at him, really looks at him, and sees not the Winter Soldier, not Sergeant Barnes, but a man trying so hard to be someone better, someone good, despite every reason he has to believe otherwise.

“I’m not made of glass, Bucky,” she says, voice low and shaking. “I might not be full of serum or trained to kill, but I’m not going to break if someone looks at me the wrong way.”

He flinches, and for a second she regrets it, but she doesn’t back down.

“You think you’re the only one who’s been hurt?” Her voice is still soft, but there’s steel beneath it now. “Yes, I was held hostage for hours by people I thought were my friends. I watched them shoot people I shared lunch with. I listened to them laugh while they cleaned blood off the floor.”

Her eyes brim, but she doesn’t cry. Not this time.

“I didn’t fight back. I froze. I was too scared. And for a long time, I hated myself for it. But I survived, and I chose to come back to this— to you. Because I wanted to help. Because I thought maybe there was still something I could do right.”

Bucky’s throat bobs. His hands twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach for her but doesn’t dare. His voice cracks when he speaks.

 “I’m not trying to treat you like you’re weak. I just— I don’t know how to do this. Any of this. I’m not used to… feeling like this.”

Lily goes still, eyes narrowing faintly, not unkindly just waiting.

“I’ve spent seventy years being someone else’s weapon.” He trails off, jaw tight. “Empty. Numb. Every time something felt real, it got torn away, or it hurt too much to keep. And now you’re here and you’re… kind, and soft, and good, and you don’t want anything from me. And it’s—”

“What?” Lily asks quietly.

“It’s terrifying,” he breathes. “Because I don’t know how to be a person. I don’t even know if I can.”

Her expression flickers to surprise, then something softer.

“I keep pushing you away because I don’t know what else to do with something that matters this much,” Bucky says. “But you’re right. I don’t get to stop you. And I don’t want to— not really. I just… I’m scared.”

He drags a hand over his face, hearing Natasha’s voice from the night before whether he wants to or not: She deserves your respect. She deserves your trust. If you care about her, then you respect her choices, not replace them with your own.

 “Natasha told me I’m… not seeing you clearly,” he admits, voice raw. “That I’m so busy being scared that I keep forgetting who you are. What you’ve survived. What you choose.”

Lily’s breath stills.

“She said you’re strong,” Bucky goes on quietly. “And I believe her. I’m just…” He shakes his head, helpless. “I’m not used to caring about someone like this. Not used to having something I could lose.”

Lily’s eyes soften.

“But Natasha said something else,” he adds, voice tightening. “She said you deserve better than my fear.” He swallows hard. “You deserve my respect.”

A beat. His next words are barely audible.

“And she was right.”

Lily’s lips part. Her throat tightens.

“I can’t lose this,” Bucky whispers. “So if you’re going out there, please let me be close. Let me watch out for you. Let me try to keep you safe… even if I can’t stop you.”

Lily nods slowly, blinking fast. “Okay. Fine. But we’re partners in this. No more hiding things.”

“No more hiding,” Bucky echoes.

He hesitates then adds, quietly but with courage he didn’t have yesterday:

“And I trust you, Lily. I’m trying. I am.”

Her breath shakes, but this time it’s with relief. They just stand there for a long beat, letting the silence settle into something not quite comfortable, but honest.

He still doesn’t say the whole truth of what’s sitting at the edge of his chest, but for him this is enough. And after their honest conversation, the rest of the check-up goes much more smoothly. Bucky is calmer, more present, and Lily feels a cautious hope as they work together with better understanding.

Hours later, when the evening comes, Lily stands near the far wall of the weapons training room, hands folded tightly in front of her, eyes flicking to the door every few seconds.

The weapons training room is colder than the rest of the Tower, all steel cabinets and rubber flooring, with fluorescent lights overhead that only makes her more aware of how quiet it is. Also, the air smells faintly of metal and gun oil, a stark contrast to the softness she usually surrounds herself with.

The door slides open and Natasha steps in, carrying a small black case in one hand and an unmistakable no-nonsense air about her.

“You’re early,” Nat says, tossing case onto the table.

“I didn’t want to be late,” Lily replies, her voice a little too polite. She stands straighter.

Natasha raises a brow, then smirks. “Nervous?”

“A little.”

“You should be.” She opens the case, revealing a few small non-lethal weapons: a compact taser, a canister of pepper spray, a gas grenade, and a slender collapsible baton. “I trust your brain, Lily. But if you’re coming with us, I need to be sure you’ve got something with you.”

Lily nods, trying to steady her nerves.

“Alright,” Natasha continues, voice sharp but not unkind. “You won’t be wielding a rifle out there, and that’s not your job. But if something goes sideways, you need to know how to defend yourself. This”—she holds up the taser—“is your best friend for close encounters. Simple, effective.”

She picks up the taser, presses it into Lily’s palm. “Safety on,” she instructs, then flips it off and hits the trigger. A loud crack of electricity snaps in the air. Lily jumps.

“Jesus.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

Next comes the pepper spray.

“This will incapacitate, enough to buy you time. You need to get close, though. Close enough to touch. I’ll teach you how to hold it, when to use it.”

She sets it aside and reaches for the baton.

“This,” Natasha says, extending the collapsible metal rod with a sharp shick, “is for when someone gets too close for comfort and you don’t have time to think.”

Lily’s eyes widen slightly at the sound.

“Lightweight. Easy to carry. You aim for joints like knees or elbows. You’re not trying to fight like a soldier. You’re trying to disable and get away.”

She gives the baton a practiced spin and collapses it again.

“And before you ask —yes, I’m going to teach you how to use it without breaking your own wrist.”

Finally, Natasha pulls out a small gas grenade, the kind that releases a blinding, choking cloud to disorient opponents. She explains how to activate and throw it safely, stressing caution.

The next hours are steady, focused, and shockingly un-intimidating.

The taser hums in Lily’s hand, a faint vibration crawling up her wrist.

“Again,” Natasha says.

Lily flips the safety on, then off, just like she was taught. She presses the trigger and electricity snaps in the air.

She flinches less this time.

“Good. But don’t hold it like it’s poison. Firm grip.” Natasha steps behind her, adjusts Lily’s fingers around the handle, tightens her posture. “You’re small, so your leverage matters. Aim for ribs, neck, inner thigh. You know, anywhere with nerves. Don’t hesitate.”

Lily swallows, nods, and tries again. Trigger. CRACK. It still startles her, but her hand doesn’t jerk nearly as much.

“Better,” Natasha murmurs.

They move on to the pepper spray.

Natasha places a padded dummy six feet away. “You don’t spray from here. Too far. Step in.”

Lily steps closer and now is too close.

“Not that close,” Natasha says, tugging her back by the elbow. “You’re disabling, not asking for a hug. Arm out. Thumb on the trigger. Steady.”

Lily inhales, exhales, and presses the button and a tight, controlled spray shoots forward, misting the dummy’s face.

“Good. Now move.”

“What?”

Natasha taps her ankle with her boot. “Spray while stepping. If you stand still, you’re a target.”

They repeat it, again and again. Lily stumbles twice, almost sprays her own sleeve once, but by the fifth attempt she moves in a short arc, sprays cleanly, and backs out without losing her balance.

“Not bad for a flower.” Natasha nods and Lily snorts despite her nerves.

The gas grenade is next.

Natasha kneels, demonstrating the motions slowly. “Pull, throw, duck. But you need to angle it so it lands ahead of you, not at your feet.”

Lily takes the practice grenade —a weighted dummy— and tries the motion. Her first attempt falls short, rolling pathetically across the floor.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Are you throwing a love letter?”

Lily sets her jaw, tries again. This one arcs better, landing five feet farther.

“Okay,” Natasha says. “Now pretend something is coming at you from behind.”

Lily hesitates just a beat then turns, pulls the pin, spins back, and throws. It sails through the air and hits the padded wall with a satisfying thud.

Natasha grins. “There she is.”

Finally, the baton.

Natasha hands her the slender metal stick. “It extends with a snap. Hard. Don’t flick it like a wand.”

Lily does flick it like a wand. The baton pops out halfway and droops.

Natasha sighs. Walks over. “No. Like you mean it.”

She takes Lily’s wrist, snaps it downward and the baton extends fully with a metallic snap.

“Oh,” Lily mutters, cheeks warming.

Natasha chuckles. “Now hit the dummy.”

Lily hesitates for real now. She’s a doctor. She shouldn’t be holding a baton or training to hit people, she saves them. Either way, she raises the baton and swings.

The impact reverberates up her arm.

“Harder.”

She swings again. Harder. A third time, this one enough force to make the dummy sway.

“Good. Aim for joints. Knees, elbows. Never the spine. Disable, don’t destroy.”

Lily nods, breath shaky but focused. Natasha steps back then, arms crossed, watching her repeat the motions: taser. Pepper spray. Grenade. Baton. Each tool clumsy at first, then smoother, then steady.

By the time Lily lowers the baton, sweat clings to her hairline and her hands tremble, but not from fear anymore.

From effort. From learning. From being capable.

Natasha smiles, watching her. “You’re doing better than you think.”

“I feel like I’m going to drop everything the second I’m actually scared.”

“You will the first time,” Natasha says plainly. “But after that? You’ll remember.”

Lily exhales, chest tight with nerves and something like pride.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Maybe I will.”

By the time Natasha calls it a night, the Tower has already quieted down, the halls dim with the late hour. Lily thanks her and walks alone through the corridor, limbs pleasantly sore, brain humming with everything she’s just learned. She heads to the med bay to collect a few of her things before returning home, but the moment she steps inside, she halts.

There sitting neatly on the counter by the small sink is a flowerpot she doesn’t recognize. It’s ceramic, slightly chipped at one corner, like it had to be found or borrowed in a hurry. And growing inside it is a delicate cluster of lilies, their white petals gently opening like a soft breath in the room. Tucked between the leaves is a small, folded note. Her fingers shake a little as she reaches for it.

“Is this what normal people do after a fight?”

It’s written in blocky, careful letters. She recognizes the handwriting immediately: it’s Bucky’s. Stiff and slanted, like he had to think about each letter before putting it down.

Lily stares at it, heart swelling so suddenly it hurts. He got her lilies. Her name. It’s not just an apology, it’s an attempt. A peace offering from someone who still doesn’t believe he belongs in peace. It's awkward and uncertain and exactly the kind of gesture only Bucky Barnes would make.

She presses the card to her chest and lets out a soft breath that turns into a laugh, quiet and bright. She feels warm, softened, and for the first time in days Lily decides not to go back to her apartment. Instead, she carries the pot gently to her private quarters in the Tower, placing it carefully by the window, adjusting the blinds so they’ll get a little morning light. She waters it, fingers brushing the petals like a promise.

Bucky’s trying. Not perfectly, not smoothly but is honestly, in the only way he knows how. And Lily, with her name blooming quietly on the windowsill, finds that more than enough.

Chapter 24: The Quiet Before

The glow of the screen reflects in Bruce’s glasses as he squints, fingers flying across the keyboard. Beside him, Lily scrolls through the newest batch of decrypted files: dry, coded gibberish for the most part, the kind of bureaucratic rot that HYDRA loved hiding behind.

Hours have passed like this: soft beeping from equipment, the occasional slosh of coffee, the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead. It’s the kind of quiet that makes time melt and somehow, it’s where Lily feels most like herself. Working. Building puzzles out of nightmares.

“Wait,” Lily murmurs suddenly, frowning as a line of data freezes on her screen. Bruce glances over.

“What?”

Lily leans closer to the screen, the tension in her shoulders climbing as she parses the strings of coordinates and timestamps. “This… this isn’t just a lab.”

Bruce blinks, his breath catching. “What do you mean?”

She double-checks, then turns the screen toward him. “This site it’s massive. Look at the scale of the infrastructure buried under this label. Supply routes. Energy usage. Security layers. They’ve been rerouting information through dummy accounts for years, but it’s all coming from here.” She taps the screen once. “If this data is right, we’re looking at one of the biggest remaining HYDRA bases on American soil.”

They both feel like the air has gone thin. “Is it active?”

“I don’t know,” Lily says, careful. “It could’ve been abandoned years ago, or it could still be in use and buried under so many false records no one ever noticed. Until now.”

For a heartbeat, Lily doesn’t get what Bruce answers back, all hears is the thrum of her own pulse in her ears. One of the biggest HYDRA bases means weapons, data, traps, secrets. Maybe even the last missing pieces of Bucky’s history. Her fingers curl slightly on the edge of the table. She doesn’t wait.

“I have to tell them.”

Bruce lifts a hand as if to stop her, but Lily’s already halfway out the lab, her coat fluttering behind her as she bursts into the hallway.

She moves fast, cutting across the Tower’s floors toward the gym, where she knows they’ll be. The steady thud of fists hitting training pads filters out before she even reaches the door.

Inside, Steve and Sam are sparring, clean and efficient, while Bucky and Natasha observe from the side, water bottles in hand. Bucky spots her first. He straightens, brow furrowing when he sees her breathless and pale, her eyes wide with adrenaline.

“Lily?”

She doesn’t even wait to catch her breath. “We found something,” she says, loud enough that all four of them turn to face her. “Me and Bruce. A site. One of the biggest HYDRA bases ever built in the U.S.”

Natasha lowers her water bottle slowly, tension rising like a thread being pulled taut. “Active?”

“We don’t know,” Lily says quickly. “But it’s still hidden. Not shut down. Buried under false names and dead companies. It could be wreckage. Or it could be fully armed. But we can’t ignore it.”

Sam swears under his breath. Steve’s face hardens. Bucky stares at her like the floor just tilted beneath him.

There’s a long pause. The weight of the news hangs thick in the air then Steve nods, slow and certain. “We’ll need to verify. Cross-reference the data, pull satellite visuals, and see what SHIELD’s old records have to say.”

“We’ll dig all day if we have to,” Sam adds, already turning toward the exit. “If it’s legit, we plan the mission tonight.”

Bucky doesn’t speak. His eyes flick from Lily to Steve, then back again. Natasha, standing next to him, glances between them and nods. “If it’s a real HYDRA site, we’re not leaving it standing.”

The group disperses into movement —towels grabbed, water bottles abandoned, the hum of focus descending over them like a curtain— but Lily stands there, still catching her breath.

Her heart is pounding for a whole different reason now. She’s going to her first mission.

It settles in her chest like lightning in reverse, electric, but warm. For so long, she’s been watching from the sidelines, healing the aftermath of action instead of being part of it. But now she has a lead that matters. She’ll be there to see it through.

“Lily,” Steve says, gently touching her arm to get her attention. “You’re sure you’re up for this?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”

Steve studies her for a beat, then gives a small smile. “Alright. Then let’s get to work.”

She follows them out of the gym with a strange flutter in her chest. Her steps feel lighter, her blood fizzing with purpose.

 

The rest of the day unfolds like clockwork and Lily barely stops moving. She and Bruce return to the lab with renewed energy, scanning layers of old SHIELD archives, layering the new data on top of heat signatures and satellite maps. It's like digging through layers of time, chasing ghosts hiding beneath crumbled secrets.

And yet… there it is. A grid of heat anomalies in upstate Vermont. Large, deep, symmetrical, too precise to be natural. Power surges logged once a month, always at the same time, just long enough to suggest something below ground still there.

Bruce leans over her shoulder. “That’s not just leftover wiring. That’s operational.”

By late afternoon, Steve, Natasha, Sam, and Bucky gather again in the conference room. Lily has barely eaten. She's too wound up, too full of adrenaline and half-drunk coffee. When she steps into the room, her file held tight to her chest, she swears she hears her pulse echo in her ears.

Bruce lays out the findings, but it’s Lily who talks them through the context: SHIELD’s original blind spots, the weird cluster of electrical patterns, the possible disguise of an abandoned facility now reclaimed by the woods.

“We think this is one of the biggest HYDRA strongholds that never got shut down,” she finishes, trying not to let her voice tremble with the weight of it. “And it’s still running. Hidden, probably reinforced. Could be underground. Possibly booby-trapped. And very likely occupied.”

Steve doesn’t blink. “Then we prepare like it is.”

Natasha leans forward. “I’ll get satellite surveillance and old blueprints. It may take a few hours.”

“We go in tomorrow night,” Steve decides. “Once we confirm there’s activity, we gear up.”

Sam nods. “We’ll need a scout pass. Bucky and I can do that.”

Lily’s eyes flick to Bucky, waiting. He's quiet, jaw set, mouth tight. But he doesn't object.

Steve looks at her then, and for a second, it's not Captain Rogers staring her down, it’s Steve, her friend, making sure. “Still in?”

Lily nods. “In.”

They dismiss, one by one, slipping into preparation, and suddenly the tower is quiet at night. Most of the lights dimmed, the halls humming only with the low sound of security systems and machinery too stubborn to sleep.

And Lily, like the machinery, also can’t sleep. She’s tried, truly. She showered, changed into soft cotton, even made tea, but her body wouldn’t settle, her chest tight with anticipation. She’d even tried to talk Charlie’s ear off over the phone, rambling about theories and fragments of discovery, but he’d fallen asleep mid-sentence, still curled up in bed back home with his boyfriend, and now she’s alone again with her thoughts. There’s no sense of dread exactly, just something curled up at the base of her ribs, a tight little knot of what-if. What if I freeze? What if I mess it up? What if—

She’s already walking before she fully decides to.

The weapon room is cold when she slips inside, the sleek walls and locked lockers giving the air a metallic stillness. Her fingers twitch as she crosses the training space and opens the case Natasha let her use.

Gas canister. Pepper spray. Taser.

She lines them up like familiar pieces of armor and starts again.

Click. Spray. Toss. Repeat.

She practices the motion of it not to become a soldier, or even to feel brave but because doing something keeps the stillness from swallowing her whole.

She’s mid-stance, taser in hand, when a quiet voice stops her.

“You planning to fight me off in your pajamas?”

Lily startles and a little yelp escapes her before she turns and sees Bucky standing in the doorway, his silhouette lit from behind, arms crossed loosely. He’s wearing a hoodie, soft and rumpled, and a tired look like maybe he couldn’t sleep either.

She exhales a breathy laugh, lowering the taser. “They’re training clothes, technically.”

Bucky steps into the room, his shoes soft on the mat. “It’s past midnight.”

“I know.”

“You okay?”

Lily hesitates, then shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I just... needed to feel like I could do something. Anything.”

He nods, slow. “It’s gonna be different out there.”

“I know.”

She looks down at her hands. Her fingers curl tighter around the taser. “I’m not scared of the place, not really. I’m scared of freezing… Of being useless and slowing you down.”

Bucky steps a little closer, voice quiet. “You’re not useless. Actually, you being there makes it less likely I freeze.”

Lily glances up at him, surprised by the rawness in that. He looks away.

“I just didn’t want to go to sleep without making sure I knew what I was doing,” she murmurs.

Bucky nods again and then, without saying a word, steps behind her.

“Show me what Romanoff taught you, doll.”

Lily swallows, nods, and sets her feet the way Natasha showed her. She moves through the first sequence: baton strike, step back, baton retract. She’s careful, focused but the moment feels different with Bucky’s attention heavy on her skin.

He doesn’t say anything until she finishes the form.

“Again,” he murmurs, stepping behind her.

She does. Slowly this time, aware of his presence at her back. His hands hover near her elbows, not touching, but close enough that she can feel the heat of him.

“Lift your arm higher,” he says, voice low, “like you’re blocking, not slapping.”

She adjusts. He nods.

His fingers brush her shoulder —barely— guiding it down an inch.

“Don’t telegraph your weight shift so much. Keep your center steady.”

She tries. Her footwork improves.

“Better,” he murmurs.

It sends a shiver down her spine.

She picks up the gas grenade next, biting her lip as she goes through the motion Natasha drilled into her. Twist, pull, throw and then she fumbles.

Bucky snatches it mid-air before it can clatter against the floor, moving with the same effortless speed he uses on missions.

“Worse,” he says flatly.

But there’s a smile tugging at his mouth. Small, crooked, real.

Lily laughs softly, rubbing the back of her neck. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just try again.”

She resets. Tries the motion again. And again. On the third attempt, she nails it smooth, clean, fluid.

Bucky’s brow lifts. “There you go.”

Something warm sparks in her chest. She grabs the pepper spray next, practicing the quick step-forward she has been taught.

He circles around her, slow, assessing.

“You’re hesitating,” he says.

“I’m thinking.”

“Don’t.”

She nods and tries again, and this time she doesn’t overthink it. She just moves. He watches her with an expression she can’t quite read, a mix of pride and worry.

When she finishes the sequence and lowers her arm, breathless, he steps closer.

“You’re getting good,” he says quietly.

“I only been doing this for a week.”

“And you’re still getting good.”

Lily looks down at her hands slightly shaking, but less than before. “Do you… really think I’ll be okay?”

He takes a long breath, then another.

“I think you’re doing everything you can to be ready. And that counts.”

Her chest tightens. His voice is softer than she’s ever heard it.

“And besides…” He nods toward the combination of weapons. “You’re hell with these things. Could probably take Sam out if he annoyed you enough.”

She snorts. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Her laugh is breathy. She wipes sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm and silence settles between them. When she turns, he’s looking at her, with something heavier than softness. So then almost shyly, she speaks:

“By the way… the flowers. The lilies.”

Bucky’s expression shutters just a bit, his gaze flicking down.

“The note was cute,” she adds, softer now. “I mean, ‘is this what normal people do after a fight?’ I actually laughed out loud.”

He huffs, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s just a plant. Not a big deal.”

“It is, though,” Lily says gently, stepping toward him. “It’s the first time someone’s ever tried to apologize to me with flowers. And lilies? You really went for the name pun.”

Bucky mutters something under his breath. It sounds suspiciously like “didn’t think it was that obvious.”

Lily grins. “It was adorable.”

He groans faintly, turning away to hide the blush creeping up his neck.

She lets him have the silence for a second, then: “You’re getting better at this. You know… this people stuff.”

He gives her a look half suspicious, half playful. “Don’t push it, doll.”

Lily lifts an eyebrow, pretending to study the taser still in her hand. “Careful. I’m armed.”

Bucky smirks. “With a sparkly pink taser.”

“It’s rose quartz, actually. Tony made it himself.”

“Of course he did.” He nods toward the exit, his voice gentling. “Come on. You’ve proven you can shock the hell out of someone. Let’s trade it in for a cup of tea.”

Lily laughs and sets the weapon down. “Tempting offer.”

He waits for her to fall into steps beside him and as they walk out of the weapon room together, it feels easier somehow, like the weight of the day has shifted just enough to let the warmth in again.

On the kitchen, Lily drinks chamomile with honey; Bucky goes for something dark and bitter, even if Lily insists that’s not what he should drink that late at night and warms his hands on the mug like he’s grounding himself.

They don’t talk about the mission, or fears, or anything heavy. Instead, they sit side by side in silence, occasionally sharing small comments about the weird hum of the fridge, about Steve’s terrible music choices in the gym, about how tea still tastes strange to Bucky even after all these months. It’s easy and quiet, with no pressure.

By the time they part ways, there’s no big emotional breakthrough, just the simple comfort of having been together without expectations. And it’s enough for later, to make them both fall asleep a little easier, held by the feeling that, maybe, they’re not so alone in this.

Notes:

Lily is finally joining the mission!! after all the buildup, training, and emotional chaos, she’s stepping into the field for real and things are only going to get more intense from here.

I’m so excited for you to see what this next part of her journey looks like. stay tuned!!

Chapter 25: Into the Fire

The quinjet sits humming, bathed in the low golden light of early morning. Inside, the air smells like metal, leather, and clean jet fuel. Steve is checking his gear with practiced ease, while Sam lounges on one of the benches, tossing a protein bar up and down like it’s a grenade.

“I swear, Steve,” he says with a grin, “if I find another one of your granola-and-regret pouches in my pack, I’m going to assume you’re trying to kill me slowly.”

Steve chuckles from where he’s securing his shield. “I’m just trying to keep you alive with something better than vending machine jerky.”

“That jerky is elite,” Sam says, mock-offended. “You just have bad taste. Which makes sense, you still wear leather suspenders in public.”

Steve just smirks and raises a brow. “They’re tactical.”

“They’re a fashion war crime.”

Bucky listens from his seat, silently watching the slow rhythm of their banter. His hands rest on his thighs, fingers twitching now and then, like he’s itching for something to do, or hold. He hasn’t said a word since they climbed aboard.

Steve, of course, notices first.

“Bucky,” he says more gently. “You good?”

Bucky shrugs, eyes flicking toward the door of the jet. “Fine.”

Steve gives him a longer look, then lowers his voice. “You’re worried.”

Bucky exhales through his nose. “She’s not a soldier.”

“She’ll be fine,” Sam says, catching the bar mid-air. “You trained with her. Nat trained her. You’re acting like she’s marching straight into hell.”

“And she’s not going in alone,” Steve adds, nodding. “She has us. She has you. If anything happens, we’ll be there.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He knows they’re right but knowing and believing are two different things.

Then the sound of boots echoes up the ramp. Natasha appears first, all business in her black tactical gear, and Lily follows.

For a moment, it’s like a gust of silence sweeps through the quinjet with the boys going completely still.

Lily is dressed head-to-toe in sleek, fitted black tactical gear, loaned from Natasha, zipped halfway up her throat. Her long auburn hair is braided tight and sharp down her back. Combat boots, a weapon belt, small tactical pack slung across her shoulder. There’s no cardigan, no soft colors or flowers. She looks like someone who has done this before. But her expression is hesitant. She steps in and instantly fidgets with the strap of her belt, clearly feeling the weight of three pairs of eyes.

“I know,” she mutters, flushing. “It’s weird. I look ridiculous—”

Natasha cuts her off smoothly. “You look good.” She pauses. “Actually, you look sexy as hell.”

That makes Lily’s cheeks flame more red instantly.

Sam raises both eyebrows, whistling. “Whew, okay Lily.” He gives her a slow nod. “That’s not the doctor look I was expecting. Definitely not what you wore to patch up my shoulder last week.”

Lily ducks her head, tugging at her sleeve. “It’s just the field uniform.”

“No, no. You wearing the uniform is the thing,” Sam teases, then smiles softer. “You look great. You belong here.”

Steve grins, stepping forward to help her adjust the strap on her chest plate. “It suits you,” he says simply.

Lily looks up at him gratefully. “Thanks.”

And Bucky? Bucky hasn’t moved. He’s sitting stone-still, staring at her like someone just knocked the air from his lungs.

Lily glances at him briefly, then down again, flustered. “Hi,” she says quietly.

He opens his mouth, but nothing more than just a quiet breath comes out. And Natasha, passing by him to stow her weapons, gives Bucky a sideways glance like get it together, Barnes. He says nothing, but his knuckles are white where his hands grip the bench.

The quinjet slices through the sky like a silent blade, wind rushing smooth over its hull as it speeds toward the target coordinates. The cabin is dim, lit only by the blue glow of the tactical screen where Steve runs through the mission plan one last time.

“Two levels,” he says, gesturing to the holographic layout. “Top floor looks like it was for storage. Lower one’s wired and power signatures are still active, but we don’t know if that’s just old systems or something live.”

“We move in,” Natasha adds, arms crossed, voice calm. “Sweep the area, collect intel, and get out. Fast and quiet.”

Sam leans back against the wall, adjusting his harness. “And no one,” he adds, shooting a look at Lily, “gets separated.”

She nods firmly, posture straight. “I know.”

Lily sits across from Bucky, her eyes flicking toward the screen but never quite meeting his. And Bucky can’t stop looking at her.

It’s not just the gear. Not just the curve of her waist where the belt dips, or the line of her jaw, sharper than usual without her usual soft tones and curls. It’s the contrast. It’s knowing that beneath all that, she’s the same woman who hums when she waters her plants and wears sweaters with embroidered flowers.

He likes her softness, of course, but this shift in her makes something jolt through him, low and tight. It’s been seventy years since he felt anything like this sharp, physical awareness. His body waking up to her in a different way. And God, it unravels him.

He clenches his flesh hand, watching her without meaning to. The way she adjusts a strap on her vest. The way her brow furrows as she studies the plan while she is focused. And for Bucky, beautiful in a way that kicks the air out of his lungs.

He forces himself to look away. He’s not supposed to feel like this. Not after what he’s done. Not when he’s already broken something between them twice. He can’t do it again.

Across from him, Lily glances up and their eyes catch. She offers him the smallest smile, nervous and tight-lipped, but real.

He swallows hard and shifts in his seat, trying to focus on Steve’s voice again.

“We stay together,” Steve says firmly. “We don’t know what’s waiting down there, but we’re not taking chances.”

“Especially not with the new recruit,” Sam adds lightly, nudging Lily’s boot with his own. “No offense.”

Lily lets out a breath of a laugh. “None taken.”

Bucky again doesn’t say anything, just watching her with a mix of guilt and something heavier pressing down on him, because there’s a heat creeping up under his skin, coiling low in his stomach like a fuse burning toward something dangerous. His jaw tightens. The black tactical gear hugs her in a way that makes it hard to look too long, but impossible to look away. Every line of her posture, every sure movement hits harder than it should. Her confidence, her focus, even her nervous glances toward him.

His pulse hasn’t run this fast without danger involved in decades.

He shifts in his seat, fighting the urge to roll his shoulders or adjust his stance, like that’ll somehow shake the feeling off. He’s not used to this want and desire anymore, for him they’re foreign. It doesn’t belong to someone like him, not anymore. But she’s real and alive and here. And something about her like this, still Lily, still the one who brings him tea and checks his vitals and makes jokes about flowerpots but now dressed for battle, facing danger head-on... it turns something in him raw.

He drags in a quiet breath through his nose and exhales slowly, forcing his gaze down to his boots. She deserves more —better— than this. Better than him staring like a damn idiot while his body short-circuits like he’s some hormonal teenager again.

He clenches his metal hand around his thigh for control. He just needs control.

“Alright,” Steve says, breaking the tension. “We're coming up on the perimeter.”

Bucky’s shoulders snap a little straighter.

Sam’s already standing, checking Redwing’s scanner. “I’ll do a sweep first,” he says. “Redwing will scan for heat signatures, traps, anyone hiding in the walls.”

“Stay in visual range,” Steve reminds him.

Sam smirks. “Always do.”

With a quick hiss of hydraulics, the ramp lowers just enough for Sam to launch into the sky, Redwing zipping out after him in a blur. The quinjet slows into hover-mode above the treeline.

Lily leans slightly to peer out the window, face partially lit by the faint glow of the clouds below. Bucky catches the movement from the corner of his eye and has to lock his jaw again to stop himself from watching her lips.

Steve checks the comms. “Sam?”

A crackle, then Sam’s voice: “Looks empty. Power lines are active underground but no movement topside. I say it’s sleeping… if it’s not dead already.”

“Copy. We go in,” Steve says.

Natasha stands first, motioning Lily to follow. “Stay close, Bloom,” she says with a smirk. “And don’t let Sam hog all the fun.”

Bucky follows them to the ramp, heart pounding like the mission’s already started, but it is not the danger outside that’s throwing him off.

The entrance to the base looks almost forgotten —hidden beneath decades of overgrowth and clever camouflage, like the forest itself has been bribed into keeping its secrets. Steel doors lay half-buried under moss and vines, but they still hum faintly when Steve presses a gloved hand against them, like something inside was still very much alive.

Steve’s voice is calm, resolute. “No one goes in alone. We move as a unit, check every corridor, and if anything even feels off, we call it.”

Natasha gives a short nod, twin batons already in hand. “I’ll take point with Sam. Bucky, you and Lily follow.”

Sam adjusts the wings folded against his back, his eyes scanning their surroundings. “Copy that. Keep it tight.”

The door groans open under Steve’s force, the mechanisms fighting back before finally giving in with a metallic shudder. A stale wave of air meets them —cool, artificial, touched with the faintest scent of oil and rust. Inside, the base is dark and quiet, lit only by the harsh, flickering emergency lights embedded in the walls.

They move in formation.

Steve leads with his shield, shoulders squared with unwavering purpose. Natasha’s movements are sharp, deliberate. Sam walks beside her, hands relaxed at his sides but ready in an instant, his gaze flicking between the ceiling and the floors like he can see through both.

Bucky keeps his eyes on Lily. He keeps one pace behind her, always close enough to reach her if he needs to. His metal hand flexes unconsciously, checking the weight of the weapon holstered at his side. He doesn’t want to use it and he hopes to hell he won’t have to.

And Lily walks in the middle of them, just as instructed, every step careful on the old concrete. Her boots make soft scuffs against the floor, and her eyes keep darting to the architecture around them marveling quietly at the blend of old HYDRA tech and decaying military design.

Despite the pepper spray, taser, and gas grenade on her belt, her hands keep nervously brushing the hem of her sleeve. She knows she wants to be there; she is sure of it. But it is impossible to ignore the tightness in her chest or how the walls seem to close in a little tighter with every corridor. Still, curiosity flares bright behind her nerves.

“Look at that…” she whispers once, pointing toward an old, sealed console embedded in the wall. “This looks like a neural input terminal. Pre-digital, mostly analog… and definitely still active.”

Bucky is at her side instantly. “Is it dangerous?”

“Not yet,” she says, glancing up at him with a crooked smile. “But it’s fascinating.”

Bucky tries not to smile back but fails just a little.

He is focused now, pull together. Every instinct telling him to be a soldier again, not for himself, but for her. To make sure this goes right so she never has to see what he’d seen in places like this.

The corridor splits and Steve raises a hand. “Hold.”

They wait while Natasha sweeps around the corner, Sam close behind, Redwing zipping through the air like a silent scout.

“Clear,” come Natasha’s voice a moment later.

Steve motions them forward. “Stay sharp. We’re getting close.”

Lily swallows, adjusts the strap on her belt, and moves forward. They move deeper into the base, corridors branching out into storage rooms, labs, and dim surveillance stations, most abandoned and coated in layers of dust and decay. But not all of them are empty.

Down a narrow corridor Lily pauses in front of what looks like a sealed research wing. The biometric lock is disabled, but not rusted, and the walls are clean, too clean for a place that’s supposedly abandoned. That alone makes her suspicious. With a nod from Steve, Natasha works the door open. Inside, it’s cold and quiet. The lab equipment is intact, and the air smells faintly sterile.

“Spread out,” Steve orders. “Standard pattern. “Nat, take the back. Sam, vents. Bucky—”

“I’m with Lily.” Bucky interrupts him, not giving Steve a chance.

They fan out. Sam heads for the vents. Natasha moves straight for the far door. Bucky stays at Lily’s shoulder, rifle raised and eyes sweeping every corner before he lets her near the workbenches. She pulls on gloves and starts opening drawers, checking files, scanning drives. Everything she touches is methodical and targeted. This time, they don’t waste energy hauling everything out. They check with her first.

“Don’t touch that,” she says reflexively as Natasha reaches toward a stack of drives.

Natasha freezes. Raises a brow. “Why?”

“It’s a decoy system. HYDRA liked to store blank drives in the open and hide the real data in the cooling ports.”

“It’s staged,” Lily says, pulling the console’s side panel open. “HYDRA hid the real files in the cooling ports, not the surface trays. These—” she nods at the drives Natasha was about to grab— “are blanks.”

She presses a latch and reveals three pristine hard drives tucked neatly in a narrow compartment.

Sam whistles. “Way more efficient with a brain onboard.”

“Huh.” Natasha smirks. “She’s pretty good.”

They move like clockwork: Natasha and Sam clearing rooms, Steve coordinating placement and covering the flank, Bucky keeping Lily shielded and assisting with heavier gear.

He heads for a workbench, sweeping his gloved arm toward a pile of equipment like he’s ready to dump it all into a duffel.

“Hold on,” Lily says, stepping in beside him. “Some of that is trash.”

He freezes mid-reaching, metal fingers curled around a tangle of wires.

Bucky looks at her like she’s just told him gravity stopped working. “…Which part?”

She leans past him, inspecting the items with a practiced eye.

“This?” She lifts a cracked data tablet. “Not salvageable.”

She places it gently in a discard pile.

“This one—” she picks up a thin black drive, turning it in the light “—is encrypted in a way that matches the Siberia files. Could be promising.”

Bucky hands it to her instantly, without question.

A beat passes. Then, gruffly: “Okay. You sort. I’ll… stop grabbing everything like an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Lily says, and the gentles in it makes him look away.

By the time they finish collecting intel from the lab, they’ve got two full bags of clean, relevant data. No wasted weight.

From there, they sweep through several other wings less in-depth and more like quick checks. Everywhere they go, Lily becomes a quiet center of gravity the team orbits around. She points out what’s useful and what’s outdated. They repeat the process, room after room, always faster than the last. She never drifts far from the center of the team, half confident, half cautious, her belt of non-lethal tools bouncing lightly with each step.

Sam clears vents but also calls down, “Doc, viable or junk?” whenever he finds something strange. Natasha starts handing Lily items automatically, letting her sort before they even consider packing. Steve checks corners, then glances back to Lily before giving the go-ahead to move to the next location waiting to see if she’s found anything worth staying for longer.

And Bucky… stays within arm’s length, hovering but pretending he’s not. At one bench, he lifts a tray of thin glass vials.

“These look—”

“Nope,” she says instantly.

He lowers them. “Okay.”

She opens a drawer filled with old hard drives. “These two,” she says, tapping them.
Then she pulls the third, squints, and hands it to him. “Here. You toss this—it’s dead.”

Bucky turns and throws it across the room without ceremony.

Natasha lifts a brow. “Barnes, that was still a drive.”

“That was garbage,” he says, mimicking Lily’s tone exactly, and she laughs louder than these walls have ever heard.

From across the room, Steve calls out “Lily, what about this?”

He waves a piece of equipment shaped like a toaster with wires sticking out of it.

She crosses over, checks the back panel, sniffing faintly at the air near a vent.

“Probably a prototype regulator. But it hasn’t run in years—the dust pattern on the intake is wrong.” She hands it back. “Leave it.”

Sam lifts his brows at her efficiency. “See? Efficient. I vote we bring her on every trip.”

Bucky shoots him a look that is clearly a warning to not give any ideas, but Lily only smiles faintly and keeps working.

Then they reach the far end of the compound, where the power signature spikes again and descend toward the last wing, the faint sound of humming machines drifting up the stairwell. The air is colder here, sharper.

Lily stops, nose wrinkling.

“Do you smell that?” she whispers.

Bucky inhales. “Metal. Ozone.”

“Active circuitry,” she murmurs. “Something’s been used recently.”

Steve nods, signaling formation. “Stay alert.”

Lily descends the narrow steps into the core lab, eyes wide and gleaming with focus. Her boots click softly against the metal floor as she takes it all in: rows of equipment sit humming. Tablets lie abandoned mid-session, screens still glowing faintly. A centrifuge turns lazily with no one attending it. Server towers blink in a perfectly timed pattern.

“This place is alive,” Lily says under her breath, awe blending with unease. “Someone’s been using this recently. Maybe still is.”

The others spread out, weapons ready, letting her move. Natasha clears the corners, Sam scans the upper ducts, and Steve plants himself by the main door, shield up. Bucky, of course, stays with her, close enough to act if something twitches wrong.

Lily snaps on her gloves and steps toward the nearest console. “Power draw’s wrong for an abandoned site. Someone ran a full diagnostics cycle in the last… twenty-four hours? Maybe less.”

“How can you tell?” Sam calls down from the ducts.

She points at a subtle graph on the corner of a monitor. “Residual thermal elevation. And this log timestamp… someone initiated a reroute before the system went idle.”

His eyes keep flicking between Lily and the hallway beyond, muscles coiled like wire. But Lily snaps on gloves and goes to work, opening a reinforced drawer. Inside are sealed vials, glass still fogged from recent refrigeration. Tiny prototypes gleam under the dim lights, metal shards, circuit fragments, chemical canisters marked with HYDRA sigils she’s seen only in archived files.

“Bruce is gonna lose it when he sees this,” she mutters, half to herself, scanning the labels.

“What does it mean?” Bucky asks, voice low but steady.

“That HYDRA wasn’t just surviving,” she murmurs, lifting a vial to the light. “They were advancing. And recently. These readings… this is experimental tech. Early-stage, but active.”

“Meaning they left in a hurry,” Natasha mutters.

“Or they’re still nearby,” Bucky says.

Steve nods. “Alright. This is our last room then. Be quick.”

The others spread farther into the room, sweeping corners, checking doors, but Bucky gravitates toward Lily as if pulled by instinct. He scans the workstation beside her, then drops to a crouch to check underneath his movements sharp, efficient, quiet.

Lily is busy cataloging readings when she hears the soft scrape of metal.

“Hold on,” Bucky mutters, reaching deeper beneath a storage shelf. His fingers brush dust, wires then something solid. “There’s… something back here.”

He shifts sideways, shoulder wedging into a narrow space no normal person could reach. Lily watches the muscles in his back tighten, metal fingers hooking around the object before he drags it out with a low grunt.

A small, matte-black case; compact, reinforced, and locked with a biometric strip. Dust covers most of it except the handle. Which is clean.

Lily’s eyes widen instantly. “Bucky—”

He holds it up, still kneeling, expression tightening with recognition. “Someone hid this on purpose. Deep.”

“Deep enough that none of us would’ve found it,” she murmurs, stepping closer, careful not to crowd him. “Unless they had your reach.”

He looks up at her at that, almost uncertain.

Lily’s excitement breaks through the tension. “This is huge! If it’s that well hidden, it means it mattered. Really mattered. Good job, Bucky.”

A faint flush touches the edges of his ears. His gaze drops for a second, and his voice comes out lower. “Wasn’t… much. Just got lucky.”

“No,” she says softly, firmly. “You spotted where someone tried to conceal it. That’s experience. Instinct. That’s you.”

He swallows, looks away like the compliment hits somewhere he isn’t used to letting people touch. “Still. Doesn’t mean it’s worth anything.”

“Bucky,” Lily says, kneeling beside him so they’re level. Her voice gentles. “You just found the most promising thing in this entire lab. I’d say that’s more than worth something.”

His breath catches enough for her to notice and he nods once, almost shyly.

“…Alright.”

Then the lights flicker and a low, rising hum stirs through the lab.

Sam’s voice cuts through the comms: “Uh— Guys, we’ve got a problem. Power just surged and something’s ticking in the west chamber.”

Lily’s head snaps to her scanner. Her face drains of color.

 “It’s a bomb.” She scrolls rapidly, breath sharp. “Oh my god. It’s wired into the system we’re pulling data from— shit— shit, we triggered it when we accessed the drives.”

Steve calls out, “Time to move. Get everything and go!”

The team scrambles into motion. Natasha grabs the gear bags, Sam checks the timers.

“Only three minutes!”

Bucky drops the locked case immediately. It hits the metal floor with a sharp crack, the edge splitting on impact but he doesn’t care, he’s already moving.

His hand closes around Lily’s waist, firm, urgent, pulling her with him as he bolts toward the exit.

“Come on,” he breathes, voice sharp, low, frantic. “We’re leaving. We’re leaving.”

Lily twists in his hold. “Bucky— wait— wait!”

“No time,” he snaps without looking back, tightening his grip. His entire body is coiled for escape, the shadows of old missions burning behind his eyes. “We have to move.”

“But the case—” she gasps. “You found it. It was hidden on purpose— There’s something in there. Something huge. Bucky, that might be everything!”

Bucky turns, jaw tight, eyes flicking from the cracked case on the floor back to her face. She’s breathless, wide-eyed, terrified but determined. Determined enough to fight his hold. To risk herself to grab it.

He curses under his breath, releases her, and sprints back toward the broken case before she finishes inhaling.

“Cover her!” he barks over his shoulder.

He drops to a knee, metal fingers tearing what remains of the casing apart. The moment he reaches inside a violent surge of electricity arcs across his metal arm. The strike spits blue-white light; the circuits in his shoulder hiss and grind. Bucky jerks, jaw locking, breath hissing through his teeth, but he doesn’t pull back.
He just rips the device free, sparking and smoking, and sprints back to Lily with it clutched against his chest.

“Here,” he says, thrusting it into her hands like nothing happened. “Hold it. Don’t drop it.”

“You good?” she gasps, noticing the stiff way he holds his arm.

“Fine,” he mutters, even though the fingers won’t quite close when he grabs her again.

They run as alarms scream. The whole team sprints through the base, ducking debris and pulsing lights as the system goes into overload. Sam launches Redwing ahead to open the exit route, Steve leading the charge. Bucky sticks beside Lily, even as sparks trail behind his left side.

They burst into daylight seconds before the explosion rocks the ground behind them. The quinjet engines are already hot. They lift off fast, the base collapsing in on itself in the distance.

Breathless and covered in ash, Lily cradles the prototype in her lap and looks at Bucky, his jaw tight, arm twitching slightly, eyes locked on the window.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in softly, not meeting her eyes. “I did.”

Lily swallows, shifting in her seat until she’s angled toward him. The others are quiet or busy reviewing data, giving them space in the hum of the flight.

“That was... really, thank you. I mean it. You didn’t have to go back for it, I could—.”

Bucky shrugs with one shoulder, still not looking at her. “You needed it. That’s all.”

“I didn’t mean for you to get hurt,” she says, her voice low. “If I’d known it would damage your arm—”

He finally glances her way, his expression unreadable but soft around the edges.

“Lily, it’s a metal arm. It’ll be fixed. You—” he pauses, jaw working before the words come out. “You’re more important than a few scratched circuits.”

Her breath catches, but she doesn’t interrupt. She notices then the dark scoring across the seams of the prosthetic, the stuttering response when he flexes his fingers.

“It’s worse than you’re letting on.”

Bucky exhales slowly, like it costs him something. “I’ve had worse. This isn’t even top ten.”

“That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t feel awful about it,” she says, leaning closer, eyes flicking over the damage again. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

“Don’t,” he says gently, not brushing her off this time, but steadying her. “Don’t carry that.”

She’s quiet, still frowning, but he holds her gaze now.

“I’d do it again,” he adds, voice quiet but sure. “Every damn time.”

Notes:

Lily is finally on the field!! this chapter marks a huge turning point in her journey and we’ve officially reached the middle of the fic. thank you so much for reading and supporting so far. things are only going to get more intense from here, so stay tuned! <3

Chapter 26: Steel and Softness

Lily lets the water run hot over her shoulders, eyes closed as steam curls around her face and the pressure of the mission finally begins to lift. Her muscles ache in ways she didn’t expect, less from the walking or even the adrenaline, and more from the sheer tension of trying to stay composed, alert, and useful. But they did it. Her first real mission and they actually brought back valuable intel. She tries to hold onto that.

A small smile pulls at her lips as she remembers Sam’s jokes, Natasha’s cool encouragement, and Steve’s steady leadership. And Bucky... Bucky, who went back for that data chip even with an armed bomb ticking away behind them. Her stomach flips at the memory. His arm is burned along the seams, circuits visibly fried. And yet he looked at her like it was nothing like she mattered more than his body.

She lets out a breath, then turns off the water.

Dressed now in an oversized T-shirt and her softest gray sweatpants, Lily feels more like herself again. Her damp hair falls freely down her shoulders to the middle of her back and the tension in her chest is mostly gone.

She wanders to the common kitchen where she knows the team usually regroups after missions, expecting tea and quiet voices, maybe even laughter, but what she finds instead is raised voices.

Bucky and Tony stand at opposite ends of the island counter, the space between them taut like a live wire. Bucky’s jaw is clenched, his metal arm slightly behind his back like he’s hiding it on instinct. Tony, gesturing with a tablet in hand, looks exasperated.

“I’m telling you, it’s sparking,” Tony says. “That’s not a good sign, Barnes. You can’t just ignore it.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky growls. “It’s cosmetic.”

Tony scoffs. “Cosmetic? You’ve got exposed wires and two joints refusing to move. That’s not a fashion statement, pal. That’s how people lose functioning limbs or explode.”

“Then I’ll handle it myself,” Bucky snaps.

Steve, who’s standing nearby with a mug in hand, finally cuts in. “Buck, let Tony take a look. You can’t risk—”

“I said I’m fine,” Bucky bites, a bit too sharply. His body stiffens, and even from across the room, Lily can see the old panic setting in: the fight-or-flight tension in his shoulders, the flicker of something colder in his eyes.

Steve’s brows draw together. He sets down his mug and steps forward, firm but calm. “Buck. It’s not just about being fine. If something goes wrong mid-mission, you don’t get a second chance. Let Tony take a look.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens further, and he glances at Tony just a flick of his eyes, sharp and guarded. Tony moves a step closer, tablet still in hand, tone less snarky now, more measured.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, you know. It’s just diagnostics. I can tell you exactly what’s damaged without laying a hand on you.”

But that one step is already too much. Bucky shifts back, the edge of his boot scraping against the floor. He doesn’t raise his voice this time, doesn’t snap, but the look on his face is unmistakable. A clear don’t.

Tony stops. “Alright,” he mutters, hands up in surrender. “Okay. Message received.”

Across the kitchen, Lily presses her lips together. She is feeling it again, that pinch of guilt curling in her gut. The damage happened because of her. Because he went back for something she couldn’t leave behind. Because he protected her.

She clears her throat quietly, stepping forward. “I can do it.”

Tony and Steve both turn to her. Bucky’s eyes lift, wary at first.

“If you tell me what to do,” she says, addressing Tony, “I’ll follow your instructions exactly. But maybe it’ll be easier if I do it. Like a check-up. Is known for him.”

There’s a silence thick and weighted.

Tony rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not brain surgery, just wires and joint calibration. I can walk you through it. You sure you’re up for it, Flower Power?”

She nods. “Yeah. I’ve worked on more complicated systems than a fried shoulder socket.”

Tony glances at Bucky. “Well?”

Bucky looks at Lily, searching her face for something, maybe hesitation, maybe discomfort. But all he finds is quiet concern, and that unshakable gentleness that’s somehow stronger than it looks.

He exhales slowly. Then nods. “Only if it’s her.”

Tony claps his hands once, pushing off the counter. “Alright then, let’s do this before your arm explodes mid-shampoo and takes out half my bathroom.”

Bucky mutters something under his breath that sounds like “Not funny.”

Tony, unfazed, is already walking. “Come on, Barnes. You too, Doctor Flowerpot.”

Lily blinks. “Stop calling me— okay, fine.” She sighs and follows, trailing just behind Bucky as they make their way through the tower’s polished corridors, toward Tony’s private workshop.

It’s a sleek, sprawling space lined with tool cabinets, mechanical arms, glowing blueprints projected mid-air, and about three separate robot assistants chiming softly in the background. The whole place hums with quiet brilliance and barely contained chaos.

“Sit,” Tony says, nodding toward the mechanic’s chair in the center of the space.

Bucky does. He lowers himself slowly into it, the overhead lights catching on the scratches along his metal arm. His face is stoic, but Lily catches the way his flesh fingers curl slightly, like he’s bracing.

Tony leans on the console and taps in a few commands. “Alright, Barnes. I’m unlocking the shoulder mount interface. You’ll feel a soft click. Don’t freak out.”

There’s a faint hiss of air pressure. Bucky doesn’t move.

Tony glances at Lily. “This next part is on you, doc. I’m running a diagnostic now. All you need to do is open the upper panel—here, top left—see the thin seam?”

She leans closer, gently touching the cool metal near Bucky’s shoulder. He doesn’t flinch, and doesn’t even breathe.

“I see it.”

“Good. Use the tool from tray three—tiny prongs, silver handle—yep, that one. Ease it in and lift.”

She works slowly, carefully, her brows drawn together in concentration. The panel clicks open, revealing the inner framework: wires, nodes, and a visibly damaged rotary joint near the shoulder socket.

“Damn,” Tony mutters. “That blast fried half the impulse wiring. No wonder it’s acting up.”

Lily frowns. “Is this salvageable?”

Tony shrugs. “Oh yeah. Easy fix for someone who actually listens to me. You’re already halfway there.”

Bucky stays still the entire time, eyes flickering between her face and the ceiling. But his jaw relaxes a little more every time her hand moves with calm, steady precision.

Lily reaches in with a stabilizer tool and begins delicately adjusting the damaged connection, her fingers nimble and sure. “Okay,” she says quietly. “I’ve got you.”

And Bucky, without thinking, answers just as quietly, “I know.”

So he keeps deadly still, watching Lily work. Her brows are furrowed in concentration, lip tucked between her teeth. She doesn’t hesitate, her fingers are steady, her movements careful but confident, like she knows exactly how much this matters.

The hum of Tony’s voice in the background becomes just that background. A droning static behind the sharp focus of her touch.

He swallows hard. There’s a strange flood of sensation in the arm, something deep and unnatural where wires twitch and circuits shift. It’s not pain, not quite, but it isn’t discomfort either. It’s something far more disorienting: awareness. Like he can feel her touch through the metal plates, like phantom nerve endings fire in response to her proximity.

She adjusts a stabilizer coil, brushing the inner wall of the socket, and a shiver moves up his spine and his breath catches. His eyes don’t leave her face. He’s close enough to see how light the brown of her eyes actually is, almost honey in this lighting, with flecks of gold that catch and flicker when she moves. Her lashes are long, which is a silly detail, but he notices it. He notices everything.

She tucks her hair behind one ear. It’s still damp from her shower and the scent of whatever soap she used drifts faintly toward him, all clean, soft and familiar. He blinks when he sees it: three ear piercings. Tiny silver studs, and one shaped like a moon. He doesn’t know why that hits him so hard, but it does.

She’s beautiful, Bucky knows she always has been beautiful. But now she is right here: beautiful and close and touching a part of him no one else really touches. And something about that breaks open the lock on his control, just for a second.

He grips the edge of the chair tighter with his right hand. He hears Tony say something that sound like some string of instructions but the words don’t land. Bucky nods anyway, even if he doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to, because Lily leans in slightly to check a connection, and her fingers graze the inner edge of the plate again, and it feels like everything.

He stares straight ahead, jaw tight, breath shallow. This is... overwhelming. Not because it hurts, or because it’s vulnerable, but because for the first time in a very long time, someone is handling a part of him that never felt human and she does it like it is.

“All done,” Lily says softly, double-checking the last wire before easing the panel back into place. Now, there’s no sparks, nor odd noise. Everything’s where it should be.

She lifts her eyes to him, expecting to meet his, but Bucky is looking away, gaze distant, lips slightly parted like he’s somewhere else entirely. His expression is unreadable. There’s a furrow in his brow, and she wonders if he’s in pain —wonders if she did something wrong— but before she can ask, her thoughts drift.

Her thought drift to the sharp line of his jaw and the slight stubble along it. The way his cheekbones catch the soft workshop light, casting delicate shadows down his face. His long hair is half-tucked behind one ear but still falling messily around his face. And his eyes when they flick back to hers are this deep, impossible blue. They are steady and stormy, but under it they are gentle.

Her heart does a small, silly somersault in her chest. She blinks, and it’s like a thought sneaks up on her, uninvited and unannounced: he really is handsome. And it startles her, how much the realization feels like something that’s always been there, waiting quietly for her to notice.

Her cheeks warm, so she passes her hand through her hair and looks away, suddenly aware of how close they are, how quiet the room has gotten and how her hand is still hovering over his arm, like her body doesn’t want to pull back just yet.

It feels almost… shy, the way she’s reacting. Like something is beginning to bloom inside her chest like a gentle, curious ache, that she doesn’t know what to do with.

Before either of them can say anything else —before Lily can pull her hand away or Bucky can find something clever to cover the silence— Tony’s voice cuts through the air like a cymbal crash.

“Well, great. If we’re all done playing Operation: Broody Edition,” he says, stepping forward with a dramatic clap of his hands, “how about we go back upstairs?”

Lily jumps slightly, cheeks going even pinker as she steps back from Bucky. Tony squints between them, clearly amused, and clearly Stark.

“FRIDAY just informed me Pepper ordered pizza,” he adds, casually inspecting his nails. “Apparently that was her executive decision after watching the security feed of Barnes here playing hero with a live bomb and Little Miss Flowerpot refusing to evacuate without her precious data.” He raises an eyebrow at Lily. “Congratulations, Doc. You survived your first field trip and managed to emotionally compromise a cyborg. Not bad for your first Tuesday.”

Lily stammers a laugh. “It’s… Wednesday.”

“Exactly,” Tony deadpans. “Let’s go before the rest eats all the pepperoni.”

He spins on his heel and starts walking, tossing over his shoulder, “You two coming, or should I give you another five minutes to finish exchanging heartfelt glances?”

Lily glances at Bucky who has gone very still again and then bites the inside of her cheek, unable to hide the quiet smile pulling at her lips. She tucks her hair behind her ear again.

“C’mon,” Bucky says softly, nudging her arm. “Pizza’s waiting.”

They walk side by side as they leave Tony’s workshop, Bucky flexing the fingers of his metal hand. The plates glide cleanly, no grinding, no sparks; just smooth, steady movement. He looks satisfied. Lily does not.

She keeps glancing at him like she’s waiting for a hidden wince, a glitch, something.

“I’m fine,” he says quietly, meeting her gaze. “Really.”

And then the dam breaks.

“I’m still so sorry,” she blurts, words tumbling out faster with every step. “If I hadn’t insisted on getting the case—if I’d just listened when you told me we had to go—your arm wouldn’t have fried, and Tony wouldn’t have needed to rewire half the—”

“Lily—”

“—and I know you said it was fine but that surge was massive, Bucky, you could have lost the whole arm, or worse, and I should have just—”

“Lily.”

She barrels right over him, voice climbing with anxious momentum.

“—I should’ve just let it go because nothing is worth you getting hurt and I swear I didn’t mean for any of it to—”

“Doll.”

This time it’s calm. Not sharp or impatient, just steady enough to cut through everything.

“Look at me,” he says, not as an order but an anchor.

She does and Bucky holds her gaze, something quiet burning behind his eyes.

“You didn’t put me in anything,” he says. His voice stays low, even, like he’s handling something fragile. “You cared about what we found. You were right to care. You weren’t reckless. You were trying to help.”

She swallows hard, looking unconvinced, but he keeps going.

“Happened to my arm because I made a choice. My choice. I don’t blame you. Not even a little.”

She breathes in sharply, ready to argue, but before any of them even realize it, Bucky’s flesh arm is moving and his hand lifts. His fingers brush a loose strand of her slightly damp hair, tucking it behind her ear with a tenderness so instinctively it surprises them both.

The moment he registers what he’s doing, he freezes. His hand hovers awkwardly for half a second before he drops it to his side, clearing his throat like he’s trying to swallow the moment whole.

“Uh— sorry,” he mutters, throat clearing. “Didn’t mean to just… yeah.”

Lily stands very still, breath caught between ribs and surprise, her cheeks warming in a way she hopes no one else sees. Her voice has gone thin, barely there.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to be sorry.”

Bucky’s eyes flick back to hers, quick and startled, like he wasn’t expecting her to say it. Then his expression gentles, something warm and raw flickering behind his eyes. His voice drops low.

“Neither do you.”

Something loosens in her, something tight and aching that had been coiled there since the explosion, since the moment she saw sparks tear across his arm.
Her shoulders drop, her breath finally easing out.

“Okay,” she whispers. And it feels like letting go.

They fall into step again, closer now, not touching but somehow brushing the same orbit. And as they round the corner, the smell of hot pizza drifts toward them, the kind that means the team is waiting, unwinding, alive.

The tension from the mission loosens, because they made it out. They made it back. Together.

Chapter 27: Pieces of Life

The days after the mission pass in a blur of data, diagrams, and caffeine.

Lily barely leaves the lab, bouncing between the files they recovered from the HYDRA base, the physical tech samples, and the strange, jagged prototype Bucky risked his arm to grab for her. She works like a woman possessed —sorting, cataloging, translating, decoding. And for once, it’s not just fragments or vague outlines, this time is real, functional and groundbreaking.

She’s beaming by the third day.

Her desk is a controlled mess of notes and printouts, highlighted in every color she owns. The more she reads, the more it all starts to make sense. HYDRA wasn’t just trying to replicate the serum, they were trying to understand how to rewrite identity, memory, even instinct. All of it anchored to the Winter Soldier program. There are notes about neurological loops, mnemonic erasure, behavioral anchors. She’s never seen anything this detailed or this terrifying. But terrifying or not, it’s a goldmine.

Bruce swings by often to help her double-check some of the neurochemical data, always bringing dumplings and her favorite Chinese rice, and Tony, though dramatically grumbly about the “evil IKEA flat-pack from hell” that is the prototype device, still helps her take it apart layer by layer and what they find makes her heart race.

It’s something —not quite a chip, not quite a pulse-emitter— but a device built to directly interfere with neural pathways. It can reroute electrical impulses, dull synaptic response, even suppress autonomic functions. The implications are massive. And Lily nearly cries with relief, because for the first time, they aren’t just treating symptoms. They’re finally understanding the system that broke Bucky in the first place.

“Okay, Doc, that’s enough mad science for today.”

Lily blinks up from her tablet as Sam leans in the doorway, arms crossed and grinning like he’s caught her red-handed. He steps into the lab with the quiet confidence of someone who’s used to being calm in a storm which, in this case, is her caffeine-fueled research frenzy.

“I’m in the middle of—”

“Of day four without a proper meal or sunlight?” Sam raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Pepper sent me to drag you out, and I quote, ‘gently but with determination.’”

“Tell her I’m this close,” Lily says, holding her fingers an inch apart, “to something huge.”

“I believe you,” another voice says behind Sam. Smooth, warm, and immediately familiar. Pepper.

Lily straightens as the woman steps gracefully into the lab, her heels clicking softly on the tile.

“And I believe you’ll still be this close in forty-five minutes,” Pepper says gently. “Come have lunch. Please. The rest is already in the common room, and Bruce is setting up tea.”

Lily hesitates then sighs, defeated.

“Okay. But only because you said tea.”

Sam gives her a victorious look.

“You’re lucky I like you,” she mutters to him, peeling off her lab coat and stretching. She’s wearing soft green underneath and when Pepper smiles approvingly at her choice of color, Lily flushes just a little.

They walk out together, Pepper’s and Sam’s presence both calm and quietly powerful. Lily finds herself relaxing, even chatting as they cross into the communal lounge.

By the time they reach the common room, the others are already gathered. Bruce is at the tea station, carefully setting down mugs. Bucky is in the far corner of the couch, one leg drawn up, metal arm resting on his knee. Natasha lounges in a chair, sipping coffee, and Steve has a newspaper he’s clearly not reading.

Sam makes a grand entrance with a wave of his arms. “Ladies and gentlemen: the genius has left the lab!”

Lily rolls her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Only when it works.” He smirks. “So, what did you find, mad scientist?”

That’s all the encouragement Lily needs. She lights up —truly glows— as she launches into an explanation of the data she’s processed: all the files, the device, and the way it mimics and redirects neural signals. She even uses the coffee table as a diagram surface, pushing aside empty cups to sketch the impulse flow with her finger.

Everyone listens, but Bruce especially watches her closely.

Not just for the science, but the way she talks, the way her hands move when she’s excited, the soft flush that rises to her cheeks when she knows she’s explaining something big. There’s a quiet fondness in his eyes, and a little ache he doesn’t mind having. But when Lily looks up —when she grins, eyes alight with discovery— it’s not him she seeks out. It’s Bucky, every time it is him. And Bruce sees the shift in her whole face when she finds him looking back at her, a flicker of something none of them have even realized is there: a pull, an instinct. Bucky says little but his eyes never leave her. He listens and when she finishes, a small smile tugs at his mouth.

“You did good, Lily,” Steve says, clapping her on the back. Lily beams and Bruce just sips his tea, quietly smiling to himself.

Lily’s cheeks are still warm from the praise. She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, lowering her gaze to her tea, trying not to grin like a total idiot.

The room is still buzzing, Pepper and Natasha drift toward the lounge deep in conversation, Tony’s already throwing three new theories at FRIDAY, and Sam is halfway through convincing Steve to watch a movie that came out after 1980. But Bruce doesn’t leave just yet.

He lingers near the table, hands in his pockets, gaze flicking to Lily as the others slowly filter out.

“You know,” he says gently, “that was some brilliant work. Not just with the data, the way you presented it, made it understandable to everyone. That’s not easy.”

Lily glances up at him, eyes wide, surprised by the compliment. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure if I was rambling…”

Bruce smiles, soft and warm. “Maybe a little. But in a good way.” He pauses. “You lit up when you talked about it. It’s... contagious.”

She blushes, eyes dipping down to her tea again. “Guess I just get a little carried away when things make sense. Especially after so much hasn’t.”

Bruce hums, nodding. “It made sense to us, too.”

There’s a calm between them for a moment, one that feels a bit like the eye of a storm, peaceful and still, and maybe just a little too fragile to last. Lily opens her mouth to say something else, but her phone buzzes sharply on the counter. She frowns, peeking at the screen and her whole face brightens.

charlie 🌱: “Outside the gates. You better come get me or I’ll start doing my interpretive ‘waiting for my big sister’ dance routine.”

“Sorry, I have to run,” she says, scooping the phone up. “My brother’s downstairs.”

Bruce steps back with a nod, the smile still playing at his mouth. “Of course. Go. But hey, nice work, Lily.”

She beams again, murmurs a thank you, and slips out of the room. By the time she gets downstairs, Charlie’s waiting in the front vestibule, hood up, bright smile unmistakable.

“You survived a bomb and a field extraction. Damn,” he grins, pulling her into a hug without waiting.

She clings to him for a moment longer than she means to.

Charlie pulls back just enough to look at her. “You good, Lils?”

“I think so,” she says, her voice soft. “Just… everything’s been a lot. But the good kind. The kind I can actually do something with.”

He nods, eyes sharp but warm. “You’re glowing. You know that, right?”

She laughs, brushing at her face like that might tone it down. “Science-induced radiance.”

“Better than an emotional constipated super soldier-induced breakdown,” he says lightly, but his hand squeezes hers once in silent solidarity.

They are halfway down the stairs when she spots Bucky lingering in the hallway near the rooms. His eyes flicker from her to Charlie, and to her again.

He squints. “Who’s him?”

She grins. “This is Charlie. My baby brother.”

Bucky’s eyebrows lift a fraction. “Your brother?”

“Oh my God,” Charlie says, deadpan, “you didn’t tell me the soldier is a tall, dark, and robot-armed hot guy.”

Lily snorts. “Charlie, this is James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky, this is my chaos incarnate of a brother.”

Bucky gives a polite nod, but his mouth tugs at one corner, amused. “Nice to meet you.”

Charlie looks him up and down. “Actually, call me Charles, no one calls me Charlie anymore. Or just call me whatever you want. Whenever you want.”

“Everyone calls you Charlie.” Lily deadpans.

“Irrelevant.” Charlie shushes her. “I have to ask, Bucky— can I call you Bucky? I bet I can. You are ripped. Do they let you wear sleeves here, or is it just a policy violation waiting to happen?”

Charlie takes a step forward, with his hands ready to curl around Bucky’s flesh bicep but Lily smacks Charlie’s shoulder with the back of her hand. “Stop it. Don’t touch.”

“What? I’m being friendly!” Charlie protests. “Besides, he’s hot, and I’m not blind. I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking.”

Bucky blinks, clearly a little thrown, and Lily groans into her hands.

“Let’s go to the kitchen before you get us both kicked out, idiot.” Lily mutters, tugging Charlie by the wrist like she’s done since they were kids sneaking out past curfew.

Charlie only grins, entirely unbothered. “You brought this on yourself. I’m a delight.”

Bucky follows behind them as they head into the kitchen, quiet but not tense. The soft lighting casts a warm glow across the countertops, and FRIDAY hums a gentle welcome as they enter.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Lily says, already moving to the cabinets. “Tea?”

“Do you even have to ask?” Charlie throws himself into a stool at the counter, propping his chin on his hands with an exaggerated sigh. “You’ve been hiding me from all this Stark luxury and I will never recover.”

Lily snorts. “You are the least neglected sibling on the planet. You called me six times yesterday.”

“You’re lucky. I called Ben eight times.” Charlie shrugs. “And Simon four. He says you must call mom over that business trip you made the other day.”

“I can’t tell her about the mission.”

“I know, she will literally lose her mind if she knew you are out here doing field work. Or back with the Avengers. You know, you’re quite a liar to your own family.”

Bucky settles into a chair across from Charlie, metal fingers lightly tapping the edge of the table. “Right. Lily said there’s a lot of you. You’re four siblings.”

Charlie tosses a cookie Lily offers into his mouth and talks around it with zero shame. “Simon’s the oldest. The Responsible One. Then Ben, who’s basically an overgrown golden retriever. Lily, the middle child with a flower complex. And—”

Lily nudges Charlie with her elbow. “And this menace.”

Charlie raises his half-eaten cookie like a toast. “The favorite. Obviously.”

“In his own head,” Lily mutters.

“Okay but Mom did cry when I went off to college.”

Bucky watches them with quiet interest.  “You two always like this?”

Charlie leans toward him like he’s letting him in on a secret. “She used to chase me around with a wooden spoon when I annoyed her. Which was frequently.”

“I still will,” Lily mutters as she sets water to boil.

Charlie beams. “She’s all sweet now because she’s in doctor mode and you’re hot.”

“Charlie—” Lily’s voice goes sharp with warning.

“I’m just saying. If I had a dollar for every time she had a crisis over a boy with a jawline, I could retire.”

Bucky chuckles low under his breath, and Lily turns just in time to catch the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. Her cheeks flush pink, but she rolls her eyes and focuses on the tea like it is extremely important work.

They settle in comfortably: Lily passing mugs around, Charlie raiding the snack drawer like he owns it, and Bucky letting himself linger in the moment. The kitchen is warm, filled with soft laughter and the sound of spoons clinking against ceramic.

Is so easy to feel comfortable with the Bloom siblings that the ache creeps up on Bucky slowly, catching him off guard when Charlie launches into some ridiculous story about Lily slipping on ice in front of her high school crush. Lily groans, face in her hands, but she’s laughing too hard to stop him.

“His name was Henry,” Charlie cackles. “And she said — I kid you not — ‘I meant to do that’ with blood coming out of her nose.”

Lily chokes on her tea. “You traitor!”

Bucky smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, because there’s a soft hollow opening up in his chest. Something old and familiar. Something heavy. The kind of ache that lives deep behind the ribs.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed the chaos of siblings, the teasing, the effortless knowing that comes from growing up in the same little world. It’s been decades since anyone teased him just to be annoying. Since he sat in a warm kitchen and laughed with people who knew every version of him, even the embarrassing ones.

It’s not jealousy, is grief. Grief with a soft, quiet face.  A longing for things that can’t come back. For Becca. For his parents. For a Brooklyn kitchen that no longer exists and a boy who never got to grow up the way he was supposed to.

Lily looks at him then, eyes bright from laughing, and the moment slows.

“You okay?” she asks gently.

And Bucky, ever composed, ever practiced, simply nods. “Yeah.”

But his fingers tighten slightly around the mug, and Lily doesn’t miss it.

Charlie is still talking, already halfway into another story, but Bucky barely hears it. He’s listening to the quiet hum behind it —the warmth, the love, the realness— and letting it sit beside the ache.

And Charlie keeps talking, hopping from one memory to the next like he’s afraid of letting the moment settle. One story bleeds into another: childhood pets with wildly exaggerated personalities, inside jokes that make no sense out loud, Lily’s spectacularly failed attempt to sneak out her bedroom window at sixteen, complete with sound effects and dramatic pauses. Lily groans and protests through her laughter, correcting details that don’t matter, shoving his shoulder when he gets too theatrical. The kitchen fills with overlapping voices, steam curling from forgotten mugs, time stretching soft and loose around them, less like conversation, more like home.

Bucky sits back, arms folded loosely, watching them. Not just their words, but the way they move around each other: Charlie leans into Lily’s side like it’s second nature, she rolls her eyes when he starts a story she’s heard a dozen times, but she doesn’t stop him.

It’s easy, and it’s loud, and it’s alive. And he feels that ache again, but deeper this time. He can’t even remember his own sister’s voice anymore, and watching Lily and Charlie brings it back. Sudden, fleeting, too sharp to hold for long.

Charlie yawns dramatically as he gets up, stretching like a cat. “Alright, my work here is done. The big sister is still alive, hasn’t burned down the tower, and appears only marginally traumatized.”

Lily throws a kitchen towel at his head.

He catches it, bows, and turns to Bucky with a grin. “You’re alright, Bucky Buckaro. Take care of her, yeah?”

“I try,” Bucky murmurs.

Charlie only nods at that, his tone light but his look not unkind. “Good.”

And then he’s gone, bouncing down the hall with a wave over his shoulder and for the first time in a long while, the quiet that follows doesn’t feel peaceful to Bucky. It feels like something’s missing. Something —someone— he used to have a long time ago.

He exhales slowly, not realizing Lily had been watching him.

“Hey,” she says gently, her voice softer now that it’s just them again. “What it is?”

Bucky shakes his head. A pause. Then, quieter: “You’ve got a good one in Charlie.”

Lily smiles, warm and proud. “Yeah. I really do.”

Bucky watches the place where Charlie disappeared, then looks back at her with something unreadable in his eyes. He hesitates, like he’s weighing whether or not to speak, and then:

“I had a little sister, too.”

Lily blinks caught off guard by the softness in his voice. “Rebecca Barnes. How was she?”

“Rebecca. My Becca,” he says, and the name feels like glass in his mouth, fragile and clear. “She was… stubborn. Smart. Could talk her way outta anything. Always kept up with me, no matter if I was older than her. She made sure of it.”

Lily stays quiet, letting him talk. He doesn’t look at her, but she doesn’t mind.

“My ma used to get on us for being loud at dinner,” Bucky goes on, a small smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “I used to say the apartment was always too small. We shared everything. Even shoes, sometimes. My dad worked all the time, long shifts. Came home with grease on his face and called me ‘kid’ even when I was taller than him.”

A beat passes. Bucky’s smile fades just slightly.

“I don’t remember the last thing I said to her. To Becca. Sometimes I think about that, and it makes my whole chest feel tight. Like… she’s frozen somewhere in time, and I kept moving, even when I didn’t want to. Even when I couldn’t help it.”

Lily places her mug on the counter, slow and careful. “I think she’d be proud of you.”

He finally looks at her. His eyes are impossibly blue in the soft kitchen light, and Lily’s breath catches at the quiet ache she sees there.

“You think so?” he asks, voice low.

“I know so,” she says, gently. “You’ve survived more than anyone should have to. And you’re still trying. That’s what matters.”

Bucky doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts his gaze to her hands. They are small but steady and warm. She’s not touching him, but he feels steadier with her near. It hits him then, quietly, without fanfare: he trusts her. Not just with his arm, or his quiet, or his nightmares. With him. With pieces he’s never let anyone near. And more than that, around her, the noise in his head lessens. His shoulders come down. He doesn’t have to brace for the worst. With her, he’s not the weapon or the ghost or the experiment.

He’s just Bucky, and he feels safe.

Bucky stays quiet for a moment, watching her as she leans back against the counter, cradling her mug like it’s part of her. She doesn’t realize how easily she glows, not with grandeur, but with something gentler.

He understands now, a little more clearly that she is the way she is —so open, so gentle and kind and unafraid to feel— because she grew up surrounded by love. Real love, the one that is messy, loud, and with imperfect care. The kind that teaches you to be brave just by knowing someone’s got your back. That’s what he saw in her and Charlie. That casual affection, that shorthand only siblings who really know each other can pull off, and that security of never needing to explain yourself.

It’s foreign and mesmerizing, this quiet between them, and Bucky finds Lily looking at him, like she wants to know more of him. And she does, because carefully she asks.

“What was it like for you, growing up?” Her tone is light, never pressing, an invitation more than a question. “Charlie just told you every embarrassing story I’ve got of myself. Can I know about yours? Rebecca, your parents…?”

Bucky glances at her, a little wary at first, but something in her expression makes him relax. And without realizing the words start again, easy in a way he didn’t expect. He tells her about crowded tenements and noisy streets, about running around with Steve until their mothers hauled them home. About Sunday dinners when his ma would stretch food further than it should’ve gone. He even laughs once, low and unguarded, when he remembers how he and his sisters used to argue over who got the last piece of bread.

Lily listens like it’s precious, never interrupting, her eyes warm and steady on him. Now and then, she asks something gentle about his father’s work, about the corner store where he bought penny candy, about the music that drifted from radios on summer nights. And Bucky answers, not because he has to, but because he wants to. Each memory rises with a strange sweetness, nostalgia softening the edges of things he thought were gone.

And she keeps listening, smiling at the little details, as though every piece of his past matters. Her laughter comes quiet and delighted when he tells her about Steve getting into scrapes, or how he himself once tried to fix a leaky pipe and flooded the whole kitchen. Her hand brushes a strand of hair from her face, her gaze flicking back to him often, like she’s checking to make sure he’s still there, still sharing.

That’s how the rest of the day slips by, Lily asking softly, Bucky answering, and for once, the past doesn’t hurt. It feels almost like coming home.

Notes:

i love 40s bucky, his family, and rebecca barnes and i will truly never shut up about it.

Chapter 28: Answers at Last

The Tower has long since quieted, but the med bay hums faintly around her, lights low, interface screens glowing in soft blues, the quiet buzz of equipment like a mechanical heartbeat. Her tea is stone-cold beside her, untouched. The thing on the table —the HYDRA device, that horrific, brilliant puzzle box— pulses with low light, not unlike one itself. Tony had been right: it is evil IKEA from hell. But now that it’s cracked open, the inner architecture makes brutal sense.

This is the system that made the Winter Soldier. A sleek, layered device built to override the human brain at the deepest level. Not just suppress but reroute. Cut off emotional response, mute motor control, reassign instinct. And is terrifying how well it worked.

Lily stares at the device, eyes wide, tea forgotten and cold by her elbow, because now, in her hands, it's doing something different.

She’s tuned it carefully over the last hour, recalibrating its pulse output to align with standard neural oscillation frequencies. The science is delicate, finicky, experimental. But it’s responding. When she feeds it recorded brainwave patterns from Bucky’s past scans —specifically during moments when he was exposed to the trigger words— the device recognizes them. Not with violence, but with an eerie, almost gentle mimicry.

She watches the graphs shift and settle. Brainwave spikes, then softened, and redirected. Rerouted.

Lily’s pulse stutters. She increases the intensity by a fraction, not enough to cause distress, but enough to see if the neural rerouting holds. It does. The cascade of electrical activity flares, but instead of crashing into fight-or-flight panic patterns, it flows sideways into a calm loop. A safety net.

“Oh my god,” she whispers, leaning closer. “It’s working.”

Not suppressing or shutting him down. It is Intercepting, guiding the brain toward other paths before the reals ones can take root.

It could be random — a one-off fluke — but every instinct in her says it isn’t. This device was designed to control, yes, but maybe it can liberate instead.

Her hands tremble slightly as she logs her findings into the system.

DEVICE RESPONSE TEST 1:
Trigger stimulus: "longing, rusted..."
Simulated response curve stabilized through neural detour at 2.7 seconds.
Result: No aggression. Minimal stress response.
Hypothesis: Counter-conditioning through memory anchoring is possible.

She covers her mouth, because she feels like she might cry.

The Winter Soldier programming has always felt like a locked room, no windows, no doors, no way in. But maybe this device… maybe it’s the keyhole.

She leans back, blinking rapidly, her thoughts racing ahead. If she can pair the trigger words with specific, deeply ingrained memory pathways —safe ones, ones tied to Bucky’s identity, his people, his past— she might be able to retrain the response loop. Build a defense system from the inside out. Not erase the words, but maybe make them meaningless.

Lily doesn’t bother grabbing anything but the device and her tablet. She’s too full of electric joy, practically bouncing out of the med bay. Her thoughts are firing a million miles a minute — graphs, pathways, word associations, rerouting theories — but it all comes down to one shining, blinding fact: It worked, so she needs Tony. Now.

She barrels down the corridor barefoot, soft cotton pajama pants swishing as she goes. The Tower is mostly asleep — lights dimmed, quiet, still — but she’s lit up from the inside out, and nothing short of a blackout could dim her.

“Tony— TonyTonyTony—”

She rounds a corner at full speed and nearly crashes into—

“Jesus—!” Bucky jerks upright, halfway through a silent prowl of the dark hallway in sweats and a black t-shirt. His metal hand reflexively twitches into a fist before he catches himself.

“Sorry!” Lily squeaks, skidding to a halt. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there— wait, why are you up?”

Bucky blinks at her like she’s an alien. “…I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither, but for a good reason!” she beams, rocking on her heels. “I think I figured out how to reroute the trigger response. Like actually intercept it before it lands. I need Tony. Where’s Tony. Is he up? Do you think he’s up? He’s probably up.”

Bucky just stares, equal parts confused and concerned, as she takes off again at full tilt.

“…You’re not wearing shoes,” he calls after her.

“I know!”

She disappears around the next corner.

 

Tony’s lab is technically locked, but Lily knows the override code, Tony had given it to her under the strict agreement that “if you wake me up without coffee, I’ll replace your bones with wifi routers.” But she doesn’t care.

The lights are dimmed to low amber and a soft classical playlist hums under the quiet whir of machines. The air smells faintly like soldering iron, coffee, and 3D-printed resin. And there’s Tony, face-down asleep on the workbench in a horrible slumped position, one arm hanging off the side, holograms still blinking lazily above his head. A wrench is trapped under his cheek.

Lily’s heart melts, only for a second.

“Tony,” she stage-whispers, tiptoeing toward him. “Tony. You’re gonna die of back pain if you sleep like that.”

He doesn’t move. She pokes him gently in the shoulder. Nothing happens.

“…Tonyyyyy.”

She nudges him a bit harder.

He startles upright with a half-snort, nearly knocking over a mug of god-knows-what and blinking at her like a war veteran under sudden attack. “Whuh— Lily? Why are you glowing like a cartoon character? What time is it?”

“Time to get up, genius,” she grins, holding up the tablet like a trophy. “We have a breakthrough.”

Tony squints at her. “Did I say you could use those words in my presence before coffee?”

“Yes,” she lies brightly. “Now come on, I need your brain.”

He groans and drags a hand down his face, but he’s already reaching for his tablet.

“God help me,” he mutters, “you’re turning into me.”

She just smiles wider.

The coffee machine hisses to life like it’s doing Lily a personal favor, and Tony shuffles behind it, muttering threats at inanimate objects while Lily paces back and forth in front of the holo-table.

“I rerouted the simulation you helped me build,” she says quickly, fingers flying across the interface. “Started with basic command-response testing. Then I mapped what we know about the way the trigger words hit Bucky’s neural net — how the command string fires off multiple pathways simultaneously to overwrite his autonomic responses.”

Tony yawns. “You’re saying words. Make them mean something.”

Lily spins the hologram toward him. A stylized schematic of a brain lights up, pulsing with clusters of red and blue, electrical storms mid-firing. “I got the prototype partially activated last night. I wasn’t even trying to.”

That gets him sitting up. “Wait — you turned it on?”

“Partially,” she clarifies, heart pounding. “But Tony, it responded. It responded to external simulation. Not fully but it did something. I was running Bucky’s older brain scans through the interface, and the chip’s resonance interfered with the data stream. It caused a noticeable fluctuation. Like it was… catching something.”

Tony runs both hands down his face and then stands, stretching his back. “Okay, show me.”

Lily projects the data. “It’s still messy, but look here. This is the moment the device activates. The red lines are the embedded trigger response. When the prototype fires—see the dip?”

Tony leans closer, frowning. “You think it’s interrupting the signal.”

“Maybe. Or disrupting the reinforcement loop HYDRA embedded in the sequence. I don’t know yet, and that’s the problem.” Her voice tightens slightly. “My guess is HYDRA coded this thing to suppress neural commands, maybe even block signals like the Winter Soldier protocol.”

Tony leans in, awake now. “Okay, now I care. You think this is their version of a leash?”

“Maybe. Or a kill switch. But if we can understand how it works, we could rewire it. Not to control, to protect.”

Tony angles the device under the light, rotating it between his fingers with the kind of delicate curiosity that usually spells trouble. The sharp gleam in his eye says he’s already dissecting it in his head.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, tapping a fingernail against the casing, “this isn’t antique HYDRA junk. No rust, no wear, no clunky Cold War hardware. This is sleek. Modular. I’d bet my coffee supply it was built within the last decade or maybe less.”

Lily frowns, her pulse skipping. “That doesn’t line up with the Soldier program. Bucky’s conditioning was already well-established by then.”

“Exactly,” Tony says, almost too lightly. “Which means this wasn’t made just for him. My guess? HYDRA started thinking long-term. If you’re building an army of brainwashed assets, you don’t want a hundred little leash mechanisms—you want one big one. A failsafe that can override all the messy, individual programming. Something clean. Centralized.” He looks at her again, his usual sarcasm tempered with unease. “Bigger leash. Bigger cage.” Tony frowns. “But we don’t know what it’s reacting to exactly, do we?”

Lily nods, already pulling up a second projection. “That’s why I need more data. More context. I need to study where it came from — what it was originally used for. There could be files, old logs, even manuals somewhere. Anything to help reverse-engineer it.”

Tony gives her a look. “You want to hit another HYDRA cache.”

“Yes. I don’t want to test it on Bucky. I’d never risk that, you know I wouldn’t. But if there’s more tech like this out there, maybe even instructions, research notes… I need to find it. This is the first real chance we’ve had to undo what they did to him.”

Tony sits back, rubbing his jaw. “Alright. You get one mission. You go in, you grab what you need, you don’t get shot. Or kidnapped. Or irradiated.”

“I can live with that,” she says, grinning.

“You’re telling Steve?”

“In five minutes,” she replies, already backing out the door. “Right after I caffeinate.”

Lily exits the lab, practically floating carrying the device’s casing and a mess of printouts. The early sun streams in through the windows and there’s Bucky again, sitting quietly on the bench outside the lab. He looks up as she pauses.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he murmurs. “You blew past me earlier like your shoes were on fire.”

“Oh.” Her smile softens. “I think I might’ve found something.”

His expression shifts, wary, but open.

“I didn’t trigger anything, I swear,” she adds quickly. “But the device we found, it reacted to the scan data I was doing. Like it knew what to look for.”

“You think it could help?” he asks, voice quiet.

“I think it might be part of a larger system. HYDRA tech. But if I can find the source, the original design specs or the full mechanism, I might learn how to disable some trigger response. Or protect your brain from it.”

She hesitates. “That’s why I want to go out with the team again. There could be more of this stuff out there. Blueprints, fragments, anything. I want to understand it before we even think about trying to use it.”

Bucky studies her for a moment, jaw ticking. Then he nods.

“You should do it,” he says. “If there’s even a chance...”

Lily gives him a soft smile. “Thanks. I’ll be careful.”

He nods again, slower this time, but doesn’t say more. Just watches her walk away, datapad hugged to her chest, hair bouncing, eyes alight with hope. And somehow that hope... doesn’t scare him anymore.